He kept going. “And Roman’s staring at me like I’m about to drive into traffic, Lowell thinks I’m pissed at him, Milo’s pretending he doesn’t notice, which might be the most alarming part of the morning, and you’re standing there acting like if you say the right three words, I’ll just snap back into place.”
“Jace.”
“No, because that’s the problem, isn’t it? Sometimes I do. Sometimes you say something and everything lines up, and I hate that. I hate that you can do that. I hate that I want you to.”
“Stop.”
This time my voice cut harder.
He shut his mouth, but his body did not stop. His chest moved too fast. His fingers flexed around the edge of his helmet. His attention jumped from my face to the door to the floor to my hands and back again.
“Look at me,” I said.
He did, furious and wrecked.
“Breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
“No. You’re surviving the next second. Breathe.”
His nostrils flared. “Don’t.”
I stepped closer.
He did not step back.
“Breathe in,” I said.
His jaw worked.
“In.”
He dragged air in, shallow and defiant.
“Again.”
“Declan.”
My name in his mouth without Coach attached changed the room.
I should have corrected it.
I should have opened the door.
Instead, I closed the distance, lifted my hand, and set it against the side of his neck.
Not hard. Not sexual at first. My thumb rested below his jaw, fingers wrapping to the back of his neck, the heel of my palm steady against the frantic beat of his pulse.
Jace froze.
Completely.
The helmet slipped from his hand and hit the floor with a dull crack.
The sound did not break it.
His breath caught, then slowed under my palm as if his body had been waiting for a command stronger than language. His eyes locked on mine. Bright blue, too open now, all the fight stripped back to something rawer.
