Hundred and Seventy Three

Hundred and Seventy Three
I lingered in the hallway for a moment, suddenly uncertain.

Part of me wanted to walk straight up to him and apologize. The other part wanted to crawl under the blanket of guilt and stay there forever.

I watched him drink his shake in two big gulps, listening to someone on the phone as he did. He set the shaker down.

“…yes, I’ll call you back,” he said. “No, I’m not doing any more statements. Not right now.”

His tone was clipped, exhausted. When he ended the call, he didn’t move right away. Just stood there, staring at the floor like he was dizzy or something.

I took a step forward, then another. My feet made a soft sound against the tile, and his head lifted.

When his eyes found me, the lines around them softened instantly.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

“Hey.”

We stood there for a beat too long, just staring at each other.

“I went to see Jacob,” I said finally.

His eyebrows lifted slightly. “You did?”

“Yeah. I needed someone to talk sense into me.” I gave a weak smile. “He’s… oddly good at that now.”

Declan’s lips curved just barely. “I’m glad he was.”

I walked closer until I could see the dark circles under his eyes, the faint stubble along his jaw. He looked like he hadn’t slept much, and I realized with a pang that neither had I. We had both been in separate rooms last night, sleepless and worried and hopeless.

“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice breaking on the last word.

He exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding that breath for hours.

“I know,” he murmured. “Me too.”

That should have been it. An apology, an understanding. But something in me cracked open.

“I just…” My throat tightened. “When I saw that journalist near Noah, I lost it. It felt like everything I’d built to protect him was slipping away again. And then when you got angry-”

“I wasn’t angry at you,” he said, cutting in softly. “I was angry because I couldn’t fix it. Because I keep promising to protect you both, and every time I blink, something else happens.” His voice trembled near the end.

“I know,” I whispered. “But sometimes I feel like I’m the weak link. Like maybe all of this would be easier if you didn’t have to fight for me.”

His expression changed completely. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

“No.” He shook his head, taking a step toward me. “Willow, do you think I’m with you out of obligation? That this is about guilt, or saving you? You’re the reason I keep fighting. You always have been.”

I blinked fast, trying not to cry again, but the tears came anyway.

He reached up, thumb brushing one from my cheek. “You know,” he breathed, “Everything I do. I do it for you.”

The simplicity of those words, the conviction in his voice made my heart slow down.

I closed the last of the space between us and pressed my forehead to his chest. His arms came around me instantly, tight and grounding, and I felt the familiar rhythm of his heartbeat. Steady, warm, home.

“I hate fighting with you,” I mumbled against his shirt.

He let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “You’re not very good at it.”

“Excuse me?”

“You get too emotional halfway through and start crying. Then I feel guilty, then you feel guilty that I feel guilty, and suddenly we’re both apologizing for everything.”

Despite everything, I laughed, a shaky little sound that made him pull me closer.

“Maybe we should just agree never to fight again,” I said.

“Oh, we’ll fight,” he said lightly, kissing the top of my head. “But next time, let’s solve it in bed.”

I snorted, wiping my eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but you love me for it.”

He pulled back just enough to look at me, his hand sliding up to cup my cheek. “We’re going to be okay, Willow. You, me, Noah, we’ll figure this out.”

“I know,” I said softly. “I just need to keep believing that.”

We stayed like that. Close, quiet, breathing each other in. He tilted my face up, pressing a soft kiss on my lips. I found my hands in his hair, pulling him closer, when a sharp sound from the doorway broke the spell.

“Are you two kissing again?”

We both turned. Noah was standing there, backpack half-open, lunchbox in his hand, looking at us with the exaggerated disgust only seven-year-olds could master.

Declan cleared his throat. “Uh. No. We are having an important adult conversation.”

Noah tilted his head. “That looked like kissing.”

“Sometimes adults kiss while they talk,” I said, biting back a smile.

He squinted at us. “That’s weird.”

Declan coughed to hide his laugh. “Right. Noted. I’ll make sure to schedule my affection more discreetly next time.”

Noah rolled his eyes and dumped his lunchbox on the counter. “Can we have spaghetti for dinner?”

“Sure,” I said automatically. “Just let me-”

“I’ll cook,” Declan interrupted, already opening a cabinet.

“You can’t cook,” I said.

“I can try.”

“No, Declan. The last time you ‘tried,’ we had to order take out.”

He grinned. “Maybe I’ve improved.”

“You ordered pizza once and claimed it was homemade.”

“Still counts.”

Noah, delighted, clapped his hands. “Let him cook! It’ll be funny!”

“Oh great,” I muttered. “My own child wants to see me suffer.”

Declan winked at me over Noah’s head. “See? He believes in me.”

As they began pulling out random ingredients, none of which belonged anywhere near spaghetti, I leaned against the counter, watching them.

Noah was chattering about his day, about how his friend Liam had traded him a pencil for a cookie, about how the art teacher said his painting ‘had feelings.’ Declan listened, patient and smiling, occasionally asking questions that made Noah beam.

When Declan turned to ask where the salt was, he caught me watching him.

“What?” he asked, grinning.

“Nothing,” I said, smiling back. “Just… feels good.”

He walked over, leaned down, and brushed a kiss to my forehead, quick, almost casual. “That’s because it is.”

I smiled up at him, my chest warm and aching from joy, bursting at the seams.