Chapter 11 Talia #2
He doesn’t let go until my fingers unclench around the pen. Until the white-knuckled grip eases and the line of my shoulders softens by a degree. Then his hand slides away, leaving heat behind on my skin.
He could go back to his side and pretend it didn’t happen. He doesn’t.
Our thighs are still touching. And now, occasionally, his knee bumps mine. Not constant, not obnoxious—just enough to keep the connection alive. When I shift away to try to regain some space, he shifts too, following. Our knees line up again, the contact subtle but deliberate.
The professor moves on to an example problem. My pen finally starts moving in real words instead of scratched-out panic lines. Somewhere in the middle of writing standard error, my pen stutters. The ink dies.
Of course.
The point digs uselessly at the paper. I sigh and shake it, irrationally annoyed at such a small, stupid failure.
A black pen appears in my peripheral vision, laid neatly along the top of my notebook.
“Here.”
His fingers rest there a beat too long, knuckles brushing my thumb. I could swear the contact lingers a half-second after the pen is fully on the page. When I look over, his gaze is on the board, not me, like he didn’t just put his hands on me twice in ten minutes.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
He nods the barest bit, like of course is an entire language.
The lecture wears on. I don’t absorb much math, but I absorb the steady scrape of his pen, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the way his presence in my peripheral vision takes up space.
By the time the professor dismisses us, I’ve made it through fifty minutes without planning an exit every thirty seconds. When the scrape of chairs erupts and backpacks zip and people complain about pop quizzes, I don’t flinch.
We pack up in the same slow, silent rhythm. He stands when I do, his shoulder skim-close to mine as we merge into the crowd heading for the door.
The hallway outside is chaos again—voices, footsteps, someone dropping their phone and cursing—but the noise feels like a layer of sound over something solid.
“Coffee,” he says.
Not a question. A low, flat statement.
Dad would have a heart attack if he saw this—if he saw me even standing this close, let alone following a live wire into a building.
“Okay,” I hear myself say.
The word feels like stepping off a ledge.
We cut through the crush toward the student union. Nobody bumps me. Nobody brushes close. People part ahead of him and, by extension, me. I hate how much easier it feels. How much safer.
“How’s practice?” I ask, because asking something is better than letting the silence in my head start chewing on me.
His jaw flexes. “Hard.”
“Coach?”
“Pissed,” he says neutrally. “Less than last week.” A beat. “Benching’s done.”
I nod. It shouldn’t matter to me if he’s between the pipes Saturday. My stomach still tightens.
“Are you… back in?”
“Yeah.”
I swallow. “Good.”
He glances down at me, quick, like the answer surprises him. Or matters.
We reach the heavy union doors right as someone bursts out, pushing them wide. The gust of air hits my face and for a heartbeat I brace for it to slam back in my direction. But the guy lets it go and keeps walking.
Declan catches it before it can swing.
He holds it open with his shoulder and his taped hand, body angled so there’s a clear path under his arm. No reach, no looming, no chest at my back. Just space.
I hesitate for half a second anyway. My muscles are waiting for the impact that doesn’t come.
His eyes flick to mine, steady. “You’re clear,” he says quietly.
I step through.
A pair of girls at a nearby table fall silent as we pass, one’s gaze cutting from his taped knuckles to my face. The silence stretches just long enough for me to feel it, then snaps as they duck their heads and pretend they weren’t staring.
The cafe smells like burnt espresso and sugar. The line is mercifully short. Blenders roar, cups clatter, someone laughs too loud over a story. All of it fades a little as we slot in behind a couple arguing about their group project.
“You want anything?” he asks.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re swaying,” he says, not unkindly. “Tea or coffee.”
He sees too much. Again.
“Tea,” I mutter.
“What kind?” he asks, gaze steady.
“Peppermint.”
His eyes darken, just a fraction. A flicker of recognition.
“One black coffee. One peppermint tea,” he orders.
My heart thumps once, hard.
He pays before I can even get my wallet unzipped. I open my mouth to argue and then close it again. Fighting him on seven dollars will make more noise than it’s worth. Letting him do it feels… quieter.
We take our cups and peel off toward the far corner, where the tables thin out. He chooses one with a clear line of sight to both entrances and the largest section of windows. I would have picked the same one.
