I realize, abruptly, that my keys are on the table. Not buried in my fist. My back is to the wall, but I haven’t been cataloging everyone who comes in.
He doesn’t talk to fill the space. He just sits in it with me.
My father’s silence has always been a shield he holds up in front of me. Solid. Commanding.I’ll handle this.
Declan’s silence is different. It’s like a fort he built around himself and—just for this hour—left a side door open.
We finish our drinks. The last sip of tea is lukewarm and a little bitter. I tilt the cup, watching the dregs swirl. If I stay any longer, I’m going to say something stupidly real, likeyour truck felt safeorplease don’t touch anyone else for me ever again.
“I have class,” I say.
“Yeah.” He stands when I do, scooping both empty cups and dropping them in the trash on the way out.
When we step back into the gray light and the wash of campus noise, it feels colder than it did going in.
We stop just off the main path. Students flow around us like water around two rocks.
I look up at him, really look. The bruise on his knuckles is darker today, purple fading at the edges to yellow. The tape at his wrist is fresh. His eyes are sharp, but there’s a tiredness there, too—bone-deep, same as mine.
“You don’t talk,” I say softly. “And I didn’t run.”
He huffs out a breath that might be a laugh, might be a sigh. Something in his shoulders eases, just barely.
“Deal?” he asks.
The word lands between us like a line painted on ice. It’s not about fighting. It’s about this. About stopping the avoidance. About the silence we just shared.
“Deal,” I say.
He nods. “See you, Addison.”
“Reid.”
He turns and walks away, long strides carrying him down the path. People move for him without thinking. The distancebetween us stretches with every step and my body registers it as a drop in temperature.
I stand there for another second, letting the cold bite my cheeks, letting the noise swell and recede around me.
Then my phone buzzes.
I jump—reflex more than fear—and then breathe when my brain catches up.
Clara:Dinner at Genny’s? 7? Zoë’s bringing tequila.
The old instinct rears up, automatic:Can’t, sorry, have to study.
I look at the message. I think of Monday night's parking lot. Of his truck idling until my dorm door shut. Of his hand finding my wrist in class and steadying, not restraining. Of peppermint tea and black coffee and a word that means we’re not running anymore.
I type back:I’ll come.
I hit send before I can talk myself out of it.
The confirmation pops up.Delivered.
My heart gives one hard, nervous thud.
This is a choice. My choice.
Maybe silence doesn’t have to mean hiding.
