24. Declan
Declan
I fall into step beside her before I can second-guess it.
The noise from the event lingers behind us—voices, the faint clatter of equipment—but it fades as we move toward the edge of the property. The path narrows underfoot, shifting from packed dirt to something more worn, uneven enough that it pulls your attention down if you let it.
She doesn’t say anything. Neither do I.
Flynn walks ahead at first, talking about something he saw: the way the roots spread, one of the older kids lifting a shovel, but his voice fades as we reach the line of trees.
By the time we step onto the paved walkway, his attention has shifted again, drawn toward the water and the steady movement of it.
“Can I go look?” he asks, already turning before the question is finished.
Talia glances at me, then back at him. “Stay where we can see you.”
“I will,” he says, which probably means he’ll try.
He takes off before she can add anything else, sneakers scuffing lightly against the pavement as he heads toward the railing along the edge of the river. The late afternoon light catches on the surface, breaking into uneven reflections that shift with the current.
We keep walking, and the space he leaves behind isn’t empty, just quieter in a way I notice more than I expect.
I’m aware of her beside me now in a way I wasn’t before. Not just her presence, but the smaller details. The rhythm of her steps, the way she adjusts her sleeve when the breeze shifts, and the faint trace of something familiar that settles before I can name it.
It’s her. Not a memory or something tied to a single moment. Just her. And for a long time, that wasn’t something I let myself sit with.
I let the silence stretch, not because I don’t have anything to say, but because I’m not sure how to start without breaking it. The distance between us isn’t physical, not anymore, but there’s still something there, unspoken, not quite settled.
“You didn’t have to come today,” I say finally, my voice quieter than I expect.
She doesn’t look at me right away. Her gaze stays on the path ahead, following as it leads toward the bridge.
“I know,” she says.
The answer is simple, and it shouldn’t carry weight, but it does.
We reach the start of the bridge without stopping, the incline just enough to register beneath our feet. The railing is cool when I brush my hand against it, worn smooth in places from years of use. The sound of the water is louder here, steady beneath us.
Halfway across, I stop. It’s not planned; it just happens.
My hands come to rest against the railing, fingers curling around the metal as I lean forward slightly, my focus dropping to the current below. It moves without hesitation. No pause and no second-guessing. Just a steady pull forward.
For a long time, that’s what I told myself I was doing. Moving forward. Not looking back. Not staying long enough for anything to take hold.
I let out a slow breath, and this time I don’t push it away.
“I used to tell myself it didn’t matter,” I say, the words coming out steadier than they feel. “That it was just one night.”
The admission hangs in the air between us, heavier than anything we’ve said since leaving the site. For a moment, I don’t look at her.
“Because if that was true,” I continue, my grip tightening slightly against the railing, “then I didn’t have to question why it didn’t feel like just one night.”
The river doesn’t slow or shift. It just keeps moving.
I close my eyes for a second, not long enough to disappear into it, just long enough to feel the weight of what I’m about to say settle into place.
“But I didn’t go after you,” I add, quieter now. “I let that be it.”
The words hang between us, and for a moment, neither of us moves. The river continues beneath the bridge, steady and unbroken, the sound of it filling the silence without letting it strain. I keep my hands on the railing, my grip loosening gradually as I stay where I am, not stepping back from it.
I feel her move before I see it.
It’s subtle; the shift of her weight, the quiet adjustment that closes the space I left between us when I stopped.
Her hand finds my sleeve first, light enough that it would be easy to miss if I wasn’t already aware of her, her fingers resting there without pressure, like she’s leaving the choice with me.
“Then stop telling yourself it didn’t matter,” she says, her voice low and steady, not sharp, not demanding, just certain in a way that doesn’t leave room for anything else.
The simplicity of it hits harder than anything else she could have said. There’s no argument in it, no attempt to pull apart what I’ve already admitted. Just a quiet line in front of me. One I can step across or keep avoiding.
There was a time when I would have avoided it. Stepped back. Redirected. Found something easier to manage. Something that didn’t require me to stay in one place long enough for it to matter.
I don’t do that now.
