Chapter 18: Eighteen

The little cafe on Sixth was already busy; sunlight streaming through the big windows, a gentle hum of clinking mugs, low conversation, the smell of toasted bagels and cinnamon pulling us in from the street. It was really early but I guess other people had an early start to the day, too.

Declan opened the door for me.

Like, actually stepped ahead and pulled it open, one hand held out slightly behind him like I needed a guide.

I gave him a look.

He smiled. “What? I was raised well. You’re a lady.”

We stepped inside, and I moved to glance at the chalkboard menu, trying to decide what kind of bagel I wanted. I had the breakfast bagel last time, it had been really good.

“Sit,” Declan said quietly, already steering me toward a corner table by the window. “I’ve got it.”

“I can order for myself,” I said, blinking at him.

“I know,” he replied. “Let me.”

Before I could protest again, he was already at the counter. I watched from our table, arms folded loosely over my chest. He leaned casually against the glass, spoke to the barista with that same calm certainty and charm he always carried in class.

He had this air about him that drew you to him. Like a magnet.

He turned around and winked at me. It was disarming. I wasn’t used to someone doing things for me like that. And he was so… His presence was so consuming.

When he came back, he placed a small cappuccino in front of me and a plate with a bagel - avocado with cherry tomatoes and feta. For himself, he had gotten an iced americano and a breakfast bagel.

“Oat milk latte. With cinnamon.”

I blinked. “I love cinnamon. And avocado.”

“You always get the avocado toast from the university cafeteria,” he said. “I’ve seen you.”

“You’ve been watching me?” I raised an eyebrow. And so closely, at that?

He shrugged. “I notice you, Willow.” He leaned in closer, “You’re my student.”

I took a slow sip of my coffee, trying not to smile at how stupidly good it was. “You ordered for me, opened the door, paid for everything; what’s next, you pull out my chair?”

He reached across and picked up a napkin, unfolding it with a little bow. “Would you like me to drape this across your lap, sweetheart?”

I rolled my eyes. “Okay, that’s enough.”

He chuckled, finally digging into his own breakfast. He took a big sip of his coffee, and I made a face.

“What?” He asked, “You hate black coffee? Of course you do.”

“Why of course?”

He shrugged, “You’re a sweet girl. I could tell.”

We ate in a sort of silence for a few minutes. It was a weird kind of comfortable. Not the kind you fall into with a friend, or the kind that grows over time with someone you’re dating. It was somewhere in between.

Still, it felt like a date. And that made me squirm a little in my seat.

“Why are you being so... gentlemanly all of a sudden?” I asked, pushing a tomato across my plate.

He looked up at me, chewing slowly. “Do you mind?”

“It’s just… not who you are in class.”

“No,” he said. “It’s not. But this” he gestured between us, “this isn’t class.”

That hit harder than I expected.

I looked down at my plate. “It’s confusing, that’s all.”

He nodded like he understood. “I’m not trying to play games with you, Willow.”

“I know,” I said quietly. “But sometimes it still feels like one.”

He watched me for a moment, his expression unreadable again. Then he softened. “I just like being around you.”

And damn it, the worst part was, I liked being around him too.

Even if I didn’t want to.

Even if I knew better.

I took another bite of my bagel, chewing slowly. His knee brushed against mine under the table, and neither of us moved.

It still felt like a date.

But I didn’t stop eating.

And I didn’t leave.

Declan leaned back in his chair, cradling his glass between his hands. The light caught the edges of his face, sharpening his jaw, softening his eyes. He looked calm. Happy. Settled, even. His blue eyes somehow looked deeper in this morning light.

I wasn’t used to seeing him like this close.

“I don’t want it to be weird between us,” he said after a beat, his voice quiet, almost hesitant. “I know it is, but I’m saying it doesn’t have to be.”

I tilted my head. “You think we can just… be friends now?”

He gave me a small smile. “Why not?”

I let out a short laugh, looking down at my hands. “Because I’ve kissed you. You’ve kissed me. You’ve been inside me. Or have you forgotten?”

He smiled.”Believe me, Willow. I could not forget that if I tried.”

I blushed. “See. This is the problem.”

“Look,” he said, more serious now, “I know the lines got blurred. That’s on me. But you’re smart. And funny. And frustrating. I like talking to you. I want to get to know you… properly.”

“Get to know me?” I rolled my eyes,

“Yes. I’m going to ask you questions.”

I eyed him, suspicious. “So, this is an interrogation now?”

“Exactly,” he grinned. “Favorite movie?”

“Ugh, that’s so basic. Everyone asks that.”

“Because it says everything,” he argued, leaning in slightly. “Come on. Don’t overthink it.”

I sighed. “Okay. The Princess Bride. But I reserve the right to change that answer every few months.”

He blinked. “Seriously?”

“What, you don’t like it?”

“No of course I do. I just didn’t expect you to say something so fantastical.”

I scoffed. “It’s amazing. There is romance and action and comedy and giants and rodents of giant size - “

He shook his head, amused. “You’re such a kid.”

I arched an eyebrow. “Okay, your turn. Favorite band. And no old man answers. I swear if you say The Beatles - ”

“Daft Punk,” he interrupted, laughing.

I narrowed my eyes. “That’s only marginally less predictable.” I groaned. “That’s such a fuckboy answer.”

He snorted. “I am too old to be a fuckboy.”

“Player, then.”

He looked mildly amused. “I’ll take it.”

We bantered back and forth like that for a while; books, worst jobs, guilty pleasures (his was watching chick flicks, mine was dipping fries in Nutella), until we were both leaning closer over the table, my coffee cold, and the outside world forgotten.

It felt dangerously normal.

He looked at my plate. "Did you enjoy your food?"

I smiled. "Yes, I did."

His hands moved. He leaned back, looking up at the ceiling. “If you weren’t my student,” he said, almost to himself, “things would be so different.”

I froze.

The words threw me; and it felt like a red hot fire was rising in me.

He didn’t take them back.

I looked at him and felt that familiar ache again. That frustrating, stupid ache of wanting something I couldn’t have. Or maybe shouldn't want at all.

But I didn’t say anything. I just sat back in my chair, crossed my arms, and stared out the window.

Because he was right.

Things would be very, very different.