Page 109 of Beyond the Lines
But when I finish wrestling with the deadbolt and open it, it’s not Em.
It’s Declan.
He looks wrecked. Hair disheveled, like he’s been drumming his fingers repeatedly through it. There are dark circles under those blue eyes I can’t stop drawing, and his chest rises and falls rapidly, like he’s just sprinted across campus.
“Hey,” he says, voice rough, glancing down at my body, then back at my face.
My brain short-circuits. I’m suddenly acutely aware that, after returning home and changing, I’m wearing threadbarepajama shorts and an old T-shirt with a faded picture of Frida Kahlo on it. No bra. Hair piled in a messy bun. Zero makeup.
Perfect.
“What are you doing here?” I manage to ask.
He swallows visibly. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“It’s nine-thirty.”
“I know what time it is.” His eyes bore into mine. “I haven’t slept in two days.”
Two days…
Since our last project catch-up…
Shit…
“Lea,” he says. “I know what you said that morning, and I’mfullyaware you’ve said nothing about it since, but I can’t stop thinking about you.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. Part of me wants to slam the door in his face just to protect myself from the possibility of being hurt again. Part of me wants to drag him into my room by his shirt. The fact it’s not an instant decision of the former is probably a credit to Em’s intervention.
I say nothing.
“Look, I know I’m the last person you want to see right now,” he interrupts, words tumbling out. “But I can’t do this anymore. I can’t pretend I’m not thinking about you every second. I can’t pretend I don’t want you. I can’t just show up to class or project catch-ups and talk about bullshit.”
“Declan—”
I’m done,” he says softly. “Done denying what I feel for you. Denying how much I want you. Done making up excuses for why we shouldn’t be together.”
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly tight. “That’s a lot of being done.”
“Yeah, well.” His thumb strokes my cheek. “I’ve been thinking a lot.”
“Dangerous.”
“You’ve got no idea…” One corner of his mouth lifts in a half-smile, then his expression turns serious again. “If you want me to go, tell me now, and that’s it. You’ll never have to deal with me again. But I promise if you give this a chance, givemeandusa chance, I won’t hurt you, Lea?—”
I resist the urge torun.
But I still can’t quite manage to say anything.
“I won’t cheat on you… I won’t do anythingthatasshole did to you—” His voice trails off, until I nod, then he continues. “And if one day you decide you don’t want me, then that’s cool. ButdamnI want to try and see wherever this leads, because I’ve never wantedanythingmore. Not hockey. Not art. Just you.”
The moment stretches between us, crackling with possibility.
He’s made his case and left it up to me. I know if I say no, he’s gone.
This is it.
The cliff edge.
