I open the door.
Declan leans into the frame like gravity failed him halfway up the stairs. His hair is damp—rain or sweat or both—and his jacket hangs open, shirt wrinkled, eyes too bright. Drunk, yes. But not sloppy. Focused.
That’s worse.
“What do you want?”
He laughs—a short bark. “Straight to business. Guess prison really did harden you.”
I step aside. Not an invitation. A test.
He hesitates just long enough to notice, then steps in anyway. He smells like whiskey. It twists something old in my stomach. The door clicks shut behind him, and the sound lands louder than it should.
Blake isn’t here. Declan knows it. There’s only one car in the driveway.
“Relax,” he says, lifting his hands. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
People who say that always think it counts as something.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“Not into surprises, huh?” His gaze roams—counters, corners, the single framed photo of Sophie and me as kids. The only proof I ever had sweetness once. “Nice place. Netflix money?”
“Get to the point.”
His smile thins. “Wanted to talk more about the letter.”
I lean back against the counter, arms crossed. “What letter?”
He chuckles. “Cute. You always were cute when you played dumb.”
My jaw tightens before I can stop it.
“Iris,” he says. “Hell of a name. Think it’s real?”
Something coils in my gut—hot, tight, unpleasant.
“I hate that you read it,” I say.
“Every word.”
“That should be illegal.”
He shrugs. “So is half of what you did.”
There’s that little flicker behind his eyes—the moment he thinks he’s brave.
“Why are you really here, Declan?”
He steps closer. Not threatening. Intimate. Like we’re sharing a secret instead of standing in a standoff.
“I saved you,” he says. “And now someone’s trying to rewrite the story.”
“No one saved me,” I say. “I saved myself.”
His smile cracks. “You don’t believe that.”
I tilt my head. “You sound emotional.”
