Page 7
M orning arrives with disorienting brightness, sunlight streaming through blinds I forgot to close. I blink against the glare, momentarily confused by the warm weight pressed against my back, the arm draped over my waist.
Then memory floods back—James appearing at my dorm, Declan staying over, the kisses that turned into so much more, crossing the carefully drawn lines of our arrangement. Declan is still here, still in my bed, his breathing deep and even against my neck.
Carefully, not wanting to wake him, I shift to face him. In sleep, Declan looks younger, the careful control he maintains in waking hours softened into vulnerability. A lock of dark hair falls across his forehead, his impossibly long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. I resist the urge to trace the strong line of his jaw, the slight cleft in his chin.
His eyes flutter open, focusing on me with momentary confusion that quickly transforms into a slow, warm smile. "Morning," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
"Morning," I reply, suddenly self-conscious about bedhead and all the unglamorous realities of waking up beside someone.
But Declan doesn't seem to notice or care. His hand finds mine beneath the covers, fingers intertwining with casual intimacy. "Sleep okay?"
"Better than I have in months," I admit, the honesty surprising me.
His smile widens, transforming his face with boyish delight. "Me too."
We lie there for a moment, studying each other in the morning light, the air between us charged with unasked questions and unspoken confessions.
"So," he finally says. "That happened."
"It did."
"Regrets?"
The directness of his question catches me off guard, but I appreciate it. No games, no pretense. "No," I say after a moment's consideration. "You?"
"Not a single one." His thumb traces circles on my palm, the simple touch sending shivers up my arm. "Should we talk about it?” he asks, though his eyes drop to my lips in a way that suggests talking isn't foremost on his mind.
He's right. We should define boundaries, discuss what last night means for our arrangement. But right now, in the golden morning light, with his body warm against mine and his eyes still soft with sleep, talking seems overrated.
"Later," I murmur, leaning in to press my lips against his.
His lips meet mine with a hunger that matches my own, everything else forgotten in the heated exchange. My body responds instantly, nerve endings firing like sparks as his hand slides rest against the bare skin of my waist. His touch is tentative, exploring, asking permission with each inch gained.
"Ellie," he murmurs against my mouth, my name a question and a prayer.
I answer by deepening the kiss, my fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer. The line we crossed last night is miles behind us now, the pretense of our arrangement falling away like autumn leaves in a storm. This is real—the hammering of my heart, the electricity where our skin meets, the bone-deep certainty that I want this man in ways I never planned.
His palm slides higher, skimming my ribcage, stopping just short of my breast. Even now, he's giving me control, letting me set the pace, the boundaries. The realization makes something twist in my chest—a tangled knot of desire and fear and something dangerously close to falling.
My phone buzzes from the bedside table, breaking the moment. I reach for it reluctantly, expecting Mia with a thousand questions about my evening.
Instead, I find a text from a number I don't recognize: You two look cozy. Guess Declan found his perfect good-girl cover story. Enjoy it while it lasts.
Attached is a photo taken through what must be my dorm room window—Declan and me, asleep in my bed, his arm around me, my head on his chest. The angle is from below, probably from the courtyard outside, but clear enough to identify us both.
Ice floods my veins as implications crash through me. Someone has been watching us. Someone knows about our arrangement.
"What's wrong?" Declan asks, immediately alert to my changed demeanor.
Wordlessly, I hand him the phone. His expression darkens as he reads, the muscle in his jaw ticking with tension.
"Kaitlyn," he says, the name a curse. "Has to be."
"Your ex?" I remember Mia mentioning someone Declan dated casually for a while, a flash of blond hair moving through the crowd at the Sigma party. God, that seems so long ago now.
“She was never my girlfriend.”
“How would she know about our arrangement?"
Declan runs a hand through his already disheveled hair, reluctance written across his features. "She… guessed, after seeing us together. Called me out on it last week."
The revelation lands like a slap. "And you didn't think to mention this?"
"I handled it," he says, defensive. "Or I thought I did. Told her she was wrong, that what you and I have is real."
"But it's not," I say automatically, then wince at the hurt that flashes across his face. "I mean, it wasn't. When she confronted you."
"No," he agrees, his voice carefully neutral. "It wasn't then."
The implication hangs between us—that it is real now, or becoming so. But the text message has cast a shadow over the fragile new thing growing between us, reminding us of how this whole thing started.
