Chapter 24: Twenty Four

The music from the mixer had faded into a muffled rhythm behind me as I wobbled across the empty parking lot, heels in one hand, my eyes glued to the floor watching my steps. The concrete beneath me felt far away, shifting like I was walking on water. Or like my steps were falling wrong. My head was light, and everything felt a little too dreamlike.

I was drunk. Like… really drunk.

Fuck, I shouldn’t have had so much to drink. But I was glad I had left cause I didn’t want to make a scene inside.

Sadly it was the kind of drunk where you still think you’re doing fine. Until suddenly, you’re not.

My ankle twisted weirdly as I stepped off the curb, and before I could catch myself, I tumbled sideways, landing on the pavement with a sharp jolt.

“Shit,” I muttered, trying to sit up, wincing as gravel bit into my palm. My elbow throbbed.

I sat there, blinking stupidly at the sky, slightly dazed. I could still hear my blood pounding in my ears.

Then I heard footsteps. Fast. Angry.

“What the hell are you doing?” a voice snapped.

I didn’t even need to look to know who it was.

Declan.

Of course.

Because life was a sick little bitch with timing issues.

I looked up slowly. He was standing over me, eyes wide with disbelief, breath visible in the cold air.

“I’m fine,” I mumbled, brushing my scraped hand on my skirt.

“You’re not fine. Jesus, Willow.” He crouched beside me, his hand already reaching out to help me up.

I ignored it.

“I can get up.”

“Clearly,” he said, voice sharp.

I glared at him but finally grabbed his hand. He hauled me to my feet with little effort, steadying me as I swayed. I tried to yank my arm back, but he held on to it tightly.

His eyes scanned me. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s just a scratch.”

“That’s not the point.” His voice was low now, hard. “Why are you walking home like this? Alone? Drunk? What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking I’d be fine,” I shot back. “I didn’t need a lecture.”

He let go of my arm like it burned him. “Couldn’t your boyfriend drive you?”

My head snapped toward him.

“What?”

He stepped back. His jaw clenched, his hands shoved into his coat pockets. “Jacob.. Couldn’t he have walked you home instead of letting you stumble around a parking lot in the middle of the night like -” He cut himself off.

“Like what?” I asked, voice flat. “Go ahead. Say it.”

He didn’t. He just looked at me, all furious and frustrated and angry.

I felt the words clawing up my throat, bitter and hot. “Why do you even care, Declan? And for the record, he’s not my fucking boyfriend.”

He didn’t answer.

“You want me out of your class. Out of your head. Out of your way. And yet here you are, showing up again, telling me how to exist.”

His expression shifted. Then the anger returned, duller now, but still there.

“You don’t get to ask why I care,” he said, voice quieter. “Not when I’ve already made that mistake once.”

I sucked in a sharp breath, but I couldn’t say anything. The world around me was spinning a little, the warmth of the alcohol draining now, leaving only nausea and confusion in its wake.

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Come on. I’ll drive you home.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“I’m not asking.”

I didn’t argue. He was already pulling me in another direction.

Declan’s silence was deafening as he led me across the parking lot toward his car, his hand resting lightly on my back, steadying me, even though I refused to lean into it. My knees still felt shaky, the sting of the fall flaring every time I took a step.

“I can still call a cab,” I muttered, not quite meeting his eyes.

“I’m driving you,” he said firmly. No space for debate.

His car was parked near the far end of the lot. Cold air brushed against my skin as he opened the passenger door and helped me in, his hand lingering at my waist just a second longer than necessary. I had been in this car before. I remembered every moment I had spent with him so clearly.

He walked around to the driver’s side, slid in, and shut the door. The car filled with silence.

Then, before starting the car, he reached across and gently took my hand.

I flinched.

“Let me see,” he said.

His fingers were warm as they turned mine over, inspecting the scrape on my palm, the shallow red mark along my forearm. He was gentle, absurdly gentle for someone who had just yelled at me like I was a reckless teenager.

“You should clean this properly,” he murmured, his thumb brushing near the bruise already forming near my wrist. “You’ll wake up sore.”

I didn’t answer. I was too focused on how close his face was. How his lashes cast small shadows against his cheek. How his jaw clenched and unclenched as he examined my skin like I was some kind of delicate doll.

“You don’t have to… worry about me, you know,” I whispered.

His gaze flicked up to mine. “Clearly, I do.”

I looked away, something fluttering in my throat.

He started the car.

The ride was quiet. He let me play some music, so I played Arctic Monkeys. My head leaned lightly against the cool glass window as the streetlights slid past us. It made my head feel even fuzzier. rk.

“Declan?” I said softly.

He didn’t answer right away.

“Yeah?”

“Can we not go to my place?”

I turned toward him. “Can we go to yours?”

His fingers tightened slightly on the steering wheel.

“No,” he said, after a beat. “That’s not a good idea.”

I didn’t say anything at first.

Something came over me. I reached out and lightly stroked his arm.

“Please?” I whispered.

He looked over. His eyes were dark, conflicted, unreadable.

And then he exhaled, sharp through his nose.

“Fuck.” His hand found my thigh, squeezing. I sucked in a sharp breath. “You’re going to kill me, Willow.”

He turned the wheel. Took the next left.

Neither of us said a word the rest of the drive.