Chapter 111: Hundred and Eleven

Declan came back on a Wednesday.

I noticed him before I even meant to. My body felt him, before I saw him. I felt the shift of air in the office, the subtle way conversations dipped when he walked in. He looked different. The crispness he usually carried was gone. His shirt was wrinkled at the collar, his hair slightly mussed, and though he tried to keep his posture composed, the shadows under his eyes betrayed him.

I felt my heart twist in my chest when I saw him. Our eyes met briefly as he walked inside the door. But he went straight to my manager’s office. I was relieved, slightly. But I had to speak to him at some point.

I kept my gaze on the papers in front of me, willing my pulse to slow down. For three days I had told myself I was relieved he wasn’t here. For three days I told myself I could breathe easier without him taking up space in every corner of my mind. Now that he was back, the lie unraveled.

He didn’t come to me right away. He sat through the morning meeting in silence, only speaking when directly addressed, his answers clipped but polite. I could feel his presence like heat radiating across the room. Every time I lifted my pen, I imagined his eyes on me.

I think they were on me, too. Declan and I did not have the strength to ignore each other. We never did. Even back then, there had been an electric chemistry between the two of us that everyone had noticed. Well, now, the chemistry had developed into something else.

But I don’t think we could ever be nonchalant toward each other.

During lunch, I made myself scarce, slipping out with Ashley and a few others, grateful for the distraction of small talk. When we returned, he was standing by the window near my desk. Not close enough to invade, but close enough that he was staring directly at the picture of Noah and me on my desk, unblinking, staring, eyes red.

When I walked in, he seemed to break out of his reverie.

“Willow,” he said softly.

My stomach flipped. “Declan.” I kept my tone neutral, cautious.

He didn’t smile. “Can we talk?”

I shook my head, eyes fixed on the stack of files I pretended to organize. “Not here. Not now.”

Something flickered across his face, but he didn’t push. He only nodded once and stepped back, as though granting me space was its own kind of message.

I thought that was the end of it.

But later, as I left the building, once again, I felt him before I saw him. I don’t know what it was. My body reacted to his presence in a very strange way, always.

He was leaning against the wall just outside, hands in his pockets, waiting. The late evening air clung heavy around us, buzzing with the sound of traffic.

“I don’t want to make things harder for you,” he said quietly, straightening as I approached. “But I need to ask you something.”

I stopped a few feet away, clutching the strap of my bag. “Okay,” I breathed. What could he ask me that would be worse than the words we had exchanged that night?

I had nothing left to hide, nothing left to give.

“Why are you still with him?” His voice wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t even accusing. It was calm, steady, but the weight of it nearly knocked the breath from me.

My throat tightened. “Because…” I swallowed hard, forcing the words out. “Because it’s what’s best. For Noah. For stability. He deserves a family, and…” I gestured vaguely, my voice cracking. “Jacob loves us. And I love him.”

Declan’s eyes softened with something I couldn’t bear. Sadness, yes. But also clarity, like he could see straight through me.

“Or is it fear keeping you there?”

I stared up at him, my mouth open.

What did I have to be afraid of?

My fingers gripped the strap of my bag tighter, my knuckles white.

“That’s not fair,” I whispered.

He stepped closer, not enough to touch but enough to make the space between us pulse. “I’m not trying to hurt you, Willow. I just…” His voice faltered, the cracks in his composure slipping through. “I can’t stop asking myself how you could stay in something that makes you this small.”

I blinked rapidly, desperate not to cry here, in the middle of the street, in front of him. “You don’t understand. You weren’t here. You don’t know what it’s been like.”

“Then tell me,” he said, almost pleading.

But I couldn’t. Because to tell him would mean unraveling years of choices, of compromises, of fear I’d buried so deep I sometimes forgot it was there until it choked me.

So I shook my head. “Please, Declan. Just… let it go.”

For a long moment, he didn’t move. The sounds of the city swelled around us. The loud car horns, a homeless man calling someone out, the faint hum of music from a cafe, nearby, and still we stood there, locked in silence. Finally, he exhaled, his shoulders slumping.

“Okay,” he said softly. But the word didn’t sound like surrender. It sounded like a promise.

I walked away before he could say more, my chest tight, my legs unsteady. His words followed me home, echoing louder than Jacob’s silence, louder than my own excuses.

That night, I sat at the edge of Noah’s bed, watching him sleep, the glow of his night-light casting soft shadows across his face. His small hand rested against his pillow, his lips parted in easy dreams.

Stability, I told myself again. Family. Safety.

But when I closed my eyes, all I could hear was Declan’s voice, low and steady: Or is it fear keeping you there?

The truth lodged in my throat, unspoken, unbearable.

And for the first time in years, I didn’t know if I could keep pretending I had an answer.