We sit with our backs to the wall, chairs angled so we can both see the door without blocking each other.
If someone were to glance over right now—Coach, Maya, one of the gossip girls from the quad—we’d look like we’re on a date. Coffee, opposite cups, matching paranoia about exits. The thought makes my stomach twist, equal parts panic and something softer I refuse to name.
I wrap my hands around the paper cup. The heat sinks into my fingers, bleeding warmth into the cold spots in my chest.
For a while, we don’t talk. He scans the room the way he scans the ice—smooth, systematic sweeps. My shoulders unknot second by second, breath by breath.
“You’re not what I expected,” I say finally.
His eyes slide to me over the rim of his cup. “What’d you expect?”
“Louder,” I admit. “The rumors make you sound like you never shut up.”
A huff of what might be a laugh escapes him. “People like to hear themselves talk.”
“Me too,” I say. “I mean—about hating it. Not liking to hear myself.” I make a face. “Wow. That was eloquent.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, a faint, reluctant smile that feels like it was carved out of stone. “I figured.”
“You figured I hate noise?”
He nods once. “You were counting your breaths at the bar.”
I blink. “You saw that?”
“You checked the exits six times in twenty minutes,” he says, like he’s listing stats. “You only breathed all the way out when the music dipped.”
My cheeks heat. “Creepy,” I murmur.
Declan doesn’t flinch. “Accurate.”
It should bother me, how closely he watches. How many small tells he clocked when I thought I was invisible.
But instead of feeling exposed, I just feel… seen. In a way that isn’t demanding an explanation. Just… registering data. Adjusting around it.
I sip my tea. Peppermint steam curls into my face, familiar and sharp, cutting through the thick smell of coffee. My heart rate settles into something like normal.
I realize, abruptly, that my keys are on the table. Not buried in my fist. My back is to the wall, but I haven’t been cataloging everyone who comes in.
He doesn’t talk to fill the space. He just sits in it with me.
My father’s silence has always been a shield he holds up in front of me. Solid. Commanding. I’ll handle this.
Declan’s silence is different. It’s like a fort he built around himself and—just for this hour—left a side door open.
We finish our drinks. The last sip of tea is lukewarm and a little bitter. I tilt the cup, watching the dregs swirl. If I stay any longer, I’m going to say something stupidly real, like your truck felt safe or please don’t touch anyone else for me ever again.
“I have class,” I say.
“Yeah.” He stands when I do, scooping both empty cups and dropping them in the trash on the way out.
When we step back into the gray light and the wash of campus noise, it feels colder than it did going in.
We stop just off the main path. Students flow around us like water around two rocks.
I look up at him, really look. The bruise on his knuckles is darker today, purple fading at the edges to yellow. The tape at his wrist is fresh. His eyes are sharp, but there’s a tiredness there, too—bone-deep, same as mine.
“You don’t talk,” I say softly. “And I didn’t run.”
He huffs out a breath that might be a laugh, might be a sigh. Something in his shoulders eases, just barely.
“Deal?” he asks.
The word lands between us like a line painted on ice. It’s not about fighting. It’s about this. About stopping the avoidance. About the silence we just shared.
“Deal,” I say.
He nods. “See you, Addison.”
“Reid.”
He turns and walks away, long strides carrying him down the path. People move for him without thinking. The distance between us stretches with every step and my body registers it as a drop in temperature.
I stand there for another second, letting the cold bite my cheeks, letting the noise swell and recede around me.
Then my phone buzzes.
I jump—reflex more than fear—and then breathe when my brain catches up.
Clara: Dinner at Genny’s? 7? Zoe’s bringing tequila.
The old instinct rears up, automatic: Can’t, sorry, have to study.
I look at the message. I think of Monday night's parking lot. Of his truck idling until my dorm door shut. Of his hand finding my wrist in class and steadying, not restraining. Of peppermint tea and black coffee and a word that means we’re not running anymore.
I type back: I’ll come.
I hit send before I can talk myself out of it.
The confirmation pops up. Delivered.
My heart gives one hard, nervous thud.
This is a choice. My choice.
Maybe silence doesn’t have to mean hiding.
Maybe sometimes it just means someone else is sitting in it with you.