Chapter 8 Talia #2
“I’m helping him study,” Clara insists, sitting up straighter, but she’s laughing, her eyes bright. “He just needs a little organization. His brain… it moves faster than he can write.”
I watch the affection on her face, the soft, defensive way she protects Adrian. It’s a language I don’t speak, but it’s beautiful to listen to. Loud and unapologetic. And Adrian—Adrian, who shares a history and a storm with Declan—has never made her flinch. She trusts him with her whole chest.
There are men wired like live wires who still learn how not to burn the person they hold.
Could someone like Declan ever learn that? Or does the current always win?
“That’s a very kind way of saying he’s a mess,” Maya adds, looking up with a sharp smile. “But he’s lucky to have you.”
Clara throws a piece of popcorn at her, laughing.
And, to my own surprise, I laugh too.
A real, actual laugh that starts in my chest and surprises me when it comes out. The sound feels rusty, almost foreign.
And it feels good.
The warmth of the room, the easy, uncomplicated joy, the way they bicker like sisters…
I let my shoulders drop, just a fraction.
I let myself sink into the cushions. My fingers loosen around the mug.
For a few minutes, I’m not the girl who checks the exits.
I’m not the girl with her keys in her hand.
I’m just… here.
The peace, of course, doesn’t last. It never does.
The topic shifts.
“Okay, but can we please talk about the actual storm cloud on the roster?” Zoe says, flopping dramatically back into the pillows. “Gio says Rylan is fine, but the way he said fine means alive but deserved it.”
My pulse spikes—a single, harsh beat. Declan’s name isn’t even spoken yet, but the air changes.
Clara lifts a brow. “Zoe, don’t start. You heard Maya. You know why it happened.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Zoe waves her off. “I know the why. I’m talking about the energy. The man dented a locker for someone he barely knows. That’s not nothing.”
The mug in my hands suddenly feels too warm, too heavy.
“He’s not a psycho,” Clara says firmly. “You heard Adrian. It wasn’t like that.”
“Exactly,” Maya adds without looking up from her phone. “It was targeted aggression. Controlled. Rylan provoked it.”
Zoe snorts. “Okay, fine. He’s not a psycho. He’s a controlled psycho with immaculate cheekbones. Happy?”
Genny looks up long enough to hum. “Obsessive is a more accurate adjective.”
“Obsessive is hot,” Zoe mutters.
Clara turns her attention to me, gaze sharp and knowing. “What about you, T? You’ve been quiet.”
I flinch, caught. “What about me?”
“Come on, you’ve noticed. He watches you.”
Heat floods my face so fast it makes me lightheaded. The room suddenly feels smaller. “He does not.”
“He so does,” Clara insists. “At the bar, he didn’t take his eyes off you. And at the game? Total stare-down.”
My mind flashes back to the tunnel—to that long, unbroken look. The way the world narrowed. The way I forgot how air worked. The way he looked through the glass like the distance meant nothing.
“Genny’s right,” I say, trying to sound detached. “Goalies are always watching. It’s their job. Maybe he’s just assessing threats.”
My own words echo back at me.
He sees one.
The conversation drifts, pulled away by Zoe’s latest conspiracy theory about Dante and Cole. We put on a movie—some stupid, bright-colored rom-com that requires zero brain cells.
I’m almost relaxed.
My muscles uncoil.
My breathing evens.
Every once in a while, a loud sound from the TV makes my shoulders twitch, but I breathe through it, forcing myself to stay.
This is the test.
And for a stretch of minutes, it works.
Then, down the hall, a door slams.
A heavy, echoing thud that rattles the picture frames on Genny’s wall. The music skips for half a beat before the next song starts, muffled by the blood rushing in my ears.
My body jerks, a full-body jolt like someone grabbed a live wire. My hands twitch halfway up, reaching for my head, for shelter that isn’t needed, and I stop them mid-air, fingers curling in on themselves instead.
Breathe.
The room flickers—fairy lights, blanket, Clara’s fuzzy socks—then blurs, the echo of wood hitting a frame swallowing everything else. The sound isn’t just a door.
