That’s my cue. I did it. I came. I stayed. Now I get to go.
“I think I’m gonna head out,” I tell Clara, my voice tight, almost a whisper.
Her face falls. “Already?”
As I answer, I feel a shift beside me. A weight. His gaze. I don't look, but I know he's listening.
“Long day,” I say. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Okay,” she says, giving my arm a quick squeeze that I barely manage not to recoil from. “Want me to walk you out?”
“I’m good.”
I need to be alone. I need the quiet.
I have to leave the booth.
I turn to him. “Excuse me.”
Declan doesn’t move at first. He looks at me, his expression heavy and unreadable. He is sitting on the aisle. He could stand up. He could step out and give me a wide berth.
He doesn’t.
Slowly, deliberately, he turns his knees to the side.
He’s blocking the exit. He’s making me do it again.
My stomach flips, but I have no other route. I grab my bag and rise. I have to turn sideways to fit between the table and him.
It’s agony.
My body presses against the hard edge of the table, and my back drags across the solid line of his chest. I feel the zipper of his hoodie through my jacket, the heat of his breath spilling over me.
He could have made this easy. He chose to make it felt.
It’s over in a second, but the friction burns. As I slip free, his breath ghosts over the shell of my ear—cooler than the bar air, steady—and my knees threaten to buckle. I don’t let them.
I don’t look back. I bolt.
Outside, the cold air hits like a blade, a clean cut against my lungs. It feels like breaking the surface after being held underwater. The street is quiet, the bar’s chaos now a muffled thump behind me.
My breath fogs in pale ribbons. I count them helplessly—one, two—until my pulse finally calms.
The door swings open behind me. Boots thunk against the concrete, unhurried but heavy enough that I feel them. I don’t have to turn to know.
I do anyway.
Declan steps out ofThe Penalty Box, hood up now, shoulders broad against the dim orange wash of the parking lot lights. For a second, he just stands there, taking in the lot, the shadows. Then his gaze lands on me.
Two instincts war inside me—run, or stay long enough to understand why I don’t want to.
He doesn’t call out, just falls into step a few paces behind and slightly to the side as I head toward my car. He matches my pace perfectly. The lot is mostly empty. Our footsteps sound too loud.
My hand is still in my pocket, fingers clenched white-knuckle tight around the canister of pepper spray.
Declan’s eyes drop. He looks right at my pocket. He sees the tension in my wrist, the defensive angle of my arm. He knows exactly what I’m holding.
He doesn't say a word about it. He doesn't tell me to relax. He just lifts his gaze back to the perimeter of the lot, scanning the dark spaces I can’t see. Acknowledging the threat. Validating my right to be ready for it.
