“This is…” I start, then trail off. No word big enough.
Dangerous. Impossible. So good it’s terrifying.
“Yeah,” he says. Voice so quiet it’s almost a thought. “It is.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “Helpful.”
“I’m not exactly overflowing with healthy relationship experience, Addison,” he mutters. “You might have noticed.”
“I was too busy noticing your tongue in my mouth,” I say, then want to crawl out of my own skin.
He actually laughs—hoarse and disbelieving. The sound loosens something in my chest.
“Should I apologize?” he asks.
“No,” I say quickly. Face on fire. “Definitely don’t do that.”
His thumbs move in small, absent circles at the base of my spine. It sends a shiver up my back.
Panic starts to ebb, leaving something quieter in its wake. Want is still there, pacing under my ribs, but the edge of it dulls enough that I can breathe around it.
“I don’t want…” I struggle for the right shape of it. “I don’t want to be something you just… hide in hallways and empty arenas.”
Eyes sharpen. “You’re not,” he says. Immediate. Fierce.
“You say that now.” I lift a shoulder, then let it drop. “It’s just… if this is a secret, it should at least be our secret. Not because someone else decided I’m a complication.”
Jaw flexes. Hands tighten fractionally on my back, then force themselves to relax.
“That’s not what you are,” he says. “To me.”
It’s a simple sentence. It hits like a body check.
“What am I, then?” The question is out before I can stop it. Too honest. Too open.
His gaze drags over my face like he’s cataloging every freckle, every flaw, every place his mouth just was. He swallows. “The only person who makes the noise shut up,” he says quietly. “And the only part of this that feels like it might actually be mine.”
My throat closes around whatever reply I might have had.
I tuck my face against his shoulder for a second, breathing him in—clean sweat, soap, the faint chill of the rink. My heart hammers in a way that has nothing to do with fear.
After a minute, I sit back. His hands slide out from under my shirt, fingers leaving hot trails on my skin as they go. He helps me off his lap like I might break, hands careful at my waist until my feet hit the rubber mat.
“I should get you back,” he says. “Before your dad decides to swing by and check the cameras.”
I freeze.The cameras.
“Are there…?” I look up at the ceiling, panic spiking. “Declan, are we on tape?”
He shakes his head, calm. “Not here. The box is a blind spot. I checked the angles my freshman year.”
Of course he did.
“Good,” I breathe, relief sagging my shoulders. “Good.”
“I wouldn’t expose you like that,” he says, voice dropping. “I’m careful.”
The image makes my stomach flip for a whole different reason. “Right. Good call.”
