8. Shay
Shay
Istop by the door, my hand still on the strap of my bag. “Don’t look at me like that.”
Declan pauses, his fingers resting on the deadbolt. “Like what?”
“Like I just agreed to a hostage situation and I’m supposed to be grateful.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “You agreed to dinner.”
“That’s how it starts. First it’s pasta. Then suddenly you’re in a basement learning to communicate via pipe-tapping.”
“The kitchen’s upstairs,” he says, his voice perfectly level. “No basement.”
“A detail a kidnapper would have prepared.”
He gives me that quiet look, the one that never feels like he’s laughing at me, even when I’m being an idiot. It’s worse than a laugh. I know how to handle being made fun of. This gentle, patient thing he does is like trying to punch water.
The bar is hollowed-out and strange without the noise and the bodies. Neon signs are dark, booths swallowed by shadows. Milo’s Tupperware containers are lined up on the counter like evidence from a crime scene, and beside them is a coaster Benji’s been doodling on—a little skull wearing a crown.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. And again.
Jude, uploading the photos from today. There’ll be a dozen shots of him hanging off Rhys like a very loud, very pleased limpet.
One of Callum lifting something heavy while Milo looks at him like he invented gravity.
And in the background of at least one, Knox will be staring at Benji like he’s the only thing in the room worth looking at.
My friends are disgusting. And happy. The two thoughts grate against each other.
Declan turns the lock. The click echoes. He nods toward the stairs behind the bar. “You hungry or not?”
“I had a cookie.”
“Milo’s?”
“Obviously. I have standards.”
“So you had sugar,” he says. “Not food. Come on.”
It’s not an alpha command, not a rumble under the words meant to make my omega listen. It’s just…a fact. And my body wants to obey before my brain can start making a list of all the reasons this is a bad idea.
The list is long. The man whose bed I ran from is offering me food in his apartment. But my stomach gives a low, traitorous grumble.
Pasta wins. I hate it.
“Fine,” I say, hiking my bag higher on my shoulder. “But if you pull out a box of craft singles and call it a meal, I’m leaving.”
“Noted.”
“I’m a consultant. We have standards.”
“I’m pretty sure you made that title up this afternoon.”
“And you can’t prove it.”
The third stair creaks. I remember freezing right on this spot, swallowed by his Henley in the dark, the fresh bite on my neck screaming at me to run.
Tonight, he’s a few steps ahead, flipping on a lamp as we enter the apartment.
It casts a low, warm light over the same kitchen counter I leaned against that first night, pretending I wasn’t about to climb into his bed.
No harsh overheads. Nothing that feels like an interrogation.
I know this place now. I know the creak of the floorboards and the way the bathroom door sticks. I know where he keeps his coffee mugs. That knowledge should not feel like a stone in my chest, heavy and warm.
“Sorry it’s not much,” Declan says, dropping his keys in a bowl by the door.
I look around. It’s a real kitchen. Small, but there are knives in a block and spices by the stove and a clean dish towel hanging from the oven handle. His fridge probably has actual food in it, not just beer, half a lime, and a jar of olives that might be sentient.
“This is nicer than my kitchen,” I say.
“That sounds like a low bar.”
“It is. The cabinet under our sink smells like regret.”
Declan huffs a quiet laugh, and my stomach does something deeply unprofessional. He opens the fridge and pulls out a container of sauce, a bag of spinach, a wedge of parmesan. “Pasta okay?”
I lean against the counter, crossing my arms. “What’s the catch?”
He glances over his shoulder. “It’s pasta, Shay.”
“Right. And after the pasta, I quit my job, drop out of school, and spend my days picking out curtains?”
The words hang in the air, sharp and ugly. His hands go still for a second on the counter. There’s a dusting of flour over one of his knuckles.
I force a shrug, my face hot. “It was a joke.”
“I know.” He turns his back to me, running the tap to fill a pot. His voice is even. “You finish school. You keep your job if you want it. You work on the bar because you offered and you’re good at it. That’s it.”
That’s it. The words land with a familiar thud.
I’ve heard them before. Just until you get back on your feet, baby.
That’s it. Then the groceries had to be what he liked.
Then he got tired of paying for things. Then my mom was packing a suitcase with one busted wheel while I sat on the floor, pretending I couldn’t hear her crying.
I know how this story starts.
Declan sets the pot on the stove. The silence stretches, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. “You can sit down.”
“I’m fine standing.”
