2. Ailish #2
I should step back. I don’t. The rain has soaked through my collar and I can feel the heat coming off him, and neither of those facts is doing anything useful for my judgment.
I meet his gaze. “So move.”
Neither of us moves. The air feels charged, the kind of static that comes before a storm.
Finally, he exhales, presses the handle into my hand, and walks away without another word.
I stay there until the umbrella leaks through and the papers in my hand start to curl.
The sea’s rough, churning gray and white like the inside of my head.
I tell myself it’s good he left—that distance is safer—but part of me wants to chase him down the pier and scream that I never betrayed him, that I did what I had to.
Instead, I go back to my car and sit until the shaking stops.
Then, I head to the warehouse. Things have to keep moving.
There, I find Mackenzie, defying her brothers’ wishes as usual, not to have a part in these things. “You look like you fought the weather and lost,” she says.
“Thank you for the concern.”
“Seriously, Ailish, you okay? Something is up. I can see it.”
“Declan showed up.”
“That explains it.” She hops onto a crate, swinging her legs. “So? Was it angry sparks or the slow burn kind?”
I glare. “We talked about security.”
“Right. And then your eyes met across the foggy dock, and the soundtrack swelled—”
“Mackenzie.”
“Fine, fine.” She throws up her hands. “But you’re not fooling anyone. The whole crew’s been betting on when you two either kill each other or make out.”
“Wonderful. Maybe they can start a pool.”
“They already did.”
I roll my eyes but can’t help smiling. That’s the thing about Mackenzie—she makes the world less heavy for five minutes at a time.
She hops down, dusting her hands. “Seriously, though, Ailish, be careful. The Russians are pushing again, and if Declan’s head isn’t straight, he’s liable to drag you into the crossfire.”
“I can handle Declan.”
“Not what I meant.”
I raise a brow. “Then what did you mean?”
She studies me for a moment, all joking gone. “You think you’re handling him, but he’s handling you. That man knows how to get under your skin. Just… don’t let him stay there.”
I start to protest, but Liam walks in then—sharp suit, sharper eyes—and the room straightens like someone pulled a string. Mackenzie gives me a look that says conversation to be continued and slips away.
Liam’s presence changes the air.
He doesn’t have to say a word; the room just… aligns. Every man within ten feet finds something urgent to do with a clipboard.
He gives me a quick nod. “How’s the dock situation?”
“Under control,” I say. “Declan already made some adjustments to the schematics. Smart ones.”
A flicker of approval crosses his face before he hides it behind his usual composure. “Good. I’m glad you two can still work together.”
Work together. The phrase feels foreign, like using the wrong tense of a word that used to mean something else.
“I’ll keep things running,” I tell him.
He studies me a moment longer, then lowers his voice. “Be patient with him. He’s… rebuilding in his own way.”
“Rebuilding or self-destructing?”
“Sometimes those look the same.” Then, he turns and gives a pointed look to Mackenzie but doesn’t openly say a word.
And with that, Liam’s gone—off to his next crisis, leaving the scent of expensive cologne and impossible expectations in his wake.
I don’t wait around to see how Mackenzie takes it. My job is done here, and I’m suddenly exhausted again. That same exhaustion Declan always gives me.
Except now he doesn’t even have to be in the room to cause it.
I leave my car at the warehouse and walk.
It’s forty minutes to my building and the rain has finally stopped, and I tell myself it’s because I need the air, even if the air tastes like rust. The truth is that I have been driving the same route home for three years and tonight I would rather not be predictable.
My phone buzzes once in my pocket—no name, just a message:
Lock your doors tonight. Don’t ask why.
Declan.
Of course.
Half a warning, half a command. Typical.
I should ignore it. Instead, I check the locks twice before pouring another drink. To much is going on to not heed a warning, no matter who it came from.
The apartment’s too quiet again. I turn on the radio just for noise—low jazz, the kind Mackenzie swears makes her feel like a femme fatale. I close my eyes and let it fill the space between thoughts.
But thoughts don’t listen. They circle back to him.
To the rain dripping from his hair at the dock. To the muscle ticking in his jaw when I told him I used to have a reason to trust him. To the half-second where I thought he might actually reach for me.
I drop the glass into the sink before I shatter it.
Stop it, Ailish.
You’re not a silly teenager. You’re not that girl who thought loyalty and love could coexist in the same body.
I grab my laptop, try to drown myself in spreadsheets—inventory, shipment logs, security rotations—but the words blur. My chest aches in that stupid, familiar way.
I push the laptop aside and pace the living room. Every creak of the floorboards sounds like footsteps. Every gust of wind against the window sounds like his voice.
When the knock comes, I freeze.
Three sharp raps. The same rhythm Declan used to use when he didn’t want the neighbors to know he was there.
My pulse trips over itself.
I cross the room on silent feet and look through the peephole. No one. Just rain and hallway light.
“Paranoid,” I whisper, but my voice shakes.
I slide the chain off anyway and open the door an inch. The hallway’s empty—except for a folded piece of paper on the floor.
I pick it up. His handwriting again. Two words:
Declan handwritten note; Stay sharp.
I should be angry—at the arrogance, the cryptic drama of it—but instead there’s that same pulse of heat under my skin. A reminder that even when we’re enemies, he’s still watching my back.
I close the door and lean against it, eyes shut.
Then, I cut all lights but the one over the oven, and I crawl into bed without undressing, exhaustion winning out over pride. The sheets are cold. The city hums outside like a lullaby for the damned.
Sleep doesn’t come easy. When it does, it brings him with it.
He’s standing in the rain again, same umbrella, same defiant tilt of his chin. Only this time he doesn’t walk away.
He reaches for me, fingers brushing mine—and I wake with my heart hammering against my ribs.
The clock reads 3:07 a.m. Thunder rolls somewhere over the water, low and angry.
I stare at the ceiling until the shadows start to look like maps—routes, choices, the lines between what we were and what we can’t ever be again.
By morning, I’ll bury it under paperwork and sarcasm. By morning, I’ll pretend it doesn’t matter.
But right now, in the dark, I can admit it: it still does.