I should be panicking. I’m not. That’s what rattles me most.
For a long moment, I don’t move. His breathing is slow, steady, but his hold isn’t casual—it’s protective, like if I try to slip away, he’ll notice. My heart stumbles, remembering last night—the way he looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered.
Eventually his eyes open, still hazy in the morning light. “Morning,” he says, voice rough with sleep.
“Morning,” I whisper back, suddenly shy.
There’s a pause, not awkward but weighted, both of us aware we’re on new ground. My fingers trace the edge of his forearm where it rests over me.
“So… does this count as a bad idea?”
His mouth curves, faint but real.
“If it is, I don’t regret it.”
He studies me for a beat longer.
“Do you?”
The answer comes easier than I expect.
“No. I don’t.”
Something eases in his expression, like he’d braced for me to say the opposite. He presses a slow kiss to my temple before shifting carefully onto his back, mindful of his knee.
Reality creeps in with the silence. His brace is propped against the nightstand, straps undone from where I took it off last night.
“We can do PT here,” I offer, breaking the quiet. “I’ve got enough equipment in my bag.”
“Sophie’s with Maya today until this afternoon,” he says after a beat. “Erin’s bringing her back to my place. No rush.”
He scrubs a hand down his face, then glances at me, wry and warm. “Pretty sure waking up in your PT’s bed isn’t typical.”
I nudge his shoulder, half-laughing, half-relieved at the ease between us. “Don’t get used to it. This isn’t standard care.”
“Understood,” he says, though the smirk tugging at his mouth says otherwise—and the goosebumps skating over my skin agree.
For a while, neither of us moves to get up. The clock ticks, the sheets rustle when I shift closer, and his hand finds mine without him even looking. Too natural, too easy. And that’s what scares me most.
The hours slip without me noticing. One round of stretches turns into ice packs and laughter when he complains about my “merciless bedside manner.” Then it’s sandwiches cobbled together from whatever’s in my fridge, eaten side by side at the counter like it’s the most ordinary thing in the world.
It isn’t ordinary. Not even close.
By the time the afternoon light slants across the blinds, my phone is face down on the table and his is forgotten on the couch. Declan’s leaning back in the chair, loose for once, his grin soft and unguarded in a way I don’t remember ever seeing before.
The buzz of his phone cuts through the quiet. Declan reaches for it on the couch, and I see the way his shoulders tense when he reads the screen.
“Shit,” he mutters. He looks at me, guilty, jaw tight. “Erin’s at my house with Sophie. They’ve been out there waiting.”
My stomach dips.
He’s already shoving his phone in his pocket and grabbing his keys. The sharpness of his movements makes the air between us feel suddenly fragile.
“I lost track of time,” he says, almost to himself, like the admission burns. Then, softer, “I’ve gotta go.”
I just nod, even though the quiet in my chest feels heavier than it should.
He leans down, presses a quick, rough kiss to my temple, and then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