"We need to be careful," I say, pushing myself into a sitting position, putting more space between us. "If someone's watching, taking photos..." The intrusion makes me shiver.
"I'll deal with Kaitlyn," Declan says, his tone hardening. "This stops now."
"How?" I challenge. "By confirming her suspicions? By telling her she's right, that this whole thing has been fake from the start?"
"Nothing about last night was fake," he says fiercely. "Nothing about how I feel when I'm with you is fake."
The intensity of his declaration steals my breath. This is so far from the arrangement we agreed to. This is messy and complicated.
And I'm falling headlong into it, despite every instinct for self-preservation screaming at me to retreat.
"I should get to practice," Declan says when I don't respond. "Coach scheduled an early session before tomorrow's game." He hesitates, searching my face. "Will you be there? The game?"
"Of course," I say, the answer automatic now. "I said I would."
Relief softens his features. "We'll figure this out, Ellie. The picture, Kaitlyn, all of it." He leans forward, pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead. "And... us. We'll figure us out too."
Us. Such a small word to hold so much terrifying potential.
I watch him gather his things, transform back into the public version of himself—Declan Wolfe, hockey star, campus celebrity. But now I've seen behind the mask, glimpsed the vulnerability beneath the confidence, felt the tenderness in hands built for dominance on the ice.
At the door, he pauses. "Text me later?"
I nod, not trusting my voice. When the door closes behind him, I collapse back onto my bed, emotions swirling like autumn leaves in a windstorm. The sheets still smell like him—that indefinable mix of clean laundry, expensive cologne, and something uniquely Declan that makes my body respond even in his absence.
I close my eyes, drifting in and out of sleep until my phone buzzes again. With a surge of anxiety, I check it, half-expecting more threats from Kaitlyn.
Instead, it's Mia: EMERGENCY. Meet me at Central Café ASAP. The internet is exploding.
I'm showered, dressed and out the door in record time, my still-damp hair pulled into a messy bun, minimal makeup applied to hide the sleepless shadows under my eyes. The crisp morning air clears my head somewhat, but anxiety churns in my stomach as I speed-walk across campus.
Central Café is crowded with Saturday morning students seeking caffeine and carbs to remedy Friday night's excesses. I spot Mia at our usual corner booth, her expression grim as she scrolls through her phone.
"What's happening?" I ask, sliding in across from her.
She pushes her phone toward me without a word. On the screen is an Instagram post from Westford Confessions, the anonymous campus gossip account that thrives on exposing secrets and scandals. The photo is the same one sent to my phone—Declan and me asleep in my bed—but the caption makes my blood run cold:
Spotted: Hockey golden boy @DeclanWolfe9 slumming it with transfer student. Sources say it's all for show—a fake relationship to keep Coach happy and NHL scouts impressed with his "maturity." Bad luck for the dozens of girls he's strung along this year. #FakeNews #ReputationRehab
"It's everywhere," Mia says quietly. "Twitter, Snapchat, the campus forum. Someone's on a mission to expose you guys."
Nausea rises in my throat. This is exactly what I feared from the beginning—public humiliation, my private life turned into campus entertainment. And worse, the exposure of our arrangement before it served its purpose for either of us.
"Who would do this?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"Three guesses, and the first two don't count," Mia says grimly. "Tall, blonde, swims like a fish, dated Declan last semester?"
"Kaitlyn," I confirm. "She texted me the photo this morning. But how did she even know? How did she get that picture?"
"The real question," Mia says, leaning forward, "is what you're going to do about it."
I stare at her blankly. "What can I do? The truth is out there now. The whole campus knows our relationship was fake."
"Was?" She raises an eyebrow. "Past tense?"
Heat floods my cheeks. "It's... complicated."
"Holy shit," she breathes, eyes widening. "Something happened. Spill. Now."
Before I can respond, the café door swings open, and the ambient noise drops instantly. Declan stands in the entrance, scanning the room until his eyes lock on mine. He's fresh from practice, hair still damp, wearing Westford sweats and an expression of thunderous determination.
Every eye in the café follows his progress as he strides directly to our booth, ignoring the whispers. Without hesitation, he slides in beside me, his arm draping over my shoulders in a gesture that's become familiar but now feels like a declaration.