“You’ve been on your feet all day.”
I open my mouth, ready to argue, but there’s nothing to fight. He isn’t trying to win. He isn’t trying to do anything but state a fact. It’s infuriating.
I take a stool at the counter, an unwilling guest. Declan moves around the kitchen with an economy of motion that makes the small space seem even smaller.
He’s too big for it. His shoulders brush the upper cabinets when he turns, and the dark fabric of his Henley pulls tight across his back.
I am performing a visual audit of his operational deficiencies. For business.
My phone buzzes again. Declan glances at my pocket. “You can get that.”
“I know.”
“You don’t have to stay.”
The word hangs in the air. Stay. He says it like I have a choice.
I pull out my phone.
Swipe Squad
Jude: i have chosen the new cover photo for byrnEs socials and it’s shay looking hot while holding a clipboard ??
Benji: delete that immediately
Jude: no ??
Milo: He does look very nice.
Benji: milo you’re supposed to be on my side
Soren: i liked the one where declan was looking at shay ??
Jude: OH MY GOD YES
Shay: I’m muting this chat.
Jude: HE’S STILL THERE ISN’T HE
Benji: can you people smell the desperation through the phone or is that just me
I mute the conversation and slide the phone back into my pocket. The silence that follows is heavy with the smell of garlic and tomatoes.
A few minutes later, a bowl slides in front of me, steaming under a mountain of parmesan. “Taste it before you insult it.”
“I can do both at once,” I say, but I pick up my fork.
“Eat.”
It’s not loud. It’s barely a command, just a quiet rumble under the word, but my body goes still. My hand tightens on the fork. Traitor.
I take a bite.
And, damn it. It’s good. Not just good. It’s the kind of food someone makes when they’re paying attention.
Declan is watching me from across the counter, his expression unreadable.
I take another bite, chewing slowly.
“Well?” he asks.
“The presentation is a little desperate.”
“I’ll work on it.”
“And it’s annoyingly good.”
A small smile touches his mouth. “I can live with that.”
My stomach does a low, warm flip that has nothing to do with biology and everything to do with the fact that he looks pleased. It’s infuriating.
We eat. The only sounds are the scrape of forks and the hum of the fridge.
I keep waiting for the questions. So what are we?
Why did you run? I’ve got answers ready, sharp and dismissive.
But he just eats his pasta, his gaze on his own bowl.
The silence starts to feel like a tactic.
By the time I’m scraping the last of the sauce from my bowl, I’m wound tight enough to snap.
I set my fork down with a sharp clink. “Okay. What do you want?”
Declan looks up, his own fork halfway to his mouth. “Right now?”
“Yes. This is the part where you tell me the real price of dinner.”
His brow furrows. “There isn’t one.”
“Everyone wants something.”
He leans back against the counter. “I want the bar to stay open. I want Tessa to stop threatening to murder our landlord. I want Diego to stop trying to carry three kegs at once because he thinks it impresses people.”
“It doesn’t?”
“Not unless his goal is a hernia.” His gaze settles on me, steady enough that I have to look down at my hands. “And I want you here,” he says. “But I’m not going to make you pay for pasta to get it.”
The words are just there. A fact. My chair scrapes against the floor as I stand up, because sitting is no longer an option. If I stay there, I might say something stupid. Something soft.
“Your apartment is weird,” I announce, moving away from the table.
Declan blinks. “Weird?”
“It’s too normal. You cook. You own matching bowls. There isn’t a single piece of furniture in here that looks like it was designed by a twelve-year-old with a podcast.” I run a hand along the back of his couch. “It’s suspicious.”
“I’ll try to be more of a mess.”
“I’m not saying I disapprove. I’m saying I’m investigating.” I wander into the living room, which is so small the couch almost touches the coffee table. There’s a lamp, a stack of mail. Nothing is trying to prove anything.
Then I see it.
Tucked beside a bookshelf is a battered acoustic guitar.
The wood is scratched to hell near the bottom, and one of the tuning pegs is a different color from the others.
A milk crate sits next to it, stuffed with vinyl records, their sleeves worn soft at the corners.
Above that, a whole shelf of songbooks. Dog-eared, spines cracked, with pencil notes scribbled in the margins.
I pull one out. “You play?”
Behind me, a plate clinks in the sink. “A little,” Declan says, his voice a little tight.
“A little?” I flip through the pages. Chords, lyrics, notes in his handwriting. “This is a whole sad-guy starter pack.”