“Fuck,” he says, a low, wrecked exhale. “Me too.”
Heat rushes through me so fast I almost sway.
He doesn’t move toward me. Not yet. He sits there, like he’s giving me time to run now that the truth is out in the open.
I don’t.
I turn on the bench so my knees face him. Heartbeat is a drumline under my skin, every nerve buzzing. “We were going to,” I say. Voice barely a whisper. “Weren’t we?”
His throat works. Gaze loses some of its sharpness, something raw surfacing. “Yeah,” he says. No hesitation. “We were.”
He turns too, mirroring me until we’re facing each other fully, knees almost touching, the boards at our backs.
His hand lifts, slow enough that I could flinch away if I needed to. I don’t. He brushes his knuckles along my jaw, tape rough and warm against my skin.
“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly.
My ribs feel too tight. I hold his gaze.
“I don’t want you to stop,” I whisper.
He stares at me, pupils blown wide. His hand lingers on my jaw, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth. Warring with himself—monster and monk fighting for the controls.
“Can I?” he asks. Rough. Agonizingly polite.
“Yes,” I breathe. “Please.”
Something in his chest snaps. He leans in. The first press of his mouth on mine isn’t slow or hesitant; it’s a collision of desperation and restraint, as if he’s been holding back for eternity. The moment he gets permission, he dives in, lips warm and firm against mine. There’s no grab, no shove, no demand—just the intoxicating heat of him, a low, helpless sound rumbling from deep within his chest that ignites every nerve in my body.
I make a noise I don’t recognize, a breathless gasp that escapes before I can contain it. My hand finds the front of his hoodie, fingers curling in the fabric, anchoring myself to him. His other hand cradles the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair as he tilts his head, deepening the kiss. It’s hungry, a little clumsy, as if he’s trying to memorize every angle, every taste.
My brain throws up every red flag it has: man, mouth, close, danger. It feels like all those other rooms, those other lives. Butmy body… my body knows better. It recognizes the difference between a hand that hits and one that brackets me, steady and sure. Between a mouth that takes and one that waits for me to meet it. Declan kisses like he’s terrified of breaking me but equally afraid of not touching me at all.
I lean into it, lost in the sensation. I don’t realize I’ve moved until I feel his hands on my hips, guiding me closer. “Come here,” he murmurs against my mouth, his breath hot and inviting. He leans back just enough to give me space, and without thinking, I swing one leg over his lap, then the other, until I’m straddling him on the worn bench. My knees bracket his thighs, and I can feel his heart pounding against my chest, matching mine in a frantic rhythm.
“Is this okay?” he asks, his voice ragged, hands still at my hips, not pushing, just holding. “Yes,” I breathe, the truth spilling out like a secret.
His grip tightens, pulling me in, closing the small gap left between us, and kisses me again. This time it’s worse—in the best way. The angle shifts, our mouths parting just enough for his tongue to brush my lower lip, sending shockwaves through my entire body. Heat pools low in my stomach, synchronizing with my pulse, an electric current that leaves me breathless. A sound slips from my throat, half gasp, half moan, as his hands slide from my hips, exploring my sides, skimming over my ribs. He halts at the hem of my shirt, fingers flexing against the cotton, wrestling with the urge to go further.
I tilt my head back slightly, breaking the kiss long enough to whisper, “It’s okay.” I don’t even know what I’m granting permission for. His eyes search mine, questions swirling there, a thousand unspoken words. I answer the only way I know how—I kiss him again, harder, fingers curling in the hair at the nape of his neck.
He groans, low and wrecked, finally allowing his hands to move under my shirt. His palms are hot against the bare skin of my lower back, calloused yet careful. He doesn’t roam or grab; instead, he spreads his fingers wide, pressing me closer, thumbs drawing slow, unconscious arcs up my spine. The contrast is dizzying. Every other time hands have slipped beneath my clothes, it felt like a violation, a theft. This, though, feels like claim and question, all at once.
I kiss him like I’m trying to answer, the world narrowing to heat, breath, and the quiet rumble he emits every time I tug him closer. My hips shift instinctively, a small, helpless movement that drags me tighter against him, and suddenly, the intensity spikes. Want crashes over me in a hot, terrifying wave—not just for this bench, this night, this make-out, but for everything. For his stupid hoodie, his taped hands, and the way he watches doors when we walk into a room. For the promise of more coffee cups, more silent rooms, and more nights where I’m not alone in the dark. It hits too hard.
“I—” I break the kiss, pulling back just enough that our mouths are no longer touching, foreheads almost bumping. Breathing is a mess. “Declan…” His hands freeze under my shirt, muscles locking up, arms trembling with the effort to halt the momentum. I feel the tension vibrating through him, a physical battle to keep his hands from tightening, from taking.
“Too much?” he asks immediately, voice rough but steady. “Did I hurt you?”
“No.” The word tumbles out on a shaky exhale. I squeeze my eyes shut, then open them again. He’s right there, pupils blown, chest heaving, veins standing out in his neck. “I just… I need a second.”
Everything in him pulls back without actually moving me. He eases his grip, sliding his hands down so they’re resting at thesmall of my back instead of pressing. Still under my shirt, but lighter. Less stake, more anchor.
“Okay,” he says softly. “You’ve got it.”
We sit like that for a moment—legs still around him, forehead resting lightly against mine, both of us breathing hard.
Noise of the rink fills in the silence between us. Hum. Creak. The faint, distant tick of something mechanical cooling.
