Chapter 37: Thirty Seven

It was just after ten when I heard the knock on the door.

When I opened it, Declan was standing there, slightly damp from the light rain outside, a hoodie pulled over his head, his hands tucked into his pockets.

I blinked. “Declan?”

I looked around, and hurriedly ushered him in. “Come inside.”

He stepped in, taking in my humble home.

“I just wanted to see you.”

The words were simple, but they carried weight. They warmed my heart.

“Come in to my room,” I said softly, stepping aside.

He did. Slowly. Like he wasn’t sure he should.

“I thought you had a late meeting,” I said, closing the door behind him when he was inside.

“I did. And then I couldn’t stop thinking.”

“About?”

He glanced at me, a little grin on his face. “You.”

I tried not to let my heart react to that, but it did. It pulsed fast in my throat. It made my blood warm.

“Do you want tea?” I offered. “Or food? I haven’t eaten much.”

He cocked his head. “Tea would be nice.”

The apartment was quiet, warm in contrast to the air outside. I don’t think Cassie had heard Declan come in.

I assembled a quick sandwich and brewed some tea. When I went back to my room, Declan was seated on my bed, going through some notes I had been making.

He looked at home here.

And that scared me a little.

“I made you a sandwich,” I said, awkwardly. “And tea. I didn’t know what you’d want.”

He smiled, something warm flickering behind his eyes. “You remembered I drink chamomile.”

“You’re not that hard to read.”

“I can be.”

“But not with me.”

That made him pause.

He stepped closer and took the mug from my hand, letting his fingers graze mine. “No. Not with you.”

The bed creaked as we sat side by side. He bit into the sandwich, made a quiet approving sound, and I tried not to grin like a complete idiot. I sipped my own tea and tried not to look at his hands.

His hands were… distracting.

When he finished, he set the plate aside and turned toward me, knees brushing. His gaze was quieter now. Steady.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

“For what?”

“For the food. The tea.” He mused, “You’re taking care of me.”

I let out a small laugh. “I think I’m the one who needed taking care of.”

“I know. That’s why I’m still here.”

My breath caught. I looked at him. and felt the weight of the last few weeks settle somewhere deep in my chest. All the stolen moments, the tension in classrooms, the restrained glances across hallways. All of it led here.

Not to some dramatic explosion. But to this quiet, fragile moment between us.

His hand reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. I didn’t move. I just let him.

“Willow,” he said, voice low, “I think I’ve been holding my breath since the night we met.”

“You hide it well.”

“I’ve had practice.”

“Then maybe…” I swallowed. “Maybe you can stop now.”

That was all it took.

He leaned in, brushing his lips against mine like a question. I answered with a kiss of my own, soft, slow, filled with something that wasn’t hunger or heat, but something far more dangerous. Something like tenderness.

His hands slid along my waist, tentative at first, as if he was still giving me room to change my mind. But I didn’t. I pulled him closer, fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt.

“You said slow,” He whispered, but I ignored it.

When he deepened the kiss, I melted into him.

He kissed my shoulder. My temple. The inside of my wrist.

He pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against mine.

“We don’t have to…” he murmured.

“I know,” I whispered. “But I want to. God, I really want to.”

I watched his throat move as he swallowed. His eyes searched mine.

And then he kissed me again. Slower this time.

There was no rush. No urgency. Just the slow, patient rhythm of two people finally letting themselves feel what they’d been trying to ignore.

He was on top of me in my bed, his body covering mine, his weight supported on his elbows. He looked at me, his eyes filled with a soft, intense hunger. "I want you so much," he whispered, his voice filled with a raw, primal need.

I smiled, my hands reaching up to his face, my fingers tracing his jawline. "I want you too," I whispered.

He captured my lips in a fierce, hungry kiss, his hands roaming over my body, his fingers tracing the curves of my hips. I moaned, my body arching into his touch, my hands gripping his shoulders.

He slid his hand between my legs, his fingers finding my core, my body shuddering at his touch. He looked at me, his eyes so blue in this light. "You’re always so wet for me," he murmured. “Good fucking girl.”

"Yes," I breathed, my voice barely audible even to myself. “Only for you.”

He slid into me, his body filling mine. He began to move, his hips thrusting against mine, his body driving into mine with a fierce, urgent rhythm. I almost lost count of how many times I came.

______

Later, we lay tangled in the sheets, my head on his chest and his hand stroking lazy circles on my back. Time felt slow. And too fast at the same time. The air was heavy with warmth and the faint scent of my shampoo on his skin.

“I didn’t expect this,” I said quietly.

He brushed his fingers down my spine. “Me either.”

“But I don’t regret it.”

“Good,” he said, voice soft. “Because I’ve never felt more sure of something.”

I didn’t say anything. I just nestled closer, listening to the steady sound of his heartbeat under my cheek.

“Stay,” I said, almost too quietly.

“I’m not going anywhere.”