Page 53 of Declan

“Lena, c’mon,” Wesley says. “I’m telling you because I respect you. I’m not proud of it, alright?”

I cross my arms. “I can’t believe you.”

“You’ve done worse,” he fires back.

That hits a little too close. My eyes flick to Declan before I can stop myself.

He catches it.

Of course he does.

Wesley, thankfully, doesn’t.

“You don’t even like Jeanne like that,” I snap, defensive and hypocritical and suddenly way too emotional.

“I told you. It was a one-time thing. No feelings. I don’t even know how it happened. We were drunk, she was laughing, I was, I don’t know. Lonely. Stupid. You know I’m not good at this relationship crap.”

I press my lips together. Because he’s right. He’s not. And the truth is, I know Jeanne’s heart isn’t in it either. But it still feels like a betrayal somehow.

My fingers clench under the table, and then a hand brushes against mine.

Declan.

Slow. Steady. Subtle. Like he knows I’m about to spiral and is grounding me the only way he can, without blowing our secret wide open.

I shouldn’t let him.

I do.

Wesley is talking again. “She said she didn’t want anything serious. I didn’t either. That’s it. It’s over. I just didn’t want you to find out and think I was sneaking around.”

I sigh, shaking my head. “I appreciate you telling me. I just need a second to process.”

“You’re mad,” he says.

“Yeah. A little.”

Declan’s thumb brushes over the back of my hand beneath the table. My skin tingles.

Wesley’s brows draw together, and I feel the sudden sharp edge of guilt slice through me.

How can I sit here and judge him for a one-night mistake when I’m the one sleeping with his best friend?

Not just sleeping with him. Losing my mind over him.

My stomach knots. The shame mixes with desire and tension and something dangerously close to longing.

“I didn’t mean to mess anything up,” Wesley says, looking genuinely apologetic. “Your friendship with Jeanne matters to me.”

I nod. “I know.”

Declan doesn’t say a word, but his hand lingers against mine, his touch warm, gentle.

Wesley picks up his drink. “Well, this is officially the weirdest dinner we’ve ever had.”

“You say that every time we go out,” I mutter.

“Yeah, and it keeps being true,” he grins.

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