Chapter 85: Eighty Five

The meeting had barely ended when I caught up with him in the hallway, my heels clicking too loudly against the linoleum.

“Declan,” I called, breath catching. He paused by the water cooler, one hand already halfway to the dispenser.

He turned, not surprised, but not entirely open either. “Yeah?”

I slowed as I reached him, pulse high from both nerves and something else I wasn’t ready to name.

“Thanks,” I said. “For what you said in there. About the strategy.”

He gave a small nod, already reaching for a paper cup. “It was your idea.”

“No, I mean…” I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “You took it and made it work. You made it... land.”

He finally looked at me fully. The kind of look that makes you feel like you’re standing too close to a fire. His eyes on me, intense as always. He had a way of looking right into your soul that I had felt since the first night we had met.

“There’s no improvement without a strong base,” he said, taking a sip of water. “You gave it that.” He paused, sighing, then smiling a little, “You’re still the same, Willow. You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

My chest tightened unexpectedly. It was such a Declan thing to say. His words were always so steady, so precise, maddeningly kind in a way that left you no room to argue.

“Still,” I said quietly, “it meant a lot. Especially coming from you.”

His gaze flicked away for a beat, before his eyes landed on me again. For a second, his eyes flicked to my lips. I knew, cause mine flicked to his.

“I have an idea,” I said, “Do you have five minutes?”

He nodded.

Then, just like that, we slipped into it.

The rhythm we used to have. The banter layered over theory, the mental chess of solving problems together.

We leaned over my open notebook, sketching arrows and circling notes.

“What if we activate the school health clubs as extension arms of the campaign?” I suggested. “Kids talk. And they listen to each other more than they ever will to adults.”

Declan nodded slowly. “Combine that with frontline workers as mobilizers... it could be a layered reinforcement model.”

“I was just thinking that,” I grinned. “It’s scalable too. Low-cost, high-trust.”

“Exactly,” he said, and I felt it, that shared hum between us. When we had been together, we would talk all the time about working together. I had been young and had the hope of youth, then. He had encouraged it. He gave voice to my thoughts. He listened, made space for me. Took me seriously.

This was the culmination of that. He had always seen me in a way no one ever had. And it had showed in the fire between us. The space crackling with idea after idea, building off one another like we always used to. As if time hadn’t passed. As if nothing had been broken.

He reached over to pull the pen from my hand to annotate something, and I laughed, catching his wrist. “You still do that! Steal pens like it’s your right, and you never give them back!”

His eyes warmed. “It’s called collaboration.”

“Oh please, it’s called being annoying. And its stealing.”

“Effective and annoying,” he said, grinning. “Maybe it’s stealing,” his eyes sparkled, “So sue me.”

We both laughed, too loud for the hallway, and I felt a burst of lightness, unfamiliar and dangerous.

And then, in the middle of my excitement, I grabbed his arm.

A reflex.

Like old muscle memory.

It wasn’t even romantic, it was adrenaline, joy, urgency. But I felt him freeze beneath my touch. His smile faltered, his entire body shifting out of sync.

He stepped back. Just one small step, his whole body recoiling from my touch.

But it was enough.

Enough to draw a line.

Enough to cool the air around us.

My hand left his arm quickly. I hid it behind my back like not looking at my hand would make the awkwardness disappear.

His voice, when he spoke again, was low. Controlled. “Your fiancé won’t appreciate that kind of closeness.”

I blinked.

The words snapped me back to reality.

“I wasn’t…” I started.

But he didn’t let me finish.

He looked at me, his eyes hard and his lips set into a thin line. Like he was trying to find something in my face he no longer trusted himself to name.

“Does he know?” he asked. “That you and I are working together? That I’m here?”

I opened my mouth.

Closed it.

There were too many answers. And none of them true enough to say aloud.

“I haven’t... gotten around to that,” I said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “Things are complicated right now.”

Declan exhaled sharply through his nose. He looked like he wanted to say something else. A dozen things. But all he said was:

“Right.”

I hated how that word sounded in his voice. Final. Dismissive.

But it wasn’t anger in his expression. It was something else.

Disappointment. Hurt. The kind that lives quietly under the surface.

He turned to leave, then hesitated. His back still to me, he added, “Don’t worry. I won’t make it more complicated than it already is.”

And then he walked away, footsteps measured, shoulders tight.

I stood there, arms folded across my chest, throat aching.

This man. This maddening, thoughtful, careful man.

He could still make me feel more seen with one conversation than anyone else could in a year. Than Jacob had in four years.

And yet, here we were. On opposite sides of a line neither of us had drawn, but both of us were now bound to honor.