He hasn’t spoken to me or touched me. He’s just… stationed there.
Every time one of the guys gets too loud three tables over, Declan’s pen stops. He doesn't turn around, but the silence around him thickens, radiating outward until the noise drops back down.
He’s a filter. A buffer.
I glance at the clock on the wall. The second hand sweeps past the twelve.
“All right,” I announce, my voice cutting through the low hum. “Eight o’clock. Pack it up.”
The room instantly erupts into the zip of bags and the scrape of chairs. The team is a collective animal waking up—loud, hungry, restless. The energy from Saturday’s win is still vibrating off them, looking for an outlet.
“Starving,” Gio announces, stretching his arms over his head as he walks past the front desk to sign out. “I could eat a horse. Box?”
“Box,” Cole confirms, grinning. “Wing night.”
A chorus of agreement ripples through the room as they file past me, scribbling signatures on the sheet.
Clara packs her tutoring materials, shoving flashcards into her bag. “Food. Yes. Immediately.” She looks at me. “T? You coming? Adrian’s driving.”
The Box.Loud. Crowded. Sticky floors. Too many voices. Too many variables.
I pause long enough for her to read me. I’m not hiding—it’s just… tonight, my battery is blinking red.
“Raincheck,” I say lightly, stacking my own books. “I’m actually exhausted. I think I’m just going to crash.”
Clara studies my face—her usualis this avoidance?scan—but I meet her eyes without flinching. I’m fine. This is a choice.
She sees it. She softens. “Okay. Text me later?”
“Promise.”
She hugs me—quick, warm, and vanilla-scented—and links her arm through Adrian’s as they head for the door. The rest of the team flows out around them, a river of navy hoodies and loud voices.
I take my time packing up the sign-in sheets, letting the room empty out.
When I finally stand, the room is almost quiet.
Almost.
Declan is still there. He’s leaning back in his chair, tablet put away, hood up, watching me.
“You’re not going,” he says.
“I have a paper to edit,” I lie.
He stands. He takes up so much space, blocking out the fluorescent lights, blocking out the empty room. “You finished the paper twenty minutes ago. I watched you save it.”
My cheeks heat. “Stalker.”
“Observant.” He slings his bag over one shoulder. “I’m going to The Box.”
That stops me.
“The Box?” I echo. “You usually… don’t.”
Declan Reid avoids crowds. Everyone knows that. He does his job, he protects his net, and he disappears.
“I’m going tonight,” he says.
