That earns me a glance that feels heavier than it should.
I ladle the last of the stock into the rice, watching it loosen just enough to settle when I tilt the pan. The mushrooms go in, tender from their earlier soak, releasing their own earthy depth into the dish. I finish with a trickle of truffle oil, a snowfall of Parmesan, and plate it beside slices of the duck, the skin crisp and glistening.
When I set his plate down, he sits with a measured ease, lifting his wineglass after I pour. He turns it once in his fingers, then takes a slow sip.
“This could be Paris,” he says after his first bite of duck.
“Paris would send me home the moment I used orange with game,” I reply.
“They’d be wrong.”
The conversation winds from food to memory, to the small details of childhood kitchens, to the way grief lingers like a scent you can’t quite name. He doesn’t speak about himself, not really, but he listens in a way that makes it feel like the words matter after they leave my mouth.
I notice his hands as he holds the glass—strong, veined, with a pale scar running across one knuckle. They look capable of both precision and force, and I wonder how many people have seen both.
We eat the pear cake last, the sponge soaked with whiskey syrup, the pears yielding under the edge of the fork. The warmth of the fruit releases the spirit’s aroma, curling upward before each bite.
When the plates are empty, I move to clear them, but he is already standing. “Leave them.”
“I don’t like waking up to dishes.”
“You won’t,” he says, following me to the small balcony.
The rain is falling softly, almost lazily, and the air carries the scent of wet stone. I rest my forearms on the railing, the cool metal grounding me, until I feel the shift of air behind me when he steps closer.
He doesn’t touch me right away. The space between us is small, but charged, his presence wrapping around me as tangibly as the damp air.
“You make distance difficult,” he says, his voice a quiet thread against the sound of rain.
“Maybe you’re not meant to keep it,” I answer without turning.
When his hand settles at my hip, it is steady, warm. He turns me until I am facing him, his gaze holding mine without effort. The kiss is careful at first, the kind that tests whether the ground between you will hold. It deepens slowly, the tastes of wine and citrus threading between us until there is no space left.
I grip the front of his shirt, feeling the steady beat of his heart through the fabric, and pull him closer. The rain beads on his hair, catches the light from the window, and for a moment all I can think is that he feels inevitable.
When he finally pulls back, his voice is lower still. “Can I stay?”
Instead of answering, I kiss him again. The rain softens to a whisper against the glass as his mouth lingers over mine, not quite pressing harder, not quite pulling away. My fingers arecurled into the front of his shirt and the warmth of him feels impossible to ignore, as if my own body has leaned into a gravity I did not see until now. Declan’s hand settles at my waist, not moving, just holding, his thumb making small circles as if he has all the time in the world to learn my shape.
I part my lips a little more and taste the wine still on his tongue when he follows me into the kiss, his breath deepening. There is nothing hurried here and yet everything about it makes me feel unsteady, as though the smallest shift would tip us both over an edge. I draw back slightly, the tip of my nose brushing his, and I watch his eyes darken in the soft fairy light.
“You are dangerous,” I whisper, my voice catching at the end.
He smiles, slow and unhurried, the kind of smile that carries its own weight. “You have no idea.”
His knuckles skim along my jaw, down to my throat where his palm cups the side of my neck. The pressure is gentle, but my pulse leaps under his hand and I know he feels it. I let my eyes fall shut for a moment, letting him guide me back into another kiss, deeper now, his mouth coaxing mine open until I feel the heat building, low and insistent.
When his other hand slides to the small of my back, pressing me closer, my body answers without hesitation. The line of him against me is solid, unyielding, and the way his hips settle just enough to let me feel his arousal is deliberate. My breath leaves me in a quiet sound I didn’t mean to make, and his mouth stills on mine for half a heartbeat as if savoring it.
He murmurs my name then, low and rough, and it is almost a claim. I can feel the vibration of it in my chest as he moves his lips to the curve of my jaw, the side of my throat. His teeth graze lightly over my skin before his tongue soothes the spot, and my hands find their way under the hem of his shirt. The heat of him is immediate, his muscles shifting under my palms as my fingers splay against the ridges of his abdomen.
“You’re warm,” I say without thinking, my voice hushed.
“I’ll keep you warm,” he answers, and I feel the smile against my skin.
The edge of his teeth catches lightly at the hollow just below my ear, and I turn my head instinctively, offering more. His hand at my waist slides upward, over my ribs, brushing the side of my breast in a way that makes me press into him. My nipples tighten under the thin fabric of my dress, and I am suddenly very aware of how little there is between us.
His thumb traces along the underside of my breast, not quite touching where I want him most, and I swallow hard. My grip on his shirt tightens, pulling him closer, my body arching into the heat of his.
