Her lips tremble. She laughs once, shaky. “You keep saying things that make me want to cry and climb you like a tree at the same time. It’s very confusing.”
“Climb first,” I say. “Cry later.”
She snorts—a real laugh this time—and some of the weight in the room lifts.
We stand there for a moment, hands locked, bodies almost touching. The world outside keeps spinning. The article keeps spreading. The investigation keeps grinding.
None of it feels as real as the way her thumb strokes the side of my hand.
“What do you want right now?” I ask.
It’s not about carefulness. Not anymore. It’s the only question that matters.
Her gaze doesn’t flick away. She considers it—really considers it—like she’s scanning film of herself instead of a game.
“I want…” Her voice comes out small. She clears her throat and tries again. “I want a night that isn’t about him. Or your father. Or the league. Or anything I survived. I want something that’s just ours.” A breath. “I want you.”
Heat punches straight through me.
“Say that again,” I manage.
She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks flush. “I want you, Declan.”
I move.
My hand leaves hers so I can cup her face, palms framing her jaw, thumbs skimming the soft skin under her cheekbones. She leans into it like she’s been waiting.
“One last check,” I murmur. Because even now, even with every cell in my body screaming, I need this part clear. “If I kiss you and don’t stop, if I take you to bed and forget what time is… that’s what you want?”
Her eyes flare, dark. “Yes,” she says. No hesitation. “I’m not breakable. Not tonight. I know where we are. I know who you are. I know what I’m asking.”
There’s nothing careful about what happens next.
I kiss her, and all the noise I’ve been holding back slams into the space between us.
She surges up on her toes to meet me, fingers fisting in the front of my shirt like she’s afraid I’ll change my mind. I have never been less likely to walk away from anything.
Her mouth opens for me, hot and sure, and everything in me that’s been clenched for months just… gives. I turn her until the backs of her knees hit the couch and we tumble down together, all elbows and laughter and the kind of clumsy that only happens when you want something too much.
She ends up straddling my lap, one knee on either side of my thighs, my hoodie riding up to bare an inch of skin at her waist. My hands find that skin like they’ve got their own GPS.
“Talia,” I say against her mouth.
“Mm?” she hums, trailing kisses along my jaw, fingers sliding under my shirt, nails scraping lightly over my stomach. My cock jumps, desire surging through my veins at the sharp, electric feeling.
“I love you.”
The words drop into the space between us with no fanfare, no build-up. Just there. Heavy and clean and obvious.
Her body stills.
For a second, panic flares—sharp, bright, stupid. I almost take it back. Almost call it a slip, a heat-of-the-moment thing.
Then she leans back enough to see my face.
Her eyes are wide. Not scared. Not angry. Just… stunned. Like I handed her something she didn’t realize she’d been reaching for.
“You…” She swallows. Tries again. “Say it again.”
