Chapter 26: Twenty Six

I woke to the stillness of a late morning. It was around 10 AM. I guess we had both been really exhausted.

I lay there for a moment, eyes fixed on the white ceiling, heart thudding in my chest like it already knew something had shifted. The sheets were warm, tangled around my legs, the scent of him, clean linen, cedar, and clean menthol, still clinging to my skin.

And then I felt him.

Declan.

His breathing was steady beside me. He was facing away, one arm curled beneath the pillow, the muscles in his back rising and falling with each inhale. The sheet had slipped down to his waist, exposing the dip of his spine.

For a few seconds, I let myself stay still. Just watching the soft morning light trace his shoulders, pretending, for one last suspended breath, that this was something simple. That I was waking up to a man I liked and did not have complicated business with.

But I wasn’t.

The ache in my heart was already spreading. My stomach felt hollow. The weight of last night settled like a rock upon my chest.

I shifted, slowly sitting up and pulling the blanket with me, curling it around my body like armor. The quietness was too loud, the moment too heavy. My body felt tender, worn, wrecked in a way that had nothing to do with shame and everything to do with the fact that I’d wanted it, him, so badly it still hurt. And that delicious, familiar ache, of how much he had wanted me, too.

He stirred behind me.

I didn’t turn around.

A beat of silence.

“You’re awake,” his voice rasped behind me, low and hoarse with sleep. He waited for a second, “Good morning.”

I nodded. “Good morning.”

He sat up. I heard the sheets shift. The mattress dip. He was close now, but not touching me.

I didn’t look at him.

I couldn’t.

“I shouldn’t have let that happen,” he said softly.

The words hit like a rock, though I had been expecting them.

I blinked, staring ahead at nothing. “Then why did you?”

He was quiet.

“Because I wanted to,” he said finally. “Because every time I try to keep my distance from you, I fail.”

His voice was raw. There was guilt in it. And longing. And everything in between.

I turned slowly to look at him.

He looked like regret.

Sheets pooled around his waist, his hair rumpled, eyes tired in that particular way people look after they’ve crossed a line they swore they wouldn’t. Somehow, he looked even more tired than he had the night before. His mouth opened like he might say more, but he didn’t.

“I wanted it too,” I whispered. “So much,” I looked at him, my eyes searching his for some semblance of recognition, some acceptance. “You know I did.”

“I know,” he said. “I know you did.”

I clutched the blanket tighter around me. My voice shook. “I don’t know how to be casual about this. About you.”

Declan’s jaw tensed. His hands were in his lap, clenched.

“Neither do I,” he admitted. “That’s the problem.”

I swallowed, throat thick. “So what does that mean?”

He looked away. “It means it can’t happen again.”

There it was.

I exhaled, a sharp, shaking breath, like all the air had been knocked out of me.

“Right,” I said. “Because you’re my professor. And this was just a lapse in judgment. A mistake.”

“No,” he said immediately, his voice suddenly fierce. “Don’t call it that.”

I stood up then, my legs barely steady, but I didn’t care. I bent down and gathered my clothes in silence. My top was wrinkled. My hands were shaking. The room was too bright now. My eyes hurt.

He stood too, reaching like he wanted to stop me, but he didn’t touch me.

“I wish I could want you quietly,” he said, his voice low and trembling. “I wish I could see you in my class and not feel like I’m constantly trying not to look at you too long. But this thing, it’s dangerous. Not just for me, Willow. For you, too.”

I looked at him then, and the words slipped out before I could stop them.

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have kissed me like you needed me. Shouldn’t have said all those things.”

Silence.

Heavy and full of everything we couldn’t say.

I blinked hard. “Don’t worry. I won’t make this harder for you.”

I slipped into my clothes quickly, swallowing back the sting behind my eyes. My skin still remembered the way he touched me, the way his voice broke when he whispered my name like it meant something.

Maybe it had.

Fuck, I knew it had.

Maybe that’s what made it worse.

I walked to the door, my back to him.

“Willow…” he said behind me, quietly. Like he wanted to stop me. Like he didn’t know how.

But he didn’t ask me to stay.

So I left.

I didn’t cry until I was on the street.

The cold morning air bit into my skin, but I didn’t notice. My steps were mechanical, my arms wrapped tightly around myself like they could hold me together if I just kept walking.

I kept hearing his voice. "It can’t happen again."

And mine, brittle and breaking: “Then maybe you shouldn’t have kissed me like you needed me.”

I hated that I meant every word.

I hated even more that he didn’t fight me.

By the time I reached my apartment building, my cheeks were wet. I wiped my face with the sleeve of my jacket and buzzed myself in, every inch of my body heavy and sore.

The moment I shut the door behind me, I sank to the floor.

The silence in my apartment was louder than the one in his bedroom. At least there, I could pretend we were still caught in something real, something tangible - lust, desire. Something alive.

Now, it just felt over.

I curled up on the rug, arms around my knees, forehead resting against them. The tears came harder now. Not dramatic, not loud. Just quiet and constant, like something was leaking out of me and I didn’t know how to stop it.

I had wanted to feel close to him. Have him, touch him.

Instead, I felt used and discared.

Used, even if that wasn’t what he meant.

Lonely in the most intimate way.

And the worst part?

I would still choose to do last night over again.

Over and over again. Even when I knew better.

Especially when I knew better.