Page 33 of Faking the Rules

"True." He stirs the pasta he's preparing, adds a splash of something from a nearby bottle. "And we will. But maybe not tonight? Maybe tonight can just be about us, not about arrangements or assignments or obligations."

The suggestion is both tempting and terrifying—a night without pretense or performance, without the buffer of academic discussion or the structure of our original deal. Just Declan and Ellie, figuring out what exists between them when all the artifice is stripped away.

"Okay," I agree softly. "Just us."

His smile is worth the anxiety the agreement stirs. We talk while he finishes cooking—about his childhood in the Wolfe family dynasty, about my father's emotional distance after my mother left, about the pressures of being the hockey star who also wants an intellectual life, about my ambitions for Columbia and beyond. The conversation flows with surprising ease, punctuated by moments of laughter and occasional silences that feel comfortable rather than awkward.

By the time we're seated at his small dining table, pasta served in elegant simplicity, I feel a tension I didn't fully recognize beginning to unwind inside me. This—the quietintimacy of shared food and honest conversation—feels more real than any of our public performances as a couple.

"Can I ask you something?" I say, twirling pasta around my fork.

"Anything," he responds immediately. "Absolute honesty, remember?"

"Why hockey?" The question has been lingering in my mind since I learned about his family's expectations, his father's clear preference for a business-oriented future. "Why risk everything on a sport when you have the Wolfe legacy waiting?"

He considers this, taking a sip of wine before answering. "Freedom," he says finally. "Hockey is the one thing that's truly mine, not influenced by family expectations or traditions. On the ice, I'm just Declan—not a Wolfe, not an heir, just a player with something to prove."

The answer resonates with me more than I expected. Isn't that what literature has always been for me? An escape, a world where I'm defined by my mind rather than my circumstances, where I can explore identities and possibilities beyond the limitations of my actual life?

"I understand that," I tell him. "More than you might think."

His eyes meet mine across the table, recognition and connection flowing between us. "I know you do," he says softly.

The observation strikes deep, articulating something I've felt but couldn't name. For all our superficial differences—the athlete and the academic, the social butterfly and the introvert, privilege and scholarship—there's a fundamental similarity in how we navigate the expectations placed upon us, how we seek spaces of authentic self-expression.

We finish dinner with lighter conversation, laughing over campus anecdotes and shared observations about Professor Harmon's eccentricities. Declan refuses my offer to help cleanup, instead directing me to the living room while he handles the dishes.

I wander back to the bookshelves, drawn to a collection of poetry books on the middle shelf. One volume catches my eye—Auden, the poet Declan mentioned reading when he can't sleep. I pull it from the shelf, noting the worn cover, the pages marked with small sticky notes, the occasional penciled annotation in margins.

"My favorite," Declan says, appearing beside me so quietly I start slightly. He gently takes the book from my hands. "Auden got it right," he continues, closing the book carefully. "Better to be the one who loves more, who risks more. Even if it hurts."

The simple philosophy, delivered without pretense or calculation, strikes at the heart of my deepest fear—the vulnerability inherent in loving, in opening oneself to potential hurt. I've spent years guarding against precisely this risk, building walls to ensure I'm never again the one left behind, never again the one who loved more deeply, trusted more completely.

But watching Declan replace the book on the shelf, his hands gentle with the treasured volume, I wonder if safety is worth the isolation it requires. If protection from potential pain is worth the sacrifice of potential joy.

"Declan," I say, his name a question and an answer both.

He turns to me, his expression open, vulnerable in a way that steals my breath. Without conscious decision, I step closer, eliminating the careful distance we've maintained since entering his apartment. My hand lifts to his face, palm against his cheek, feeling the slight roughness of evening stubble beneath my fingers.

"Ellie," he breathes, standing perfectly still, letting me dictate the pace, the boundaries.

I rise on tiptoes, closing the final distance between us, pressing my lips to his in a kiss that feels like stepping off a cliff—terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure. He responds instantly, arms wrapping around me, pulling me against the solid warmth of his body as the kiss deepens from tentative to hungry in heartbeats.

This is different from our previous kisses—no audience to perform for, no arrangement to maintain, no confusion about what's real and what's pretense. Just Declan and Ellie, choosing each other with clear-eyed awareness of all the complications entailed.

His hands remain respectful even as the kiss grows heated—one at my waist, the other tangled in my hair, not venturing further despite the obvious tension radiating through his body. Always giving me control, letting me set the pace.

But tonight, I don't want careful. Don't want restrained. I want to feel everything, to experience the full reality of whatever is growing between us without the filters of performance or pretense.

My hands slide beneath his t-shirt, exploring the warm skin and defined muscle beneath. He sucks in a sharp breath, breaking the kiss to stare at me with darkened eyes. "Ellie," he says, his voice rough with desire and restraint. He captures my wandering hands in his. "I need you to be sure. No regrets, no confusion. If we do this, it's because we both want it, fully and completely. Not because of wine or emotional reconciliation or the heat of the moment."

The care in his words, the absolute respect for my agency—they confirm what I already know in my heart. "I want this," I tell him, holding his gaze. "I want you, Declan. Not because of the wine or the moment, but because I'm choosing this. Choosing us."

Something shifts in his expression—restraint giving way to hunger, control to desire. "Say it again," he murmurs, his hands releasing mine to slide around my waist, pulling me closer.

"I want you," I repeat, more boldly this time. "Now. Tonight."

No more words are needed. He lifts me in one fluid motion, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carries me toward the bedroom, our lips never separating, the kiss growing more urgent with each step.

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