Page 12 of Declan

I care about you more than I ever fucking should.

They echo in my head, rattling around in the spaces I’ve tried to keep sealed off. My heart stutters in my chest, pounding against my ribs like it wants to respond before I can even find the words. But I keep myself steady, barely.

I stare into his dark, stormy eyes as they hold mine, searching for something. Maybe permission. Maybe reassurance. Or maybe he’s just making sure he didn’t say too much.

But he already has.

More than he’s ever allowed himself to say to me.

And I can tell he wants to say more.

God, I want him to.

But not now.

Not like this. Not when I’m wearing his shirt, still damp from a shower meant to rinse off the weight of the world. Not when I’m bruised and broken and barely holding my pieces together.

So instead of leaning in and kissing him like I want, like I need, I force a small, shaky smile.

“Do you want some cold pizza?” I ask, my voice gentler than I intended.

He drags his hand through his hair, a soft exhale leaving his lips. “Sure, Lee Lee, I’ll eat some cold pizza.”

The sound of that name on his lips makes something sharp twist inside me. I roll my eyes and turn away, needing distance, fast.

“Please, stop with that nickname. I hate it.” I toss the words over my shoulder as I walk out of his bedroom. I don’t look back, because being near his bed, wrapped in his shirt, surrounded by the scent of him, it’s too much. It makes me want things I know I shouldn’t want. Not right now. Maybe not ever.

I hear his soft chuckle behind me, low and warm. It drips down my spine like melted honey, lingering.

When we reach the kitchen, he pulls open the cabinet and grabs two plates. He hands one to me without a word, the warmth of his fingers brushing mine for a second too long.

“Since when do you hate that nickname?” he asks, cracking open the pizza box. “We’ve been calling you that since we were kids.”

I take a slice, but I don’t look at him. “We’re not kids anymore, Declan.”

That name, Lee Lee, it doesn’t feel like affection. Not anymore. It feels like a reminder of a girl who was powerless. Small. Scared. A nickname tied to scraped knees, slamming doors, and tears cried into pillows I kept flipping over to stay dry.

It’s not who I am anymore.

“No, we sure as hell aren’t,” he says, his voice quieter now, heavier. I finally glance up just as he watches me take a bite of my pizza. His gaze drops to my lips as I lick a bit of sauce from them, and his eyes darken.

Everything in the room stills.

The air shifts. It’s now charged, thick, full of something hot and unspoken.

“We’re both adults now,” he adds, and his voice is deeper, rougher. Laced with something that feels dangerous in the best kind of way.

Heat creeps up my neck, crawling over my skin, and I suddenly forget the taste of the pizza.

God, what are we doing?

One more look, one more step closer, and I won’t be able to stop myself.

Not from touching him.

Not from wanting more.

Not from risking everything.

---