Later, in the car, it’s quiet for a stretch. Comfortable, not awkward.
He gives me soft-spoken directions as we wind through the neighborhood—right at the stop sign, left at the blinking light.
We pull into a quiet cul-de-sac, and he nods toward the second house on the right.
Two-story. Brick and stone. Clean lines, wide windows, and a big front porch.
As I pull into the driveway, Declan shifts to unbuckle, but winces as he tries to maneuver his braced leg.
He exhales sharply through his nose. “Shit. Sorry.”
“No need to apologize,” I murmur, already out of the driver’s side, circling around to open his door.
“Come on. Lean on me.”
“I’m fine—”
“Declan.”
His jaw flexes. Then something in his expression shifts—less pride, more trust. He nods.
He lets me help—lets me slide an arm under his, steady him as we move slowly up the walkway.
His body’s solid against mine, all quiet heat and tension. I catch a faint trace of his cologne, something musky, clean.
I tell myself I’m just helping a patient. Nothing more.
But my pulse disagrees.
Inside, the house is warm and still. A few lamps glow low. Shoes are lined up by the door. A folder pokes out of a backpack near the kitchen island.
“You okay to sit?” I ask, keeping my voice steady.
He grunts. “Yeah. Just—hang on.”
He lowers himself onto the couch with a wince. His brace catches, and I don’t think. I just kneel down and adjust it for him.
“Want me to check the alignment real quick? On the house,” I joke.
He huffs a laugh, tilts his head back. “You always this relentless?”
“Only when I know I’m right.”
He studies me for a moment. His smile fades, not completely, just softens at the edges. His gaze drifts—my hair, the line of my jaw, then back to my eyes—and something in it holds.
My stomach flips.
He shifts like he might say something, then doesn’t. Just gives the slightest nod.
I gently press along the joint, just like protocol. But it feels… different.
More personal.
I adjust the brace until it sits right, then rock back on my heels. “There,” I murmur. “That should feel better.”
He grunts his approval, but I catch the way his jaw sets like asking for help cost him something.
“You don’t have to power through everything alone, you know.” My tone’s gentle, not pushy. I hesitate, then add, “Here—let me give you my number. If anything feels off, or if you just need a second set of eyes, call me.”
