Chapter 116: Hundred and Sixteen

Sleep wouldn’t come.

I’d been lying in bed for what felt like hours. The proximity with Declan was making things really difficult for me.

And tonight, in the silence of the night, my thoughts spun in circles. Jacob’s well justified anger and the relationship I could feel crumbling, the torn birth certificate, Declan’s questions that cut too close, the way his presence at this retreat felt like fate’s cruel joke.

Finally, I gave up. Sliding out of bed, I slipped my hoodie over my thin sleep shirt, tugged the zipper up, and opened the door quietly. The night air hit me with a chill that raised goosebumps along my skin, sharp and grounding. The forest smelled of pine and damp earth, the night was warm, and the hotel now had the kind of silence that makes your own heartbeat sound loud.

I walked without thinking, following the gravel path around the cabins. The retreat had gone quiet hours ago, but faint echoes of laughter still lingered in the air. I guess some people were still up. I had retired early, just needing to be away from Declan.

But even in my room, alone and okay, I couldn’t breathe. I just needed to move, to breathe, to shake the feeling that everything was collapsing around me.

That’s when I saw him.

Declan leaned against a wooden railing overlooking the dark stretch of trees. A cigarette glowed faintly between his fingers, smoke curling upward before disappearing into the night. He looked… untouchable. His tall frame against the railing, the hard lines of his jaw catching silver in the glow of the moon.

I froze, debating whether to turn back. But he noticed me before I could decide.

For a beat, neither of us spoke. Then, with a quick, almost guilty movement, he dropped the cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his boot. The ember winked out.

“I didn’t think you smoked,” I said softly, breaking the silence.

“I don’t,” he replied, his voice low, roughened by the night air. “Not usually.”

Something about the admission, the vulnerability tucked into it, made my chest tighten. I stepped closer, though every instinct warned me not to.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, watching me carefully.

I shook my head. “Too much in my head.”

His gaze flickered over me, lingering for just a second too long. “Yeah. Same.”

We stood side by side, staring into the endless dark of the trees. It should have been awkward, unbearable even. But instead it felt… inevitable. Like we’d both been pulled here, to this exact moment, by something neither of us could control.

I glanced at him. “So, is this your coping mechanism now? Late-night cigarettes?”

He huffed out a laugh, short and humorless. “Something like that.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It thrummed, alive, carrying years of unsaid words. My arms wrapped around myself, but it wasn’t just the cold that made me shiver.

“Its not good for you, you know.” I said softly.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he said in response. His tone wasn’t commanding, but it carried that same frustrating protectiveness I remembered from before.

“I can take care of myself,” I shot back, but it came out weaker than I intended.

His eyes softened, though he didn’t smile. “I know you can. Doesn’t mean I stop worrying.”

Something cracked in me at his words. The wall I’d been holding up, the fragile dam keeping everything in check, it wavered. I turned to him fully, my voice shaking. “Why do you do that? Why do you still…”

“Because I can’t stop,” he cut in, sharp and unflinching. His chest rose and fell, his jaw tight. “I can’t stop caring. I’ve tried. God, Willow, I’ve tried. But no matter how much time passes, I don’t know how to stay away from you.”

The words hit me like a punch. My throat closed, my pulse thundered.

“Don’t,” I whispered, but it came out pleading, not firm. “Don’t say things like that.”

He stepped closer, so close I had to tilt my chin up to keep his gaze. His face was dark, tired, angry, his eyes burning with something I couldn’t name.

“You think I want this?” he asked, voice raw. “You think I don’t hate it? I hate that you’re here, that you’re so close, and all I can think about is -” He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair like the words themselves hurt. “I hate you for that. But I don’t know how to stop.”

The breath rushed out of me, shaky.

“I hate you too,” I whispered, though we both knew it was a lie. If anything, it was myself I hated. How stupid I had been. All these years. “But -”

I didn’t finish. Because suddenly, impossibly, we were closer. His hand lifted, hesitated, then hovered near my cheek. The ghost of his touch made my skin burn. My body swayed toward him before I could stop myself, my breath catching.

Every nerve screamed for me to close the distance, to give in to the hunger clawing at me. His gaze dropped to my mouth, lingered, and my pulse stuttered wildly.

It would have been so easy. Just lean forward, let the present and the consequences vanish in the dark of the past.

But he stopped. His hand trembled before it fell, curling into a fist at his side instead. His forehead dropped against mine, and I could feel the ragged edge of his breath.

“I can’t,” he whispered, the words breaking.

Neither could I. But neither of us moved away.

We stayed there, suspended on the edge, long enough that my lips tingled with the kiss that hadn’t happened, long enough that my heart felt like it might tear itself apart. I closed my eyes and imagined us kissing. The way his lips would feel against mine. The softness of his hands.

Finally, he pulled back, stepping away like it cost him something vital. His eyes met mine, raw, unguarded, before he turned toward the cabins.

The moment broke. The night swallowed him.

And I was left standing in the dark, trembling. “I hate you,” I whispered to the empty air. But the truth was buried in my words. I didn’t know how to stay away either.