I hold it up between us. The plastic gleams in the dashboard lights.
“I have a single,” I say, voice shaking but sure. “My dad pulled strings so I wouldn’t have a roommate.”
Declan stares at the key like it’s a weapon and a lifeline all at once.
“I want you to walk me up,” I say softly. “And I don’t want you to leave yet.”
A tremor runs through him. He takes the card from my fingers, his touch grazing mine, electric and possessive.
“Yes,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Anything.”
Chapter 24
Talia
Theelevatorrideissilent, but the air between us screams.
Declan stands close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his arm, though we aren’t touching. He holds my key card in his hand, turning it over once, thumb tracing the plastic like it’s something fragile.
When the doors slide open on my floor, he waits for me to step out first.
The hallway is quiet. Fluorescent lights hum overhead. I lead him to my door, my pulse beating a frantic, heavy rhythm against my ribs.
He slides the card into the slot. The light blinks green. The mechanism clicks.
He pushes the door open and steps back, letting me cross the threshold into my own sanctuary. Then he follows, closing the door behind us. He eases the door shut. There's no slam, no hard latch—just a click that's barely a whisper. A small courtesy that feels like it was meant for me. Like he’s thinking about my nervous system before his own.
The room looks different with him in it. Smaller. Warmer. Too intimate and not intimate enough at the same time. My desk lamp casts a soft glow over the full-sized bed, the blanket half-tucked from this morning.
I lock the deadbolt.
Declan’s eyes track the movement—careful, aware—but he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t ask if I need space or if he should leave. He just stands there, waiting for me to decide what happens next.
“Sit,” I murmur, my voice thin.
He sits on the edge of my bed immediately, forearms resting on his thighs. The mattress dips under his weight. The lamplight catches on the bruise darkening under his cheekbone—a souvenir from Friday’s game—turning the tan of his skin into deep purples and yellows. It should make him look rough, dangerous.
It makes him look human.
I drop onto the bed beside him, legs folding up instinctively. His thigh presses to mine, solid and grounding. My breath wavers, just a little.
Everything is too much. My dad’s job. His father’s threats. The plan we made at Genny’s. And the way Declan looked at me in the car when I told him what happened before Briarcliff.
It churns together until it feels like the room is tilting.
“I can’t wrap my head around all of this,” I whisper.
His hand moves—slowly, clearly telegraphed—until his fingers settle over my knee. Warm. Steady. A gentle anchor.
“You don’t have to,” he says softly. “Not tonight.”
“I’m scared.”
“I know.”
He doesn’t try to fix it. He just stays with me in it, thumb brushing a warm line along my jeans. The motion sends something loosening through my chest.
“We’re not doing this alone,” he adds, voice low. “Not anymore.”
