I walk into the apartment slightly limping; things had gotten a little rough. Willow looks up from some musty old book. Willow—red hair, pale skin, magical-old-agey witchy woman. Putting the book down, she walks over carefully, already looking to see if I'm hurt. She notices my leg, but doesn't say anything. She puts a hand on my cheek. Leaning my head into her soft, warm palm, I close my eyes. I can feel her eyes looking over me, her mouth wanting to say something about my leg and about how I've been coming home later than usual from patrols.

She cleans a scrape on my cheek and I feel her hand tremble. I think of cold, rough hands. Willow's always been gentle with me. "Put out your leg," she says in a quite voice. She's being direct with her words, none of the 'ums,' or 'ers', or adding ‘y’ to anything. She must be in pain; she's direct and quiet when she's hurting. I feel her hands on my leg seeing if it needs anything. It doesn't, but she always checks anyway. I used to protest this treatment before, and she'd always say that she was my girlfriend and Watcher, so she kinda has an interest in my well-being.

This silence after patrols never used to happen—only if the talk was replaced by moaning. We used to talk about everything and anything. That sounds so cliché, but it's true. Now there is just silence, and occasionally Willow's quiet bordering-on-sobs breathing. She loves me and I don't want to hurt her. I get up and start to walk out the room.

Her voice stops me. "Kennedy, just tell me." She doesn't need to elaborate; we both know the score. I turn around. I'll finally say what I've been doing after patrols, and why I start out early. But I look into her big tear-powered eyes and can't say a thing. I just shake my head and walk out of the room. She doesn't push and that's the problem.