"Morning," he says to Mia, his voice perfectly casual, as if the entire campus isn't watching our every move. "Mind if I steal your breakfast date?"
Mia's eyes dart between us, a mixture of amusement and concern in her expression. "All yours," she says, gathering her things. "But fair warning—you two are trending."
"I know," Declan says grimly.
“Call me later,” Mia says, and then she’s gone.
"You okay?" Declan asks softly.
The tenderness in his voice, the genuine concern in his eyes—it melts something frozen inside me. Whatever else is happening, whatever complications swirl around us, this feels real. He feels real.
"I've been better," I admit. "The whole campus thinks I'm a pathetic loser who had to fake-date the hockey star."
"Actually," he corrects, "they think I'm the desperate one who needed a fake girlfriend to salvage my reputation." His thumb traces circles on my shoulder, a soothing gesture that's become second nature. "But neither of those things is true, is it?"
The question hangs between us, heavy with implication. We started this arrangement for calculated reasons—his need for a stable image, my desire for academic advancement. But somewhere along the way, calculation gave way to genuine feeling. Performance became reality.
"No," I say softly. "Not anymore."
Relief softens his features. "Good. Because I have a plan."
"A plan?" Wariness creeps into my voice. Declan's plans are what got us into this mess to begin with.
"We don't deny it," he says, leaning closer. "We own it. Yes, we started dating as an arrangement. Yes, it began as something strategic. But then..."
"Then what?" I prompt when he hesitates.
His eyes hold mine, intense and unwavering. "Then I fell for you. For real. The smart, sharp-tongued girl who calls me on my bullshit and makes me want to be better. The girl who sees past the hockey star to the actual person underneath."
My heart hammers against my ribs, emotions tangling in my chest—hope, fear, desire, doubt. "Is that true?" I whisper, needing to hear it plainly, without performance or calculation.
"Every word," he says, his voice rough with sincerity. "I'm done pretending, Ellie. I want a real relationship with you. No arrangement, no expiration date. Just us, figuring it out together."
The café seems to fade around us, the audience of curious students disappearing from my awareness. There's only Declan—his eyes holding mine, his hand warm against my skin, his words echoing in the space between us.
"People will think I'm just another conquest," I say, giving voice to my deepest fear. "The plain academic you seduced as part of some game."
"Let them," he says fiercely. "We know the truth. And eventually, they'll see it too."
I want to believe him. Want to believe that this gorgeous, talented man with his bright future and endless options could genuinely choose me—quiet, serious, academically focused me. But doubt gnaws at the edges, fed by years of insecurity and the recent wound of James's betrayal.
"I need time," I say finally. "To think, to process. This is all happening so fast."
Disappointment flickers across his face, but he nods, respecting my boundaries even now. "Take all the time you need," he says, pressing a kiss to my temple as he slides out of the booth. "I'll be at the arena later if you want to talk more."
I watch him walk away, aware of the dozens of eyes tracking his movements, the whispers that follow in his wake. When the door closes behind him, the café erupts in excited chatter, and I sink lower in my seat, wishing I could disappear.
My phone buzzes with a text from Mia: Need extraction?
I look around and spot her at a table a few feet away.
She never left.
I smile despite myself. Yes. Emergency ice cream required.
She appears back at my side moments later, linking her arm through mine as we exit under the collective scrutiny of what feels like the entire student body. "For the record," she says as we escape into the crisp morning air, "that man is completely gone for you. Fake relationship or not."
Her certainty should be comforting. Instead, it feeds the anxiety writhing in my stomach. Because if this is real—if Declan's feelings for me are genuine—then I have so much more to lose when it inevitably falls apart.
And things like this always fall apart. My mother taught me that when she walked away without a backward glance. James reinforced the lesson when he chose momentary pleasure over our future together.
People leave. Happiness is temporary. Love is unreliable.
These are the truths I've built my life around, the protective walls I've constructed to survive. And now Declan Wolfe—with his ocean eyes and gentle hands and fierce declarations—is systematically dismantling them, brick by carefully laid brick.
The hockey arena pulses with energy, bodies pressed together in the stands, collective breath fogging in the cold air above the ice. I sit in what has become "my" seat in the family section, Declan's jersey hanging loose over my thermal shirt, my hands wrapped around a cup of hot chocolate that does little to warm the chill inside me.
