Hiding is his language, not mine. I am so tired of living small.
“You always this bossy?” I ask, aiming for light and landing somewhere closer to breathless.
“You always this stubborn?” he volleys back, calm on the surface, something raw burning under it. “Truck or sidewalk, Addison. I’d prefer the truck.”
He says my last name like a boundary and a claim all at once.
My heart does that traitor stutter.
“Fine,” I say. “Truck.”
I cross the distance before I can talk myself out of it. He steps back half a pace, giving me room to climb up, but his hand stays on the edge of the door. As I grab the handle inside, my knuckles brush his taped ones.
A spark jumps under my skin. Stupid. Impossible. Just bone and tape and proximity.
I snatch my hand back like I’ve been burned and pretend I didn’t.
The cab smells like him—soap and cold air and the faint ghost of the rink. Clean. Controlled.
Safe, my body insists.
Dangerous, my brain argues.
I tug the door shut. Thethunkis solid, enclosing. Cutting out the night.
Declan rounds the hood and climbs in on his side. The truck dips under his weight. Suddenly there’s not a parking lot between us, just a console and a few inches of charged air.
He doesn’t turn on the radio. Doesn’t fill the silence. He just slots the key in, the engine rumbling to life beneath us, low and steady.
His right hand—taped and bruised—rests on the steering wheel. His left drops to the gear shift.
I can’t stop staring at it.
The white athletic tape is stark against the black leather knob. It’s wrapped tight, clean lines overlapping with surgical precision, but I can see the swelling underneath. I can see the violence it’s holding together.
That hand pinned a man to a locker yesterday. It bruised a throat because of my name.
Now it’s resting inches from my knee, relaxed, controlling the truck with a casual competence that makes my mouth dry.
Violence and protection, I think, the realization shivering through me.They look exactly the same on him.
“You buckled?” he asks, eyes on the rearview.
I blink, tearing my gaze away from his hand. “Yes, Dad,” I mutter.
His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. “One overprotective asshole at a time, Addison,” he says under his breath, and shifts into reverse.
We roll out of the lot, tires crunching over loose gravel. The streetlights slide past in slow, measured blurs. The quiet in the cab is a different kind of loud—no crowd, no music, just the hum of the engine and the sound of my own pulse in my ears.
I stare out the passenger window, watching the dark shapes of buildings glide by.
“You skipped the game yesterday,” he says after a minute.
It’s not accusatory. Just… stated.
I shrug, the fabric of my hoodie rasping against the seat. “You’d know that how? Thought you were benched.”
“I was,” he says. “Still know who’s in the stands.”
