Willow has changed her clothes, and she’s out of the wispy, whimsical, flowing skirts and dresses.
She’s now wearing only a thin white tank top and worn jeans. Her dark hair is loose and sprinkled with melting snowflakes, and it looks oddly angry, like it’s standing on end somehow. In her right hand, she holds something metallic, catching the dim light of the entryway.
It’s a key.
Locke stands ten feet away from her, the barrel of his gun raised, trained directly on the center of her chest.
“You’re trespassing, Willow,” Locke says, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying register that vibrates through the floorboards. “Give me one reason I shouldn’t put a f*****g bullet through you right now.”
Willow doesn't flinch. She doesn't look at the gun. Her dark eyes drift past Locke’s mass
