17. Talia #3
I glance over my shoulder to find Declan holding one of the unfinished wings while Flynn explains, with complete conviction, why the lightning bolt has to point forward because "that's where the fast goes."
Declan nods thoughtfully. "I've negotiated billion-dollar contracts, and I don't think anyone has ever explained aerodynamics this clearly."
Flynn beams.
"I can explain propellers next."
"I was hoping you would."
The grilled cheese is almost burned by the time I remember to flip it.
Sloane notices the silence on my end.
"You still there?"
"Yes."
"You sound different."
I look back toward the table.
Declan has somehow ended up with a streak of blue paint across one thumb while Flynn carefully paints the opposite wing. Neither of them seems particularly concerned that the instruction booklet now has fingerprints all over it.
"I think..." I stop, searching for words that don't exist. "I think he's finally acting like himself again."
She doesn't ask which one of them I mean.
"I'm glad," she says quietly.
When I end the call, lunch is already on the table.
The afternoon settles around us almost without my noticing.
Flynn insists on showing Declan every completed section before moving on to the next, which means progress is slow and accompanied by lengthy discussions about propellers, runways, and whether airplanes would be improved by shark teeth painted beneath the cockpit.
Declan treats every question with the same patient attention he gives to presentations, asking follow-up questions that make Flynn think harder instead of simply giving him answers.
I answer emails between bites of soup, return one call from Rebecca, and reassure Mrs. Smith that we're safe, and she tells me the reporters have finally disappeared from the street.
Every so often, I look up from my laptop to find the two of them exactly where I left them, heads bent together over the dining table, completely absorbed in the tiny airplane slowly taking shape beneath their hands.
The apartment never stops feeling temporary, but somewhere during the afternoon it begins to feel less like a place we're hiding and more like a place we've simply borrowed for a little while.
Outside, the light beyond the windows softens from bright afternoon into early evening so gradually that I don't notice the change until Flynn stretches, rubs both eyes with the heels of his hands, and announces that building airplanes is harder work than he expected.
"It is," Declan agrees. "Especially when the engineer skips his afternoon break."
"I wasn't tired."
"No?"
Flynn yawns so widely he has to stop talking halfway through it. He lasts exactly twelve minutes.
He sits on the couch with the airplane box in his lap, insisting he’s not tired while his head slowly tips against the cushion.
Declan sits on the coffee table across from him, listening as Flynn explains which colors still need “approval.” He doesn’t rush him.
He doesn’t glance at his phone. He doesn’t look at me as if asking whether he’s doing it right.
He simply stays.
When Flynn finally falls asleep mid-sentence, Declan waits a few seconds before moving.
Then he stands, takes the airplane kit gently from Flynn’s loose grip, and sets it on the table without disturbing a single piece.
He unfolds the blanket from the arm of the couch and tucks it around him with a care so quiet I feel it somewhere behind my ribs.
Flynn sighs in his sleep and turns toward the warmth.
Declan freezes. Not because he has done something wrong. Because the movement affects him so deeply, he doesn’t know how to hide it.
I stand in the doorway of the small kitchen, watching him watch our son, and something inside me that has been braced for days begins to give way. Not all at once. But enough.
The apartment is quiet around us, softened by the low hum of the refrigerator and the faint sounds of traffic far below. Declan turns away from the couch and finds me watching him.
Neither of us speaks immediately.
There’s too much sitting between us now. The argument in the boardroom. The way I accused him of making me the scandal. The way he still came anyway. The way he carried the airplane kit into this apartment like it mattered because Flynn said it did.
“You’re good with him,” I murmur.
His eyes move back to Flynn, and the answer leaves him without hesitation. “He’s mine.”
The words are quiet, but there isn't a trace of hesitation in them. He says them with a certainty that has nothing to do with possession and everything to do with love.
My throat tightens.
Declan looks at me again, and the steadiness in his face gentles into something that hurts more than anger ever could.
“And if you’ll let me,” he says, his voice lower now, “I’d like another chance with you too.”
The room settles into stillness. Flynn sleeps between us, wrapped in the blanket Declan tucked around him with careful hands. For once, I don’t run from the silence. I let myself stand inside it and feel how badly I want to say yes.