I freeze.
For one stupid, suspended second, my brain goes blank. Then the shape resolves in the sodium light: familiar lines, familiar dark paint, familiar way it takes up space like it belongs there.
His truck.
Declan’s leaning against the driver’s side, one boot braced on the bumper, black hoodie, hood up. Hands down at his sides. Tape bright and stark around the knuckles of his right hand, catching the light in sharp, white bands.
There’s a set to his shoulders that looks like he’s been out here longer than makes sense. He isn't coming from the building entrance. He isn't walking to his car. He’s just… waiting. Like the cold has settled into him and he didn’t care enough to move.
Declan.
Of course.
Of course the night I finally leave the safety of the girls’ nest on my own two feet, I walk straight into the storm cloud everyone can’t stop talking about.
He's already out of the truck, leaning against the open door as if he’d been waiting. When his gaze finds mine, it's that slow, careful sweep I’ve seen on the ice, but this time, it pinsme, shrinking the parking lot to the stretch of cracked asphalt between us.
We just stare at each other for a beat. Two ghosts in a pool of yellow light.
“You always walk around alone at midnight?” he asks, voice low, carrying easily across the space.
It’s not a shout. It’s not a growl.
It’s… annoyed. And something else that makes my stomach knot.
“I’m not alone,” I say, chin lifting before I can stop it. “You’re here.”
The corner of his mouth shifts. Not quite a smile. Not quite not.
He pushes off the truck, straightening to his full, unfair height. The movement pulls him a step closer into the light. The tape around his hand looks tighter from here, biting into the skin. A leash.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Team meeting,” he says. “Some guys live upstairs.”
I look at the truck. The frost hasn't melted on the windshield. The exhaust pipe is cold, no vapor rising from it. He hasn't driven this thing in hours, but he didn't go inside, either.
He sees me looking. He knows I see the lie.
Declan steps closer, abandoning the excuse entirely. His gaze is heavy, darker than the shadows stretching across the pavement.
“Clara posted a photo,” he says, his voice dropping to a rough murmur. “The one of the wine bottle. I saw your shoes in the corner of the frame.”
The admission hits me in the chest.
He wasn’t visiting teammates. He saw a corner of a photo on Instagram, recognized my sneakers, and drove here to wait in a freezing parking lot.
It should terrify me. It’s obsessive. It’s stalking.
But my pulse doesn’t spike with fear. It spikes with something heavier. Heat.
He waited.
His gaze flicks past me toward the shadowed sidewalk that leads back to campus. Then back at me. His eyes drop to my hands, still stuffed in my hoodie pocket like I’m bracing for impact.
“You heading back to the dorms?” he asks.
“Yes.” The word comes out too sharp. I clear my throat. “I’m fine.”
