Chapter Seven #2
I glance at David, and he’s already looking back. We share a brief, quiet look—one that says the reason he moved was more than that. Too many sad memories here after Mom passed five years ago.
Erin calls out, “David, I need a hand with movie snacks!”
He groans good-naturedly and stands. “That’s my cue. You two good to go?”
Declan nods once, slow. “Yeah.”
As David heads back inside, I stand, brushing my hands on my jeans, and he shifts carefully to get up. I offer my arm before he can refuse it.
Later, in the car, it’s quiet for a stretch. Comfortable, not awkward.
He gives me soft-spoken directions as we wind through the neighborhood—right at the stop sign, left at the blinking light.
We pull into a quiet cul-de-sac, and he nods toward the second house on the right.
Two-story. Brick and stone. Clean lines, wide windows, and a big front porch.
As I pull into the driveway, Declan shifts to unbuckle, but winces as he tries to maneuver his braced leg.
He exhales sharply through his nose. “Shit. Sorry.”
“No need to apologize,” I murmur, already out of the driver’s side, circling around to open his door.
“Come on. Lean on me.”
“I’m fine—”
“Declan.”
His jaw flexes. Then something in his expression shifts—less pride, more trust. He nods.
He lets me help—lets me slide an arm under his, steady him as we move slowly up the walkway.
His body’s solid against mine, all quiet heat and tension. I catch a faint trace of his cologne, something musky, clean.
I tell myself I’m just helping a patient. Nothing more.
But my pulse disagrees.
Inside, the house is warm and still. A few lamps glow low. Shoes are lined up by the door. A folder pokes out of a backpack near the kitchen island.
“You okay to sit?” I ask, keeping my voice steady.
He grunts. “Yeah. Just—hang on.”
He lowers himself onto the couch with a wince. His brace catches, and I don’t think. I just kneel down and adjust it for him.
“Want me to check the alignment real quick? On the house,” I joke.
He huffs a laugh, tilts his head back. “You always this relentless?”
“Only when I know I’m right.”
He studies me for a moment. His smile fades, not completely, just softens at the edges. His gaze drifts—my hair, the line of my jaw, then back to my eyes—and something in it holds.
My stomach flips.
He shifts like he might say something, then doesn’t. Just gives the slightest nod.
I gently press along the joint, just like protocol. But it feels… different.
More personal.
I adjust the brace until it sits right, then rock back on my heels. “There,” I murmur. “That should feel better.”
He grunts his approval, but I catch the way his jaw sets like asking for help cost him something.
“You don’t have to power through everything alone, you know.” My tone’s gentle, not pushy. I hesitate, then add, “Here—let me give you my number. If anything feels off, or if you just need a second set of eyes, call me.”
His brows flicker, like he’s not sure if he should, but he pulls out his phone anyway. I rattle off my number and he types it in, thumb hovering for a second before he pockets the phone with a quiet nod.
For a moment, the air hangs heavier, like there’s more he could say, but doesn’t. Then his gaze shifts, his voice going rougher. “I’m glad Sophie had today. The BBQ helped ease the sting of her mom flaking this weekend.”
There’s a weight to his voice now, lower, unguarded.
“It’s frustrating as hell,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “She bails more than she shows up.”
My chest aches. “That must be hard.”
He shrugs, but it’s tight, restrained. “I just hate seeing her get her hopes up every time. Especially now. She’s so excited about her mom coming to the musical. Odds are…”
His jaw flexes. “Odds are, she won’t show. And I don’t know how to protect her from that without breaking her heart myself.”
I don’t say anything—just let the silence hold. Sometimes listening is the only thing that matters.
His gaze flicks to mine, and for a beat, it feels like the rest of the room falls away. The weight of what he just said lingers between us—his worry, his honesty, all of it laid bare.
Only then do I realize how close we are.
The air shifts. My skin prickles. Butterflies arrive uninvited in my stomach.
His gaze drops to my mouth. Lingers there for half a heartbeat.
Then he leans in—slow, deliberate—his breath brushing mine.
His lips just graze mine. Not even a full kiss. Just the barest sweep of contact.
But it’s enough.
A jolt fires down my spine. My breath stutters. Goosebumps ripple across my skin like someone flipped a switch.
And all too soon, he pulls back.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “I shouldn’t have—”
“It’s okay,” I say, a little breathless. “Really.”
He nods, but the air’s changed.
Then I turn, grab my purse, and offer a small, awkward wave as I head out.
I hear the soft click of the door behind me.
Only then do I let out the breath I’d been holding since his mouth brushed mine, every nerve in my body still on fire.
What just happened?
And why do I want it to happen again?
By the time I tuck myself in, the logical side of my brain has convinced me it’s safer to pretend it didn’t happen.
Tomorrow will just be another normal day of physical therapy.
Right?