2. Shay #2
The whole table dissolves into a tangle of goodbyes. Rhys steers Jude toward the door before he can walk into a table. Knox pulls Benji’s beanie down over his eyes. Soren hovers by the edge of the booth.
“Are you coming?”
“In a minute.”
His eyes flick to Declan, then back to me. The look is so obvious it’s insulting.
“I’m just finishing my drink,” I say.
He glances at my empty glass. “Right.”
Soren offers that tiny, apologetic smile and leaves. Even the romantic has clocked exactly why I’m still in this booth, and he’s too polite to say it out loud.
Jude, already tucked under Rhys’s arm at the door, sees me still sitting here, opens his mouth to say something stupidly well-intentioned, and I give him a look that could strip paint. He shuts it. He’s trainable.
“Text us when you get home,” Milo calls over his shoulder.
“I’m aware of the concept of texting.”
“Just do it.”
The door clicks shut behind them, and the quiet that follows is immediate and heavy. Tessa flips a stool onto a table with a thud. Diego starts stacking chairs, humming something that is definitely not a real song.
“Night, Shay,” Diego says, his grin a little too knowing.
“Night, Diego.”
Tessa slings her bag over her shoulder. “I’m going to pretend I don’t know why you’re still here.”
“I’m enjoying the ambiance.”
“You’re a terrible liar.” She glances at Declan. “Night, boss. Don’t forget to lock up.”
“I know how to lock a door, Tessa.”
“Do you?” She gives him a look that is entirely too meaningful, and then she’s gone.
And it’s just us.
Me on my side of the bar, him on his. The jukebox is off. The only sounds are the hum of the coolers and a pipe knocking once, deep in the walls.
Declan is wiping down a patch of counter that is already gleaming.
The motion pulls the dark fabric of his Henley tight over his forearm—thick, dusted with dark hair, a faded scar just below the wrist catching the low light.
I let myself watch this time. Just for a second.
For three years I’ve wondered how he got that scar.
Never asked. Asking would mean admitting I notice.
He looks like a man who knows how to fix things.
Like he could change a tyre or build a shelf or hold his ground in a fight.
The thought makes me hot in a way that frustrates me down to the bone.
It’s the exact promise my mother fell for, over and over.
This one’s steady, Shay. This one’s different.
And for a while, he always was. Until the steadiness curdled into boredom, or resentment, or he just got tired of playing house and disappeared, leaving her standing in the kitchen trying to figure out what she’d done wrong this time.
Don’t need anyone. Don’t let them get a foothold. It’s a simple rule. It’s kept me safe.
But my body doesn’t care. My stupid omega hindbrain has been cataloguing Declan Byrne for three years—the scent, the shoulders, the low rumble of his voice—and tonight, after getting stood up by some faceless app, the want is a raw scrape under my ribs.
Not the clean, transactional itch I’m used to.
Something messier. Something that feels dangerously close to need.
He finally stops wiping. He folds the cloth, sets it down precisely. “You can go home, you know.”
His voice is low, calm. It does something physical to me. A hum low in my belly, a warning pulse between my legs that I refuse to name.
“I’m aware.”
“Your friends are going to be waiting for that text.”
“They can wait.”
He leans his hip against the back counter and just looks at me. Not a challenge, not a question. Just a quiet, steady regard that feels more intense than any alpha stare-down. He’s patient. He’s always patient. It’s infuriating.
“You look like you’re trying to solve a problem,” he says.
“Maybe I am.”
A slow smile touches his mouth. The real one. It’s barely there, a faint curve I’ve only seen a handful of times in three years. It lands in the center of my chest like a shot of whiskey, warm and stupid and completely unwelcome.
It’s enough to get me on my feet before I’ve made a decision to move.
The legs of my stool scrape against the floor. Each step toward him feels deliberate, final. This is a terrible idea. I should grab my jacket, make a joke, and leave with what’s left of my pride.
Instead, I stop right at the bar, plant my palms flat on the cool wood, and lean in.
Up close, the scent of him is a physical thing—cedar and woodsmoke and clean cotton, but underneath it something warmer now, something I can only describe as him.
My body responds before my brain catches up: a rush of heat, the back of my neck prickling, that slick, treacherous ache low in my belly.
I breathe him in and it’s like my pulse drops anchor.
He doesn’t move back. He doesn’t reach for me. He just watches, green eyes patient in a way that feels dangerous.
“Shay,” he says. Just my name. It’s a warning. An invitation. Both.
I tilt my chin up. This isn’t a plan. It’s a correction.
I’ve spent three years pretending I don’t want him, and tonight some faceless profile stood me up and proved that pretending doesn’t protect anything.
So I’m taking the night back. No strings.
No need. I’ll stand this close to Declan Byrne, take what I want, and walk away clean.
“One night,” I say. My voice is steady, even if my pulse is hammering against my ribs. “No complications. Just… scratch an itch.” I hold his gaze, letting him see all of it. “Are you in, or are you just going to stand there looking responsible?”