I let out a slow breath and straighten slightly, turning toward her instead of away. The movement is small, but it’s deliberate. The distance between us narrows, not accidental this time. Chosen.
Her hand is still on my sleeve.
I glance down at it for a second before looking back up, my attention catching on the way she’s watching me. Not guarded the way she’s been. Not measuring. Just… waiting.
There’s no expectation in it. No demand for something I haven’t already offered. And that absence makes it easier to stay where I am instead of falling back on the instinct that’s carried me through most of my life.
I shift my hand from the railing, the metal warm where I release it, and let it fall between us for a moment before turning it slightly, palm open instead of closed.
I don’t reach for her.
I don’t need to.
She closes the distance the rest of the way, her fingers sliding from my sleeve to my hand, the contact light at first, almost tentative, before it steadies when I don’t pull away. Her hand is warmer than mine, the contrast immediate.
I don’t try to make sense of it.
I just let it be there.
The bridge feels quieter now, even with the sound of the water moving beneath us and the distant noise from the event carrying faintly through the trees.
Flynn’s voice drifts up from somewhere near the riverbank, calling out about something he’s found, but it doesn’t pull at the moment.
It settles into it, part of the same space instead of something separate.
I step closer without thinking about it, the movement natural enough that I don’t question it until it’s already done. She doesn’t move back. If anything, she shifts slightly toward me, the space between us narrowing again until there’s nothing left of it that feels uncertain.
My free hand lifts before I can second-guess it, coming to rest lightly at her waist, not pulling, not holding her there, just there. She exhales softly, the sound barely audible, but I feel it as we’re close enough that nothing gets lost between us.
I lower my forehead to hers, the contact brief at first, just enough to feel the warmth of her skin, the steady rhythm of her breath. It isn’t urgent, and I don’t rush it. I just stay, and when her fingers tighten slightly around mine, that’s all it takes.
I tilt my head just enough to close the final gap, the kiss settling over us with a quiet, unhurried rhythm.
It feels more like a natural progression of the silence we've shared than a new beginning.
There is no urgency here, no demand to push toward something more; it just exists, steady and certain, exactly where we are.
For the first time, the impulse to move beyond the moment doesn't surface. I stay grounded in it, and the choice doesn't require effort or force. I don't pull back.
In the past, this is where I would have shifted, breaking the connection just enough to reclaim my footing.
I would have let the space settle between us again before it could grow into something I couldn't easily leave behind.
I would have convinced myself it was the safer path, the one that kept things uncomplicated and prevented me from wanting anything I didn't plan on staying for.
I don’t do that now.
I let my hand stay where it is at her waist, my thumb shifting slightly against the fabric of her shirt without thinking about it, not searching for anything more, just there. She leans into it instead of away, the movement small but unmistakable, and I feel it more than I expect.
The kiss doesn’t change, doesn’t deepen into something urgent or demanding.
It stays exactly what it is, steady, unforced, something that doesn’t need anything more to matter.
When I pull back, it’s not to create distance, just enough to look at her, to see if anything in her expression has altered.
It hasn’t.
If anything, she looks more certain now, not guarded, not holding herself back, just there with me in a way that makes it harder to fall back into the version of myself that would have already stepped away.
Her hand stays in mine.
My forehead brushes hers again, not quite a kiss this time, just a quiet point of contact that I don’t pull away from.
The sound of the river moves around us, steady and constant, and somewhere below, Flynn calls out again, his voice bright and distracted, a reminder that the rest of the world hasn’t stopped just because we have.
“No more running,” she says softly.
The words aren’t sharp, aren’t a demand, but they carry a certainty that leaves no space to sidestep it. Not a question or a warning. Just something set in front of me that feels a lot like the line I’ve been avoiding for years.
I let out a slow breath, not because I need it, but because it’s the only thing I can do before I answer.
“Not even to you,” I say, my voice quieter now, steadier in a way that doesn’t feel forced.
I shift my hand slightly, tightening my hold on hers just enough that she’ll feel it, that she’ll know I’m not stepping back from it.
“With you.”