Page 11 of Declan

Declan’s shirt hangs from the hook on the back of the door, and I slip it over my head. It falls to my mid-thigh, soft and warm from his drawer, smelling faintly like him, like spice and cedar and something I can't name but always associate with safety. With him.

I grab the shorts he left outside the door and step into them, cinching the waistband tight. They’re way too big, but that somehow makes me feel even smaller, like I could disappear inside the fabric and hide from everything.

When I finally step out into the hallway, the cool air hits my damp skin, and I pause just before the doorway to his bedroom. I can hear him inside, the drawers opening, his footsteps crossing the floor. I close my eyes for a second, pull in a breath, then step in.

Declan turns the moment he hears me, and his eyes land on me like a physical touch.

He goes still.

I see the shift in his expression. The way his jaw tightens, the way his gaze flickers over me, lingering for just a second too long on the bruises that are still faintly visible on my arms. Then up to the shirt I’m wearing. His shirt.

He swallows hard. “You good?” he asks, his voice quiet, a little rough around the edges.

I nod slowly. “Yeah. The shower helped.”

“Good.” He clears his throat and forces his gaze back to my face. “I left the pizza on the counter. Figured you’d want to eat something now.”

“Thanks.” My voice is small, but I mean it. For everything. For the shirt. The shorts. The silence. The fight. The fact that I’m here and not alone.

But I don’t say all that. I can’t. The air between us is already charged and thick with things we’re not saying, with emotions we’re both trying to keep buried. If I speak too much, I might spill all of it.

I take a tentative step closer, arms crossed loosely over my stomach. “Declan…”

He looks up sharply at the way I say his name. Like it hurts.

Like I mean it.

I see the war in his eyes. The urge to protect me, battling with the storm of something else. Something he’s fighting to keep locked down.

“Don’t look at me like that, Lena.” His voice is a low rasp, eyes dark.

“Like what?” I whisper, even though I already know.

He runs a hand through his hair, turning away for a second, pacing a few steps like he needs the space. “Like you trust me to fix this. Like I’m something I’m not. Like I’m not one second away from doing something I can’t come back from.”

I take another step. “But you did fix it. You always do.”

He stops, turns, and suddenly we’re closer than we should be. The tension stretches tight between us, buzzing like a live wire.

“Don’t say that, Lena.” His voice is quieter now, but no less intense. “Because if you keep looking at me like I’m the guy who saves you, I might start believing it. And I can’t. Not with you.”

“Why not?” My voice is trembling now, emotions bubbling too close to the surface.

His hand lifts, like he’s about to reach for me, but he stops himself mid-air, fingers curling into a fist before falling back to his side.

“Because you’re Wesley’s little sister.”

The words are a whisper, but they hit like a punch.

I flinch.

And for a second, neither of us breathes.

But then he closes the distance, his face inches from mine, his voice barely audible.

“And because I care about you more than I ever fucking should.”

His words nearly bring me to my knees.

---