“I…I had to make peace with my past somehow. She’s gone. I was busy with school and stuff, so we hadn’t spoken in a while.” I shrug as if that doesn’t haunt me some nights. “I’ll never get closure with her, you know?”
His expression softens. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know about living without closure.”
He probably understands better than anyone. His sister disappeared without a trace and his parents have passed.
“I know you do,” I whisper.
Something flickers in his eyes—surprise maybe, or gratitude—but it’s gone before I can be sure. He nods once, a small, solemn motion.
“I’m not sure true closure even exists,” he says after a moment. “People talk about moving on like it’s something you check off a list. But you don’t move on, you end up carrying the pain differently.”
So many emotions I’ve tried to run from bubble to the surface. Tears prick my eyes, but I swallow hard and will them away. “Yeah,” I murmur. “That’s exactly it. You learn how to live with the regret and anger.”
“Well, some people let it consume them.” He studies me with his quiet, unreadable intensity. “But not you. You’re stronger than that.”
“I try.”
“You’re doing better than you think,” he says.
A smile ghosts across my lips. “You don’t even know me that well.”
“Maybe not,” he says, voice low. “But I know the look of someone who’s been through hell—and instead of succumbing to the flames, you walked out ready to battle demons.”
“Literally.” I let out a dark laugh.
Declan doesn’t join in. “Thank you for trusting me.” His tone is steady as he reaches across the table and slides his hand over mine. “I get the feeling you don’t talk about your mom often.”
Of course he’s right. The truth is I haven’t talked about my childhood or my mother with anyone other than Wren in a long time. Instinct warns me to pull away, to keep every last piece of myself tucked safely away where no one can ever hurt me again.
Instead, I turn my hand over and lace my fingers with his. The faint green shimmer of my mark glows at the edge of my sleeve, catching the candlelight between us. “I do trust you.”
A quiet, almost grave acceptance flickers in his eyes. The air between us hums. He traces his thumb along my pinky, slow and exploratory. Every brush of his skin lights another spark under mine.
“Here we are!” Harper’s chipper voice cuts through the silence. Her gaze drops to our joined hands, and we pull apart like teenagers caught making out behind the gym.
She sets down a shallow bowl between us—pillowy half-moons of ravioli glistening in a pool of golden cream, speckled with toasted walnuts and shavings of Parmesan. The scent of butter and nutmeg fills the air, warm and decadent.
“Pumpkin ravioli appetizer for two,” Harper announces, setting two small plates beside it. “Do you need anything else? Entrees should be right up.”
Declan raises a questioning eyebrow at me and I shake my head.
As soon as she leaves, he picks up the serving spoon and slides one of the raviolis onto my plate. “You first.”
The edge of his mouth lifts, as if he enjoys feeding me.
I cut into the soft pasta and lift a bite to my lips. The flavor blooms instantly—sweet pumpkin, sharp Parmesan, browned butter that tastes faintly of roasted hazelnut. All of it rich and comforting.
“Good?” he asks.
“So good.” I take a sip of my water. “Even better than I imagined.”
He nods once, as if he’s pleased I approve of this place he seems to like so much. “Gloria’s a magician in the kitchen.”
“Was she a friend of your parents’ too?” I ask lightly, twirling my fork through the sauce to gather one last bite.
His expression flickers. “More like family. She worked for my parents when I was a kid. Stayed on for a while after my dad passed.”
I glance up, startled. “And she still checks on you?”
