Hundred and Seventy Eight

Hundred and Seventy Eight

A few hours later, when I opened the door, Declan was standing there.

He looked like hell. His eyes were rimmed red, his stubble darker than usual, hair messed up like he’d run his hands through it a thousand times. 

For a second, neither of us moved. 

Then he said, quietly, “Can I come in?”

I nodded because I couldn’t find words, stepping back to let him through. He didn’t go far enough, and just stood in the hallway, hands jammed into his pockets, as if afraid to touch anything. Afraid to touch me.

“Noah’s asleep,” I said automatically. “Jacob dropped him off an hour ago.”

He nodded, eyes flicking toward the hallway where Noah’s room was, then back to me. His voice cracked when he said, “You look tired.”

“So do you,” I said. It came out harsher than I meant, all my exhaustion crammed into three words.

He winced but didn’t fight back. “I am.”

Finally, I gave up pretending I could stand there and keep breathing normally. I crossed the space between us and pressed my face against his chest. The scent of him hit me, clean and sharp and entirely Declan, and suddenly, all the anger and hurt just broke.

His arms wrapped around me instantly. Strong, familiar. His chin came down on my head.

“Are you leaving me?” I mumbled into his shirt, voice shaky and small.

His arms tightened around me. “No,” he whispered, fierce and immediate, like it was obvious, like it was a given. “God, no. I would never.”

And that was it, I started crying. Loud, messy, embarrassing crying. He didn’t say anything, just held me closer, his hand moving slow circles on my back.

It took me a long minute to stop. When I finally pulled away, his shirt was damp, and I was hiccupping.

“I’m sorry,” I muttered, wiping at my face.

“Don’t,” he said softly. “Don’t apologize.”

He looked at me for a long time before speaking again. “I shouldn’t have walked out that night. I didn’t know how to handle it, seeing you hurt like that, watching my mother tear into you. I just… I felt useless.”

“You weren’t useless,” I said, shaking my head. “You were angry. And I get it. But when you left…” My voice cracked again. I took a deep breath. “When you left, I thought that was it. That we were done.”

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I thought having some space might help.”

“Space doesn’t help,” I said quietly. “I felt like you were done with us.”

He froze. Then he nodded, eyes downcast. “I’m sorry.”

Something in his voice undid me all over again.

“You can’t just disappear,” I whispered. “And then send groceries and think it’s a substitute for actually being here.”

That made him laugh, small but honest. “You liked the pasta, huh?”

“Yeah,” I said, a weak smile tugging at my lips despite myself. “Pasta, soup, granola bars. What were you doing, feeding me through guilt?”

“Something like that,” he admitted. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Maybe just come back?” I said.

“I’m here now.”

“Yeah,” I said softly. “You are.”

We stood there for a long moment, the silence not so heavy now.

Then he reached up, his thumb brushing just below my eye. “You haven’t been sleeping.”

I almost laughed. “Neither have you.”

He smiled faintly. “Touché.”

He looked down at me. “Willow, I meant what I said before. Nothing could make me leave you. Not my mother. Not this mess. I’m not running from you.”

I wanted to believe him. Every part of me did. But something inside still trembled. “You say that now. But what if it gets worse?”

He shook his head, firm. “Then we deal with it together.”

I leaned forward until my forehead rested against his chest again. His hand came up to cradle the back of my neck, fingers sliding gently through my hair.

After a while, he murmured, “There’s something else. Something I’ve been thinking about.”

I stepped back, searching his face. “What now?”

He looked nervous as he spoke. “I think we should go public.”

I blinked. “What?”

“I mean it,” he said, rushing before I could respond. “No more hiding. No more letting other people control our story. We tell it ourselves, who we are, what we’ve been through. We own it. I want to plan a press conference.”

My stomach dropped. “Declan, that’s insane.”

“It’s honest,” he said simply.

I laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “Do you know what people will say? What headlines will do with that?”

He didn’t flinch. “They’re already saying things. At least this way, they’ll hear the truth.”

“You’ll be fine,” I said bitterly. “You always are. I’m the one they’ll shred apart. The poor girl who ‘trapped’ you, the scandal that never ended -”

“Stop,” he cut in, voice low but firm. “Stop talking about yourself like that. You’re not a scandal, Willow. You’re the woman I love.”

That silenced me.

He took a step closer, eyes steady. “I can’t undo the past. I can’t make my mother like you, or erase what people think. But I can stand next to you and make sure they see who you really are.”

For a moment, all I could do was look at him. “You make everything sound so simple,” I whispered.

“It’s not simple,” he agreed. “It’s just worth it.”

I reached for him, and he caught me like he’d been waiting years to.

The kiss wasn’t desperate, it was slow, certain, and achingly tender. The kind of kiss that told me he meant every word.

When we finally pulled apart, we were both breathing hard.

“Okay,” I whispered. “Let’s do it.”

His brows shot up. “Really?”

“Really.” I nodded. “If we’re doing this, we do it together. No hiding, no shame.”

His smile was the softest thing I’d ever seen. “Together,” he echoed.

“Together,” I said back.

We sank down onto the couch, still half tangled up in each other. The house was quiet now, but finally, it felt full again.