It tastes like an apology.
Thursday is the library.
I’m staring at a blank document, trying to force words about political theory onto the screen. It’s late afternoon. The sun is dying outside the tall windows.
Something lands near my elbow.
I jump.
A small, familiar rectangle sits on the table. Candy. The specific, sour gummy brand I had on my desk during study hall two weeks ago. I didn’t think he was looking then.
Apparently, he sees everything.
I look up.
Declan stands there.
He’s not in a hoodie this time. He’s in a suit.
Navy. Sharp. Terrifyingly tailored. The tie is already knotted tight against his throat.
The air leaves my lungs.
He looks exactly like he did at the gala. The asset. The fiancé. The man who stood still while another woman claimed him.
Panic flares, hot and instant. I flinch back in my chair.
He sees it.
His eyes darken, pain flashing through the stoic mask. He takes a deliberate step back, putting distance between us, raising his hands slightly to show they’re empty.
“Bus leaves in ten,” he says, voice rougher than usual. “Away game.”
Right. The suit. It’s travel day. Mandatory dress code for the team.
It’s not a gala. It’s just a uniform.
But my heart is still hammering.
“I noticed you didn’t grab anything on the way in,” he says, nodding at the candy. “Your blood sugar crashes around four.”
My throat feels tight. “You kept track?”
“I keep track of everything,” he says. It sounds like a confession.
“Why?” I whisper. “We’re not… we’re fighting.”
“You’re fighting,” he says quietly. “I’m waiting.”
He adjusts his cuff. I see the flash of white tape underneath. He’s taped for the game, but he’s hiding it under the expensive wool. Just like that night.
“I have to go,” he says. “Eat the sugar, Addison. You’re pale.”
He turns and walks away, dress shoes clicking on the floor, heading for the exit.
I stare at his back. The suit fits him perfectly, but he moves stiffly in it, like it’s a cage he can’t take off.
He looks like the man who broke my heart in the ballroom.