It’s the sound of the metal locker.
It’s the sound of the old door, the one that broke the frame.
He’s angry. He’s coming.
No. Different door. Different building. Different life.
I suck in a sharp breath that feels like it scrapes my throat.
“Hey.”
A hand, gentle, on my arm.
I flinch, eyes snapping to Clara. The warm touch against my skin is a shock, a violation, even if it’s meant to ground me. I fight the urge to rip my arm away and claw for space.
She’s kneeling in front of me now, expression soft, eyes wide with concern. “T? Whoa. You okay? You look like you saw a ghost.”
I drag in another breath. It stutters, then catches. My ribs feel too tight. My head is already throbbing like I’ve been holding my breath for hours.
“It’s just 4C’s door,” Zoe says from the couch, her voice less sharp than usual. “He’s an asshole. That’s all.”
My heart is still thudding, but the drumbeat eases from sprint to run. My fingers uncurl from the fists I didn’t realize I’d made. I press my palms flat to my thighs, feel the denim, the heat of my own skin, the slight tremble that’s mine, not his.
The shame is a hot, bitter burn in my throat.
“Sorry,” I whisper. The word feels like it’s cutting its way out. “That was… dramatic. Just jumpy tonight.”
“It’s not,” Clara says, fierce now. She eases back onto the couch beside me, close but not crowding. “Don’t apologize.”
They keep talking—softly, gently, intentionally—giving me a bubble of space without calling attention to it. The illusion is cracked, but it isn’t gone. I’m still on the couch. I’m still breathing. I didn't run.
Later, after Zoe has left and Clara has fallen asleep on the sofa, I’m still awake. Frozen, really. Staring at the fairy lights. Trying to convince my body that the danger passed an hour ago.
The playlist hums quietly in the background.
The apartment is dim, warm, safe.
And I feel like my skin doesn’t fit.
I pull out my phone, the blue light stinging my eyes. I don't go to my messages. I open the web browser.
I hesitate, thumb hovering. This feels like a violation. A transgression.
My dad said give him space. He said he’s dangerous.
But my dad doesn't know about the door slamming. He doesn't know that the silence in my head is loud enough to scream.
I type his name into the student directory.
Declan Reid.
It takes three clicks. I have access because I’m student staff. I shouldn’t be using it for this.
His profile loads. A stark ID photo where he isn’t smiling. His major (Business). His status (Active). And there, at the bottom—his contact info.
I stare at the number.
I should close the tab. I should go to sleep.
Instead, I copy the number. I save it.
Declan Reid.
His name sits clean and sharp in my contacts. No hearts. No emojis. No context. Just a name that feels like a weight.
I think of him in the parking lot. Lock your doors.
I think of the rumors. Slammed him.
I think of the door slamming down the hall, and how my body is still humming with the phantom voltage of a live wire.
He’s the last person I should want to talk to.
But he’s the only other person who understands that the world can tilt with a sound. The only one who lives in that constant readiness.
I open a new message.
The cursor blinks like a pulse.
How do you turn the noise off?
The text looks small, stupid, and far too honest.
I imagine him seeing my name on his screen.
Would he ignore it?
Delete it?
Would he stare the way he stared at me—calculating, invasive, certain?
Or would he answer?
The wanting hits like a bruise.
And I hate it.
I hate how much I want his answer.
I hate that I think he’d understand the door slam in a way no one else does. That the first person my mind reaches for when a sound rips me open isn’t my father, or Clara—it’s the live wire I’ve been warned away from.
My throat feels tight. My thumb trembles over the screen, a tiny, humiliating shake I can’t fully stop.
I delete the message, letter by letter, until the screen is empty again—blank, silent, and waiting.
My pulse doesn’t slow. The phantom of the words lingers in my chest like I sent them anyway. I lock the phone and set it face down on my thigh, fingers still curled like I’m holding on to something that isn’t there.
Wanting him is a liability.
But it’s the first thing in a long time that’s made me feel awake.