Chapter 15 #3
He actually laughs—hoarse and disbelieving. The sound loosens something in my chest.
“Should I apologize?” he asks.
“No,” I say quickly. Face on fire. “Definitely don’t do that.”
His thumbs move in small, absent circles at the base of my spine. It sends a shiver up my back.
Panic starts to ebb, leaving something quieter in its wake. Want is still there, pacing under my ribs, but the edge of it dulls enough that I can breathe around it.
“I don’t want…” I struggle for the right shape of it. “I don’t want to be something you just… hide in hallways and empty arenas.”
Eyes sharpen. “You’re not,” he says. Immediate. Fierce.
“You say that now.” I lift a shoulder, then let it drop. “It’s just… if this is a secret, it should at least be our secret. Not because someone else decided I’m a complication.”
Jaw flexes. Hands tighten fractionally on my back, then force themselves to relax.
“That’s not what you are,” he says. “To me.”
It’s a simple sentence. It hits like a body check.
“What am I, then?” The question is out before I can stop it. Too honest. Too open.
His gaze drags over my face like he’s cataloging every freckle, every flaw, every place his mouth just was. He swallows. “The only person who makes the noise shut up,” he says quietly. “And the only part of this that feels like it might actually be mine.”
My throat closes around whatever reply I might have had.
I tuck my face against his shoulder for a second, breathing him in—clean sweat, soap, the faint chill of the rink. My heart hammers in a way that has nothing to do with fear.
After a minute, I sit back. His hands slide out from under my shirt, fingers leaving hot trails on my skin as they go. He helps me off his lap like I might break, hands careful at my waist until my feet hit the rubber mat.
“I should get you back,” he says. “Before your dad decides to swing by and check the cameras.”
I freeze. The cameras.
“Are there…?” I look up at the ceiling, panic spiking. “Declan, are we on tape?”
He shakes his head, calm. “Not here. The box is a blind spot. I checked the angles my freshman year.”
Of course he did.
“Good,” I breathe, relief sagging my shoulders. “Good.”
“I wouldn’t expose you like that,” he says, voice dropping. “I’m careful.”
The image makes my stomach flip for a whole different reason. “Right. Good call.”
We leave the players’ box together. The walk up the tunnel feels shorter with him next to me, his shoulder a steady presence in my peripheral vision. We push through the side door, making sure it clicks locked behind us.
Outside, the night is even colder. My breath fogs in front of me, white in the dark. He falls into step on my outside, between me and the road, like it’s not even a choice.
Campus is almost empty now. Just a few scattered lights in dorm windows, the glow of the library far off.
We don’t talk much.
Silence isn’t awkward. It’s thick with everything we just did and everything we didn’t.
Every few steps, our hands swing just close enough that our fingers brush. Each time, a little zing of contact snaps up my arm. The first two times, I swallow it and pretend I didn’t feel it. The third time, my pinky hooks around his for half a second before I come to my senses and let go.
He doesn’t call me on it. But his hand stays that fraction closer afterward.
The closer we get to my dorm, the more reality starts to seep back in.
Dad. The team. The leash. The person calling his phone.
The fact that this—whatever we just started—isn’t simple. It’s not safe. It’s not something that lives in the neat, controlled lines of a box score.
We stop at the bottom of my dorm steps.
The lobby light spills out in a harsh rectangle, turning the concrete brighter than the sky. I tuck my hands into my jacket pockets, gripping my keys so hard the metal digs into my palm.
“Thank you,” I say softly.
“For walking?” he asks.
“For…” I gesture helplessly. Rink. Bench. His mouth. His hands pulling back when I asked. “All of it, I guess.”
He shifts his weight, like he’s not used to being thanked for things that come as naturally to him as breathing.
“You don’t have to thank me for wanting you,” he says finally.
Heat explodes in my chest.
“Maybe I do,” I say. “I’m not sure how any of this works.”
“Me either.” His mouth quirks. “We’ll figure it out. Or we’ll crash and burn. Either way, we’ll know.”
“Comforting,” I mutter. But my lips curve.
He takes a half step closer. We’re back in that tight little bubble of space where everything feels louder—breath, heartbeat, the soft rustle of clothing when one of us shifts.
“Can I…” he starts, then stops like he’s catching himself. “I want to kiss you goodnight,” he says, simpler.
My lungs forget how to work for a second. Then I nod.
“Okay.”
He lifts one hand, knuckles grazing my jaw, fingers weaving through my hair to tuck a loose strand behind my ear.
This touch, though gentle, carries a weight that feels more intense than the rush we shared on that bench.
It’s as if the air thickens around us, charged with unspoken promises.
He leans closer, tilting his head, and I can feel the heat radiating from him.
This kiss is unlike the last—deeper, more consuming.
His mouth finds mine with a softness that belies the intensity brewing beneath the surface.
As our lips connect, he pulls me in, his other hand settling firmly at my hip, grounding me as if he understands how easily I could lose myself in this moment.
I melt against him, surrendering to the sensation of his tongue brushing against mine, exploring with a languid deliberation that sends shivers down my spine.
I lean into it, allowing myself to fully embrace the connection, feeling every muscle in my body unwind instead of tense.
My shoulders drop, releasing the tension I didn’t realize I was holding.
My fingers, which had been tightly gripping my keys, begin to relax, slipping from their rigid grasp as I lose myself in the sweet, intoxicating depth of his kiss.
When he pulls back, he doesn’t go far. His forehead rests against mine for a second, our breaths mixing in the cold.
“Text me when you’re in,” he murmurs.
“I thought you liked your distance,” I say.
He huffs a soft, humorless sound. “You’re the exception.”
My chest aches in a way that feels like a bruise and a promise at the same time.
I step back, breaking the contact. The air feels colder without him. I swipe my card, pull the heavy door open, and step into the harsh lobby light.
The door closes behind me with a solid, mechanical thunk.
Through the glass, I see him check it—eyes dropping to the latch to make sure it held—before he looks back up at me.
He stays outside.
I walk across the lobby and hit the elevator button. When the doors slide open, I step in, my heart still racing.
My phone buzzes.
Declan: You in?
I smile, small and stupid, at the screen.
Me: Not yet. Elevator.
The doors close. The numbers crawl up. When they ding at my floor, I step out into the hallway, footsteps muffled on the thin carpet.
My room is exactly how I left it. Lamp on low. Bed unmade. Journal half-open on the desk.
I shut the door, lock it, and lean back against it for a second, breathing.
Then I text him back.
Me: In.
I hit send and listen, just for a second, to the quiet tick of the radiator and the faint hum of the campus outside my window.
For once, the silence doesn’t feel empty.
It feels like a held breath.
Like possibility.