I've spent the entire time since the cafe in a fog of confusion, turning over Declan's words, his touch, the sincerity in his eyes when he said he wanted something real. Part of me—the romantic, hopeful part I thought died with my mother's abandonment—wants desperately to believe him. To leap into whatever this is becoming, consequences be damned.
But the rational, self-protective part remains skeptical, cataloging all the reasons this can't possibly work. He's Declan Wolfe—campus royalty, future professional athlete, scion of privilege. I'm Ellie Gardner—transfer student, academic hermit, supposed good-girl.
"You look like you're contemplating world peace or nuclear annihilation," Caroline Wolfe says, settling into the seat beside me with her usual elegant grace. "Possibly both."
I force a smile, still uncomfortable with the easy way she's accepted me into their family circle despite the artificial nature of my relationship with her son. "Just pre-game nerves," I lie.
Her knowing look suggests she's not fooled. "I saw the post," she says quietly. "The one claiming your relationship with Declan is... strategic."
My blood runs cold. Of course she's seen it. The entire campus has seen it, shared it, commented on it. Why would I think Declan's parents would be immune?
"Mrs. Wolfe—"
"Caroline," she corrects automatically.
"Caroline," I amend. "I can explain—"
"No need." She pats my hand, her smile gentle but her eyes sharp with perception. "Relationships begin for all sorts of reasons, Ellie. Some for convenience, some for passion, some for practical considerations." She glances toward the ice, where the teams are warming up. "What matters isn't how they start, but how they evolve. How they transform."
I stare at her, caught off guard by the absence of judgment in her voice. "You're not... upset?"
"About what? That my son recognized a quality young woman and found a way to bring her into his life?" Her laugh is soft, genuinely amused. "Declan has always been resourceful. And he's never looked at anyone the way he looks at you, regardless of how it began."
Before I can process this unexpected perspective, the crowd roars as the players take their positions for the opening face-off. I spot Declan immediately, his focus absolute as he crouches at center ice. Just before the puck drops, his eyes lift to the family section, finding me with unerring accuracy. The ghost of a smile touches his lips before his game face returns, all business as the referee releases the puck.
The game unfolds with brutal intensity, bodies colliding, sticks clashing, the crowd a living entity that breathes and roars with each turn of play. Declan is magnificent—fierce and graceful, dominating the ice with a skill that makes even my untrained eye recognize his exceptional talent.
By the second period, Westford leads 2-1, both goals assisted by Declan though he hasn't scored himself. The crowd chants his name with each possession, a rhythmic thundering that reverberates through the arena. I feel a strange mix of pride and unease—pride in his obvious skill, unease at the public adoration that follows him everywhere.
During a break in play, Caroline leans closer, her voice pitched for my ears alone. "Richard won't be joining us tonight," she says, a hint of something—relief? frustration?—coloring her tone. "Business dinner in the city."
"Oh," I respond, unsure what she expects from me. "That's... too bad."
Her smile turns knowing. "It's not, actually. I love my husband, but his... reservations about you were becoming tiresome."
"Reservations?" I echo, though I'm not surprised. Richard Wolfe's assessment of me at dinner had been clear enough.
"He has very specific ideas about Declan's future," she explains, a shadow crossing her elegant features. "About the kind of partner who would best advance the Wolfe family interests."
"And I'm not it," I conclude flatly.
"You're not what he expected," she corrects. "But expectations can change, Ellie. Richard will come around, especially when he sees how happy you make our son."
The confidence in her statement—as if my relationship with Declan is a foregone conclusion, a permanent fixture rather than the complicated, undefined thing it currently is—unsettles me. I'm saved from having to respond by a surge in the crowd's energy as Westford's offensive line drives toward the opposing goal.
Declan has the puck, skating with a speed and precision that draws gasps even from the opposing team's fans. He weaves between defenders, stick handling with casual mastery, then suddenly passes—a no-look behind-the-back feed that lands perfectly on his teammate's stick. Brady one-times it into the net, and the arena erupts.
The team mobs Brady, but it's Declan they're celebrating—the architect of the play, the leader whose vision created the opportunity. As they skate back to the bench, Declan's eyes find me again, a question in them that I can read even from this distance: Are you watching? Are you impressed? Are you mine?
