Chapter 18
Talia
My bones feel wrong.
Not just tired wrong—too heavy, like they’ve been swapped out for lead while I slept. The light coming through my blinds is the pale, overexposed kind, striping the floor in harsh bands that make my eyes ache.
It’s been a week.
Seven days since the parking lot. Since the fight. Since I told him to pick a lane and he told me he was a loaded gun.
Seven days of radio silence.
I flex my fingers. My wrist twinges—a dull, mean ache where the drunk guy’s fingers wrapped around bone.
Then the reel starts. The one my mind’s been playing on loop for a week, scenes spliced together wrong.
Declan’s mouth under mine in the players’ box last Tuesday. Cold metal under my thighs, the chill of the rink at my back.
Then the ballroom on Thursday. The hand on his jaw. Her lips on his mouth. Flashbulbs exploding. The way he didn’t move.
Then Saturday night. The fight on the path.
“I’m trying to keep you alive.”
“No. You’re trying to keep me safe.”
My phone sits on my desk, silent. We haven’t texted. I haven’t sent the word In. He hasn’t asked.
I told him I wouldn’t be his secret. I told him to stop lurking in the dark.
So he stopped.
The silence should feel like a victory. It feels like a vacuum.
I drag myself out of bed. Muscles protest, tight and ropey. I pull on leggings, a soft sweater, thick socks. Armor made of cotton.
By the time I make it down to the lounge, the day’s already in full swing. I claim a spot in the corner by the window, drop my backpack, and open a textbook I have no intention of reading.
“Talia.”
Clara’s voice pulls my gaze up. She’s already halfway across the room, curls bouncing. Zoe’s behind her, carrying a ridiculous iced coffee. Maya and Genny trail them.
They don’t ask if they can sit. They just… do.
“You look like hell,” Zoe says cheerfully, dropping into the armchair.
“Thanks,” I mutter. “Love you too.”
“She means you look like you haven’t slept since the gala,” Clara says gently, wedging herself next to me. “Which… fair.”
My stomach drops. The gala.
I can see it again, too clearly: The silver dress. The hand on his jaw.
“I’m fine,” I say. The lie tastes thin.
Maya’s gaze flicks up, sharp behind her lashes. “You haven’t been at the rink. You haven’t been at the library. You’re ghosting.”
“I’m studying,” I say.
“You’re hiding,” Genny corrects softly.
Zoe rolls her eyes. “Look, we all saw it. Barbie Lip Gloss staked her claim. It sucked. But Adrian says Reid has been… different this week.”
My head snaps up. “Different how?”
“Quiet,” Clara says. “More than usual. He’s running drills until the ice melts. He doesn’t talk in the locker room. Adrian says he looks like he’s trying to exorcise something.”
My chest tightens.
“He’s respecting the boundary,” Genny says, voice steady. “You drew a line. He’s staying behind it.”
I stare at the crease in my textbook page. “I told him I wouldn’t be a secret.”
“Good,” Maya says. “But now you have to decide if you want him to be a stranger.”
The week drags.
Monday passes in a gray blur. Tuesday is worse.
By Wednesday, the silence feels heavy, like humidity before a storm.
I walk into Stats class late. The room hums with low chatter. The back row—our back row, where we sat last week—is open.
I force my steps sideways, sliding into a spot near the middle.
He walks in thirty seconds later.
I don’t look. I don’t have to. His presence drags across my nerves like a magnet.
He’s wearing a dark hoodie, hood down. Jaw tight. Eyes shadowed.
For a second, I’m sure he’s going to head straight for the back like usual. Pretend I don’t exist. Pretend last week didn’t happen.
His footsteps come closer instead.
My hand goes a little numb around my pen.
Something drops onto my desk with a soft, muted thud. The faint, sharp scent hits me a half second before my eyes catch up.
Peppermint tea.
A to-go cup from the campus café.
My breath hitches. I finally look up.
He’s standing there, one hand shoved in his hoodie pocket, the other just releasing the cup. He doesn’t sit. He doesn’t even fully turn his body toward mine.
His eyes meet mine for half a second. Long enough for me to see the exhaustion there. The restraint.
“You looked like you could use it,” he mutters. Voice rough. No preamble.
I stare at the cup. Then at him.
“This doesn’t fix anything,” I say. It comes out sharper than I intend.
“Didn’t say it did.” His throat works. “Just… thought you might want it.”
He moves away before I can respond, heading up two rows and sliding into a seat at the end.
