When we reach my car, I stop at the driver’s side door, and he stops with me.
“You good getting home?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. Too thin. “It’s close.”
He nods once, then steps a fraction closer—not crowding, just… there. Declan lifts a hand and rests it lightly on the roof of my car, fingers splayed, close enough that I feel the weight of it over my head. A casual pose that doesn’t feel casual at all.
“Lock your doors,” he says.
The command lands low in my chest, steadying and dangerous at once.
It’s not a suggestion. Not a line. It’s a blunt, practical order.
“I will,” I breathe.
His hand stays on the roof until I open the door and slide into the driver’s seat. My fingers fumble with the keys; the engine turns over.
My hand goes straight to the lock, and I press it.
Thunk.
The mechanical sound is deafening in the silence.
The second it cuts through the air, Declan drops his hand from the roof and steps back. He waited for the sound.
He turns away, heading for a dark truck a few spots over. Headlights flare to life a moment later—a short, deliberate pulse—before he pulls out of the lot, the red of his taillights disappearing into the dark.
He waited. Stayed until he knew I was locked in. Safe.
I sit there for a long moment, the echo of that thought hanging in the air. My heart is pounding a strange, unsteady rhythm.
Maybe I should have stayed home. It would have been safer.
And this—this terrifying, electric hum under my skin from the drag of his chest and the solid line of his thigh and the ghost of his hand over my head…
It’s the first thing that’s felt like living.
I grip the wheel, breathe to four, and stare at my reflection in the windshield—cheeks flushed, eyes bright, still here.
Then I put the car in gear and drive myself home.
Chapter 5
Declan
It’sthemorningafterThe Penalty Box, and I’m skating like my head’s still parked in that lot, consumed by the memory.
I’m standing in my crease, but I’m not really here.
I’m trapped in that goddamn booth. Talia’s thigh—a scorching line against mine. That phantom pressure is a brand I can still feel through my gear, searing my skin. The rough drag of her jeans against my own haunts me, the way she held herself rigid, pretending not to feel it.
I remember the moment I could have shifted, given her an inch of air—and the deliberate, possessive choice I made not to. I let her endure it. Forced her to bear the weight of my decision.
Now, the ice feels wrong. It’s early-morning practice, the arena choked with silence except for theshh-shh-shhof skates andthe sharpclackof pucks ricocheting off the walls. The halogen lights throw a sterile, cold wash over the surface, amplifying my unease. A curl of shaved ice stuck to my pad won’t shake loose. I kick my leg, knocking it free; it skitters away in a pale smear near the crease, a reminder of how easily I can lose grip on everything.
My focus fractures, slipping. I can't afford that.
A puck rings off the post and in.