I smile, a small acknowledgment that yes, I see him. Yes, I recognize his brilliance on the ice. But the other questions—the ones about us, about what's real and what's pretense—those remain unanswered, churning in my chest like a storm-tossed sea.
The third period passes in a blur of tension and release, East Ridge ultimately securing a 4-2 victory that sends the crowd into ecstatic celebration. Caroline excuses herself to speak with some university officials, leaving me alone in the family section as I wait for Declan to emerge from the locker room.
I check my phone to pass the time, finding a barrage of texts from Mia ( OMG DID YOU SEE THAT ASSIST? ) and one from an unknown number: Hope you enjoyed the show. Ice princesses like you never keep his attention for long.
My stomach twists with a familiar anxiety. Another message from Kaitlyn, presumably. Her campaign to undermine whatever is developing between Declan and me seems to be escalating, from public exposure to personal intimidation.
"There's my girl."
I look up to find Declan approaching, freshly showered, his damp hair curling slightly at the ends. He's dressed in dark jeans and a blue button-down that makes his eyes look impossibly bright. The possessive note in his greeting— my girl —sends a complicated flutter through my chest.
"Great game," I say, forcing a smile despite the turmoil inside me. "That assist was incredible."
"You noticed?" His face lights up with boyish pleasure, transforming his features from handsome to breathtaking. "I wasn't sure you'd understand the significance."
"Your mother explained it," I admit. "Along with most of the rules. She's surprisingly knowledgeable about hockey."
"She should be. She played in college." I try to picture Caroline on the ice, and somehow, it works. She has a fieriness inside of her that seems suited to the game. Declan takes my hand, fingers intertwining with mine as if it's the most natural thing in the world. "Victory party at the hockey house. Come with me?"
The invitation catches me off guard. We've carefully avoided the hockey house parties during our arrangement—too public, too many people who might see through our performance. But now, with our "relationship" exposed and in flux, the old boundaries no longer apply.
"I don't really do parties," I hedge.
"One hour," he bargains, his thumb tracing circles on my palm in a way that makes rational thought difficult. "Just long enough for me to make an appearance, then we can go somewhere quiet and talk. Really talk."
The sincerity in his voice, the vulnerability beneath the confidence—it disarms me as it always does. "Fine," I concede. "One hour."
His smile is worth the anxiety twisting in my gut. He pulls me into a hug, his arms strong around me, his lips pressing a kiss to my temple—that signature gesture that's become as familiar as my own heartbeat.
The hockey house is already pulsing with celebration when we arrive, music throbbing through the floorboards, bodies packed into every available space. The team's arrival—led by Declan, with me at his side—triggers a new wave of cheers and raised cups.
"WOLFE!" Brady appears, already well on his way to intoxication, throwing an arm around Declan's shoulders. "Fucking brilliant feed, man! Didn't even see you looking!"
"Wasn't looking," Declan confirms with a grin. "Just knew you'd be there."
"Damn right I was." Brady's attention shifts to me, his smile warming further. "Ellie! You're actually at a party! Voluntarily!"
"Miracles never cease," I say dryly.
Brady laughs, genuinely delighted. "I like her, Wolfe. Keep this one." He leans in conspiratorially. "He's useless without you, you know. All mopey and distracted before you came along."
"Brady," Declan warns, but there's no heat in it.
"What?" Brady feigns innocence. "Just telling your girl the truth. You were a disaster after Kaitlyn—"
"And that's enough of that," Declan interrupts, his expression tightening. "Drinks? Ellie?"
"Water," I request, my mind caught on Brady's casual revelation. After Kaitlyn. What happened with Kaitlyn that left Declan a "disaster"? And why hasn't he mentioned it?
Declan disappears toward the kitchen, leaving me with Brady, who seems to realize he's stumbled into sensitive territory. "Sorry," he says, surprisingly perceptive despite his intoxication. "Didn't mean to bring up ancient history."
"It's fine," I assure him, though it isn't. "Declan's past relationships aren't my business."
Brady studies me, his expression turning serious. "Look, I don't know what's going on with you two—the rumors, the posts, all that drama. But I know my best friend. And he's different with you. Better." He glances toward the kitchen. "Don't let Kaitlyn's bullshit fool you. She's just pissed because he finally found someone real."
