‘It’s all right,’ he said, shrugging. ‘Happens.’
Chapter 17
Oliver
When he made his way out to the kitchen the next morning, Declan was already leaning against the stove, morning workout forgotten. Oliver circled the counter to stand directly in front of him. Declan didn’t move. Oliver took a half-step closer and reached around him to grab the kettle. Declan leaned in.
He could feel the heat of Declan’s body, and it took every ounce of his self-control not to press against him.
‘Has the usual tea order not been meeting your standards? Must you supervise?’ he quipped, retreating to the sink. The sound of water filling the kettle echoed the blood rushing in his ears.
Declan grabbed two mugs out of the cabinet and placed them deliberately on the counter before crossing the kitchen and gently prying the kettle out of Oliver’s hands.
His heartbeat tripped over itself as he traced Declan’s features, sure he’d somehow be different now. But no, the same blue eyes looked up at him from underneath bushy brows, his nose was still as crooked as ever, and he wore a hint of the lopsided smile that made the day before rush back to Oliver. He leaned forwards instinctively, only for Declan to push him gently towards the counter.
‘Thought I could make you tea for a change.’
Oliver sat restlessly, his shoe tapping against the side of the cabinet as he watched Declan move around the kitchen. He revelled in the quiet confidence of Declan’s mannerisms, strong and sure in a way Oliver only felt on stage, every movement mapped out and memorised. His gaze drifted along Declan’swaist, up the muscles of his arms to his face, sticking on the pout of his lips. He felt a low ache in his stomach. His tapping became more rapid.
‘What are you thinking about?’ Declan asked, placing a mug in front of him and sitting beside him, his knee grazing Oliver’s leg and stilling its movement.
Oliver stared at him, wondering how he could not know, sure that all the confusion and panic and want must be showing clearly on his face. Declan, in comparison, looked overly calm, eyeing Oliver with a wariness that made him wonder if this wasn’t the first time he’d kissed a man before. He wished they could talk without the cameras around, felt foolish for walking out of that bathroom without discussing anything, but even more than that, he wanted to talk to Will.
‘Just missing my friends,’ Oliver said, and Declan’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. Oliver tried to think of some way to explain in front of the cameras. ‘My mate Will gives the best girl advice. Ironic, since he’s gay.’
The final word hung between them.
Declan cleared his throat, staring at the steam rising from his mug. ‘What do you think he’d say to you right now?’ he asked neutrally. ‘If he could?’
Oliver laced his fingers together, frowning at the counter in concentration. He closed his eyes, trying to conjure one of Will’s signature pep talks, and then glanced back at Declan, wondering what his friend would think of him. ‘He’d say to go with my gut. That if things feel good, they are good.’
Declan cocked his head to the side. ‘So, you’re good?’
Though his tone hadn’t changed at all, Oliver could tell he needed to hear the answer. ‘Yes.’ He was surprised by how true that was. ‘Better than I’ve been in a long time. And Will would be proud of me, making it this far.’
Declan nodded. ‘He sounds like a good friend.’
Oliver leaned back, the side of his arm brushing Declan’s in the process. He didn’t move away. ‘Yeah, my mates are pretty solid.’
‘Tell me about them,’ Declan said, turning to face him. He seemed genuinely interested, there was no ulterior motive or angle for the cameras.
‘They’re the best,’ Oliver said simply. ‘We’ve known each other since school, got our own sort of language. It makes making new friends terribly hard, since no one else knows what we’re on about half the time.’
He felt an ache of longing – he had missed them, and not only in the weeks he’d been on the show. He had missed them since the break-up, when he’d been barely there for months, despite their insistence that he wasn’t a burden, that he wasn’t making them choose sides, that they wanted to help.
Declan pressed his knee more firmly into Oliver’s thigh. ‘That sounds really nice,’ he said.
‘And what about your mates?’ Declan felt more real to him than ever, and he wanted to know about his life outside of the show. He finally felt like he could ask.
‘Ah,’ Declan said, his voice low, looking into his mug again. ‘I have my best mate – we’re practically attached at the hip. And, you know, my family.’
There was something in the hunch of Declan’s shoulders, an almost imperceptible tensing. And Oliver understood, for the first time, that Declan’s loneliness wasn’t just for show, a ploy to ingratiate himself with the public and explain away his lack of romantic history.
Oliver grasped Declan’s shoulder, rubbing a soft circle across his spine. ‘And now… you have Jack,’ he teased.
‘Oi! Are you two gossiping about me?’ Jack asked, walking into the kitchen with Maeve. Oliver dropped his hand, fiddling withthe hem of his shirt. Almost on cue, the production team walked through the gate.
‘Oliver was saying that he thinks you’re next on the chopping block,’ Declan said, so easily that Oliver felt whiplash.
