"Of course. Mr. Hawthorne was about to retake his baseline assessments."
"Excellent." His gaze shifts back to Declan. "I'll wait outside. Don't be long."
The door closes with a soft click. I whirl on Declan, fury and mortification warring in my chest.
"What the hell was that?"
"That was typical Gregory behavior."
“He saw us!”
“There was nothing to see. Nothing even happened this time.”
“Nothing happened this time?” My voice spikes. “It doesn’t matter whether something happened or if he just thinks something did. This is exactly the kind of thing that can destroy my credibility.”
“Ivy—”
I press my face into my hands, shame crashing over me all at once.
“This. Whatever this is—it can’t ever happen again. No kissing. No cuddling. No nothing.”
He smirks.
“How about doing it on the equipment table?”
I drop my hands and glare at him. “No,” I say, flat and final.
“Shame,” he says mildly.
A laugh slips out of me—quick and startled, a soft burst of sound I don’t have time to swallow back. It surprises us both. His eyebrows lift.
His smile shifts—less smug now, more pleased. Like that laugh meant something.
“Oh, don’t worry,” he says. “I won’t tell anyone.”
“Good,” I snap, grabbing my tablet. “Because this conversation never happened.”
I turn for the door before I can betray anything else, leaving without a backward glance. Because if I stay one second longer, I won’t just laugh again.
I’ll do something far worse.
***
Hours later, I'm curled up on my couch, a finger pressed to my lips as I recall the taste of Declan, the small groan he made when I kissed him back. I’ve wanted to kiss him again ever since.
My eyes drift shut, and the memory blooms—his mouth, warm and sure, the way my body leaned into him before my brain could intervene.
My hand moves without conscious permission, brushing over my pajama shirt, my stomach tightening as I realize what I’m doing.
I’ve never done this before.
Just like I’ve never been with a man before.
I’ve always told myself there would be a right time. A right person. Someone safe and appropriate and approved by everyone who matters. I’ve been very good at waiting. At postponing want. At locking curiosity away like it’s something shameful.
But not tonight.
My breathing changes, slow at first, then uneven, as I let myself imagine—not just Declan, but me. The version of myself who doesn’t flinch at desire. Who doesn’t analyze every sensation like it needs a peer-reviewed explanation.
