7. Declan #2
We walk in silence down the corridor toward the executive wing.
The office hums around us, the ordinary soundtrack of phones, low voices, and people moving through a day that has the audacity to continue as if nothing has changed.
Someone near the kitchenette laughs at something on a screen.
A printer starts, pauses, and starts again.
The city presses silver and bright beyond the windows.
Talia keeps half a step beside me, neither behind nor ahead, matching my pace with the same careful precision she seems to bring to everything else these days. The distance between us isn't much, but I feel it anyway.
“My assistant will set up a secondary login,” I say.
“Thank you.”
“Carl can coordinate access with your team.”
“Rebecca already sent the authorization list.”
“Efficient.”
“Necessary.”
There’s a pause. Then I say, because apparently I have learned nothing, “Are all your answers going to be one word today?”
Her eyes cut to mine. “If possible.”
A smile almost escapes me.
“That seems optimistic.”
“It’s a goal.”
“Ambitious.”
“I’ve been told.”
We reach my office before the conversation can become anything else.
The door is open, sunlight spilling across the wide conference table near the windows, the sitting area Marcus once accused me of using as a secondary negotiation trap, and the desk I have never managed to keep as clean as Adrian would prefer.
Talia pauses on the threshold. It's brief, barely more than a moment, but I notice it anyway.
I notice everything now. Her fingers tightening on the strap of her bag, the slight lift of her chin, the way her eyes map exits and sight lines.
I wonder if she realizes she does that. I also wonder how much of it came from motherhood and how much came from me. The thought isn't useful, so I set it aside.
She immediately chooses the chair on the far side of the conference table.
Naturally.
I take the opposite seat instead of commenting on it. Growth, apparently.
For a few minutes, there is only the sound of laptops opening, passwords being typed, files syncing, and the quiet click of her pen when she finds the project folder.
It should be normal. Two professionals preparing for a high-stakes integration review.
Nothing about it should make my pulse aware of the exact distance between us.
It does anyway.
Her perfume reaches me before I am prepared for it, soft and familiar enough to drag seven years of memories behind it. I resent that immediately. A man should be able to sit in his own office without being blindsided by the past.
Talia keeps her attention on the screen in front of her and never once looks in my direction. Somehow, that makes it worse.
Because now I’m aware she’s choosing not to look, aware of the way she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, then immediately drops her hand back to the keyboard.
Aware of the line of concentration between her brows, and the fact that her left knee has gone completely still beneath the table, as though she is refusing to allow even that small betrayal of nerves.
I hate that she is nervous. I hate that I caused it, and I hate more that some part of me still wants to move closer.
“Shared document is open,” she says.
I look at my screen.
The cursor blinks at the top of a blank page beneath the heading: Revised Integration Terms — Primary Risk Alignment.
A title so dull it feels almost offensive.
Talia begins typing first.
Objective: Establish revised terms supporting integration timeline, Foundation expansion, and external risk mitigation.
Professional. Clean. Impersonal. Exactly like her.
I watch her hands move over the keyboard and remember them on my chest. Not helpful, so I turn my attention to the document before my mind can prove itself fully untrustworthy.
“We should separate business and personal,” I say.
Her fingers pause for less than a second.
“That sounds wise.”
“It is wise.”
“Then why do you sound unconvinced?”
“Because I have met us.”
That gets me a look.
Finally.
It’s brief, sharp, and full of things she refuses to say in my office at one in the afternoon with a shared document open between us.
Still, she looks. And because I am apparently a fool, I count it as a victory.
“We need ground rules,” she says.
“Fine.”
“No discussing Flynn during work sessions.”
My jaw tightens. She sees it.
“Declan.”
“He is not an inconvenience to be scheduled around.”
“I didn’t say he was.”
“No, you just put him under prohibited topics.”
Her expression tightens. “Because he deserves better than being dragged into every disagreement we have over contract language.”
I sit back. That stings.
She continues before I can answer. “If we need to talk about him, we talk about him properly. Not between workstream notes. Not because one of us is angry. Not while other people are waiting for revised clauses.”
One of us. Generous. She means me. She may even mean herself, too, which is the only reason I breathe through the first response that comes to mind.
“Fine,” I say.
Her shoulders ease by an amount most people would miss.
I don’t.
“Second rule,” she says. “We keep communication documented.”
“Romantic.”
“Professional.”
“Your favorite word.”
“One of them.”
“What are the others?”
“Boundaries. Deadlines. Silence.”
The smile gets out before I can stop it. “Terrifying woman.”
Her mouth almost curves, then she looks back at the screen. “Third rule. No using the project to force personal conversations.”
I look at her across the table.
Sunlight catches in her hair. Her face is composed, but not untouched. I can see the fatigue beneath her eyes now, the strain she keeps smoothing over with discipline. She’s holding the line because she has spent six years learning that lines are what keep lives from collapsing.
I should respect that. I do respect that, but there are parts of my life I learned about yesterday morning, and every instinct in me is clawing toward answers.
“I won’t force anything,” I say.
She studies me.
“Will you ask?”
“Yes.”
Her lips press together.
“But not here,” I add.
The words cost me more than they should.
Talia seems to hear that. Her expression shifts slightly, surprise and relief passing so quickly I might have imagined both.
“Thank you.”
I nod once. Because if I speak, I might tell her she should not have to thank me for basic restraint. I might tell her I am trying, or I might tell her that every time I close my eyes, I see Flynn looking up at me with my own eyes and asking if I’m mad.
So I say nothing. Instead, I type into the shared document: I can separate business and personal.
The sentence appears beneath her objective line, stark on the screen.
Talia stares at it.
For one long second, the office goes quiet around us. The city moves beyond the windows. Somewhere down the hall, a phone rings. The cursor blinks after my sentence, as if it’s waiting for a verdict.
Then Talia lifts her eyes to mine.
“You never could.”