"You'll freeze," I protest.
"This is nothing. All this muscle keeps me warm." His smile is soft, and the jacket smells like him. Woodsmoke and cedar and his unique scent.
We walk along the river path, our breath forming clouds in the cold air. The water reflects city lights in wavering patterns. Other couples pass us, wrapped in their own private worlds.
"Can I ask you something?" His voice breaks the comfortable silence.
"Sure."
"What's your dream? Not the professional one everyone knows about. The thing you want that has nothing to do with proving anything to anyone."
I think about it as we walk.
"I want to matter," I say finally. "Not as Marcus's sister or Dr. Chandler the researcher. Just as Ivy. I want to do work that changes lives, yes, but I also want... to be seen for who I am instead of who people expect me to be."
"You are seen."
I glance at him.
"I see you." He stops walking, turning to face me fully. "You’re the brilliant woman who's changing how we understand brain injuries. The woman who blushes when she's nervous but stands her ground anyway. I see all of it, Ivy."
My heart hammers against my ribs. "What about you? What's your secret dream?"
A vulnerable expression flashes on his face before he schools it.
"I want a life beyond hockey. Don't get me wrong. I love the game. But I'm twenty-eight. I've got maybe five good years left if I'm lucky. And then what? I don't know who Declan is without skating, scoring, and performing for crowds. I want to figure that out before it's too late."
"What would that life look like?"
"Quieter. More real. Maybe coaching kids instead of playing professionally. Maybe something completely different. I just want to wake up and not feel like I'm performing every second. To be with someone because we chose each other."
The words hang between us, weighted with meaning.
We start walking again, slower this time. The city noise fades into a distant hum, replaced by the steady rush of the river beside us.
My shoulder brushes his arm.
I notice it immediately. The contact is light, almost accidental—but neither of us corrects it.
That alone makes my pulse trip.
I tell myself it’s nothing. Just a narrow path. Just coincidence. Except Declan adjusts his stride to match mine, unhurried, careful in a way that feels deliberate. The jacket he draped around my shoulders still smells faintly like him—clean, warm, comforting—and the weight of it settles like an embrace I didn’t ask for but don’t want to give back.
I sneak a glance at him from beneath my lashes.
He’s quiet now. Thoughtful. The sharp edges I’d braced for aren’t there. His hands are shoved into his pockets, shoulders relaxed, gaze fixed ahead instead of on me—like he’s giving me space without pulling away.
That, more than anything, disarms me.
This isn’t the man who smirked at me in the therapy room. This isn’t the reckless flirt who likes to provoke reactions. This is someone grounded. Someone who listens. Someone who carried far too much responsibility far too young and survived it.
I finally understand something that’s been nagging at me for weeks.
This is why Marcus trusts him. This is why he’s his best friend.
Declan Hawthorne isn’t at all what I thought. He’s quiet, steady loyalty—the kind that doesn’t announce itself.
My fingers curl against the sleeve of his jacket, restless.
