“That wasn’t the question.”
The air between us tightens.
For a second my muscles do that awful, automatic thing—tighten, brace, wait.
Then I feel the difference.
He’s not crowding me against anything. There’s open space at my back. The exit is clear.
My jaw unclenches a fraction.
“Door slammed,” I hear myself say, like the words slipped past my guards while they were distracted. “Upstairs. Earlier.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Recognition. Anger that isn’t aimed at me.
“4C?” he asks.
The question is so specific, so casual, that a laugh slips out of me, choked and surprised. “Apparently he’s infamous.”
“Yeah.” His gaze sweeps my face like he’s checking for cracks only he can see. “Guy acts like he’s trying to put the door through the frame.”
He says it like a fact. Like he’s stood under that slam and flinched, too.
“Didn’t bolt,” I mumble, mostly to myself. “So. Progress.”
My stomach clenches. Why did I say that? Why am I telling him? He doesn't get to know that.Stupid. Exposed.
His jaw works once, like he’s biting back a reaction. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Progress.”
Silence settles over us, not quite comfortable, not quite dangerous. My breath fogs between us, mixing with his. The parking lot hums with distant traffic and the buzz of the overhead lamps.
Then he moves.
Not closer to me. Around me.
He circles the front of the truck with slow, deliberate steps, tape gleaming white against the dark as he reaches for the passenger-side handle.
The door creaks when he pulls it open. The interior light spills out—dim, golden, cutting a rectangle into the night.
“Get in,” he says.
My spine snaps straight. “Excuse me?”
His eyes meet mine over the top of the open door. Steady. Unflinching. “You shouldn’t be walking across campus alone at midnight. I’ll drive you.”
“Coach would love that,” I say, bitterness slipping out before I can catch it. “You giving his daughter a ride home.”
Something in his expression shutters. The air around him goes a degree colder.
“He doesn’t have to know,” Declan says. “And I’m not giving you—” He breaks off, jaw flexing. Tries again. “I’m driving the same direction. You’re getting in the truck either way.”
My fingers curl tighter around the little can of pepper spray in my pocket. My father’s warning from the phone call twists through my head:live wire. Blast radius. Call me or Adrian if anything feels off.
This man tracked me down from a photo of my shoes. He waited in the cold for hours just to intercept me.
My therapist would call this a red flag.
But looking at him—hood up, hand holding the door open, body turned slightly away so I have a clear path to run if I want to—I don't feel the urge to run. I feel the pull.