He doesn’t try to talk to me after class. He doesn’t walk me out. He just leaves the tea, a silent offering in the middle of the cold war, and disappears.
I drink it.
It tastes like an apology.
Thursday is the library.
I’m staring at a blank document, trying to force words about political theory onto the screen. It’s late afternoon. The sun is dying outside the tall windows.
Something lands near my elbow.
I jump.
A small, familiar rectangle sits on the table. Candy. The specific, sour gummy brand I had on my desk during study hall two weeks ago. I didn’t think he was looking then.
Apparently, he sees everything.
I look up.
Declan stands there.
He’s not in a hoodie this time. He’s in a suit.
Navy. Sharp. Terrifyingly tailored. The tie is already knotted tight against his throat.
The air leaves my lungs.
He looks exactly like he did at the gala. The asset. The fiancé. The man who stood still while another woman claimed him.
Panic flares, hot and instant. I flinch back in my chair.
He sees it.
His eyes darken, pain flashing through the stoic mask. He takes a deliberate step back, putting distance between us, raising his hands slightly to show they’re empty.
“Bus leaves in ten,” he says, voice rougher than usual. “Away game.”
Right. The suit. It’s travel day. Mandatory dress code for the team.
It’s not a gala. It’s just a uniform.
But my heart is still hammering.
“I noticed you didn’t grab anything on the way in,” he says, nodding at the candy. “Your blood sugar crashes around four.”
My throat feels tight. “You kept track?”
“I keep track of everything,” he says. It sounds like a confession.
“Why?” I whisper. “We’re not… we’re fighting.”
“You’re fighting,” he says quietly. “I’m waiting.”
He adjusts his cuff. I see the flash of white tape underneath. He’s taped for the game, but he’s hiding it under the expensive wool. Just like that night.
“I have to go,” he says. “Eat the sugar, Addison. You’re pale.”
He turns and walks away, dress shoes clicking on the floor, heading for the exit.
I stare at his back. The suit fits him perfectly, but he moves stiffly in it, like it’s a cage he can’t take off.
He looks like the man who broke my heart in the ballroom.
But he’s acting like the man who watched my door.
“You gonna eat that?” Genny asks from across the table, not looking up from her book.
I unwrap the candy. The foil crinkles loudly.
“He’s trying,” she notes softly.
“I know.”
“He’s wearing the suit, but he bought the candy.” She finally looks up. “The suit is for them. The candy is for you. You have to decide which one matters more.”
I pop the candy into my mouth. It’s sour, then sweet.
It doesn’t fix the fear. But it quiets the noise.
By Friday evening, the team is gone. They’re two states away.
I walk my usual route back to the dorm. Shoulders tight. Hand in my pocket.
I check over my shoulder more than once. Half hoping I won’t see him. Half terrified I will.
No truck idling at the curb. No shadow in the dead streetlight.
He kept his word. He stopped stalking. He stopped lurking.
There’s a weird, hollow ache in my chest when I reach my dorm without incident. I tell myself that’s good. That this is what I wanted. Distance. Space.
Inside, the lobby is bright and ugly. I swipe my card, climb the stairs, and let myself into my room. The door clicks shut behind me with a soft, familiar sound.
I stand there for a second, forehead pressed to the wood.
Protection or obsession?
Peppermint tea on my desk. Candy in my palm. His hands on my waist in the players' box, asking Can I? before he kissed me.
And then the silence.
He gave me the space I asked for. He hasn’t texted. He hasn’t called. He hasn't pushed.
He just… waited.
He’s trying to be the version of himself that doesn’t scare me, even if it kills him to stay away.
I pull my phone out.
The thread is open. The last message is from Saturday night.
Declan: You in?
Me: In.
Since then, nothing.
He’s at the arena now. Pre-game warmups. He’ll be taping his stick. Putting on the mask. Shutting out the noise.
I stare at the blank text box until my eyes blur.
If I don’t send it, he stays away. That’s the deal.
If I send it… I’m inviting the storm back in.
I think of his hand on my wrist in the lecture hall. You’re good.
I think of the suit.
I think of the candy.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I type.
In.
I hit send.
The bubble disappears.
He’s on the ice. Or in the locker room. He won’t see it until after the game.
I slide the phone onto my nightstand.
My stomach is full of sugar and resentment. My chest is full of something I refuse to name.
I crawl into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin.
Declan Reid is a problem I can’t solve.
But tonight, sending that word feels like the first breath I’ve taken all week.