“Thanks,” I whisper.
He nods the barest bit, likeof courseis an entire language.
The lecture wears on. I don’t absorb much math, but I absorb the steady scrape of his pen, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the way his presence in my peripheral vision takes up space.
By the time the professor dismisses us, I’ve made it through fifty minutes without planning an exit every thirty seconds. When the scrape of chairs erupts and backpacks zip and people complain about pop quizzes, I don’t flinch.
We pack up in the same slow, silent rhythm. He stands when I do, his shoulder skim-close to mine as we merge into the crowd heading for the door.
The hallway outside is chaos again—voices, footsteps, someone dropping their phone and cursing—but the noise feels like a layer of sound over something solid.
“Coffee,” he says.
Not a question. A low, flat statement.
Dad would have a heart attack if he saw this—if he saw me even standing this close, let alone following a live wire into a building.
“Okay,” I hear myself say.
The word feels like stepping off a ledge.
We cut through the crush toward the student union. Nobody bumps me. Nobody brushes close. People part ahead of him and, by extension, me. I hate how much easier it feels. How much safer.
“How’s practice?” I ask, because asking something is better than letting the silence in my head start chewing on me.
His jaw flexes. “Hard.”
“Coach?”
“Pissed,” he says neutrally. “Less than last week.” A beat. “Benching’s done.”
I nod. It shouldn’t matter to me if he’s between the pipes Saturday. My stomach still tightens.
“Are you… back in?”
“Yeah.”
I swallow. “Good.”
He glances down at me, quick, like the answer surprises him. Or matters.
We reach the heavy union doors right as someone bursts out, pushing them wide. The gust of air hits my face and for a heartbeat I brace for it to slam back in my direction. But the guy lets it go and keeps walking.
Declan catches it before it can swing.
He holds it open with his shoulder and his taped hand, body angled so there’s a clear path under his arm. No reach, no looming, no chest at my back. Just space.
I hesitate for half a second anyway. My muscles are waiting for the impact that doesn’t come.
His eyes flick to mine, steady. “You’re clear,” he says quietly.
I step through.
A pair of girls at a nearby table fall silent as we pass, one’s gaze cutting from his taped knuckles to my face. The silence stretchesjust long enough for me to feel it, then snaps as they duck their heads and pretend they weren’t staring.
The cafe smells like burnt espresso and sugar. The line is mercifully short. Blenders roar, cups clatter, someone laughs too loud over a story. All of it fades a little as we slot in behind a couple arguing about their group project.
“You want anything?” he asks.