Before I can respond to this unexpected vote of confidence, a commotion near the front door draws our attention. The crowd parts like the Red Sea, revealing a group of girls making an entrance clearly designed to be noticed. At their center, like a queen among courtiers, stands Kaitlyn—stunning in a dress that barely covers the essentials, her blonde hair gleaming under the party lights.
Her eyes scan the room with predatory focus, landing on me with a smile that sends ice down my spine. She whispers something to her friends, who giggle in response, then begins making her way toward me with deliberate slowness.
"Shit," Brady mutters beside me. He glances toward the kitchen again. "Declan's gonna lose it."
As if summoned by his name, Declan emerges from the kitchen, drinks in hand. He freezes when he spots Kaitlyn, his expression shifting from relaxed to thunderous in an instant. She sees him at the same moment, her smile widening as she changes course, heading directly for him instead of me.
I watch, stomach churning, as she reaches him—pressing her body against his in a greeting that's deliberately provocative, her lips close to his ear as she says something that makes his jaw clench. He steps back immediately, putting space between them, but the damage is done. The entire party is watching now, phones raised to capture whatever drama is unfolding.
Declan says something to her, his expression hard, then pushes past to continue toward me. But Kaitlyn follows, her voice carrying over the music: "Running back to your fake girlfriend, Declan? How sweet."
The room quiets, anticipation hanging heavy in the air. Declan reaches me, his face a mask of controlled fury as he hands me a water bottle. "We're leaving," he says, his voice tight. "Now."
"But we just got here," I point out, even as relief floods through me at the prospect of escape.
"Trust me," he says, his voice dropping lower. "You don't want to be here for what comes next."
Before I can ask what he means, Kaitlyn appears at his shoulder, her smile venomous as she looks me up and down. "So this is her," she says, as if I'm not standing right there. "Your little academic project. Gotta say, I expected more from the girl who supposedly 'changed' Declan Wolfe."
Heat rises to my cheeks—embarrassment, anger, the humiliation of being assessed and dismissed in front of an audience. But before I can form a response, Declan steps slightly in front of me, a subtle shield against Kaitlyn's venom.
"Back off, Kait," he says, his voice dangerously quiet. "You've made your point. Now leave Ellie alone."
"Or what?" she challenges, alcohol and bitterness making her reckless. "You'll pretend to date her even harder?" She turns to the watching crowd. "You all know it's fake, right? He asked me first—wanted me to play the role of reformed girlfriend so Coach would stop riding his ass about partying." Her laugh is harsh, brittle. "I said no, so he found someone desperate enough to say yes."
The words land like physical blows, each one striking deeper than the last. He asked me first. He asked me first. He asked me first.
I stare at Declan, waiting for him to deny it, to say it's a lie designed to hurt us both. But the guilt in his eyes, the muscle jumping in his jaw—they confirm what I already know in my gut to be true.
"Ellie," he begins, reaching for me. "I can explain—"
I step back, away from his touch, away from the truth crashing down around me. The room spins slightly, faces blurring as tears threaten. Not here. I will not break down here, in front of everyone, in front of her.
"I have to go," I whisper, turning blindly toward the exit.
"Ellie, wait!" Declan calls after me, but I'm already pushing through the crowd, desperate for air, for space, for escape from the humiliation burning through me.
Outside, the night air hits my lungs in a rush, cold and clarifying. I gulp it down, wrapping my arms around myself as I stride away from the hockey house, away from the whispers and stares, away from the revelation that I was never his first choice—just the available option when his preferred candidate declined.
Footsteps pound behind me, and then Declan is there, catching my arm, turning me to face him. "Ellie, please," he begs, his expression raw with emotion. "Let me explain."
"Explain what?" I demand, anger pushing through the hurt. "That you asked your ex-girlfriend to fake-date you before you settled for me? That I was just convenient when she said no?"
"It wasn't like that," he insists, his hands reaching for mine. I pull away, needing distance to think clearly. "Yes, I approached Kaitlyn first. But that was before—before I knew you, before everything changed."
"Nothing's changed," I say bitterly. "This was always an arrangement, always a performance. The only difference is now I know I wasn't even your first choice for the role."
"You were the only choice that mattered," he says, his voice dropping to that rough register that usually makes my knees weak. Now it just feeds the anger burning in my chest. "Kaitlyn was a mistake—I was desperate, not thinking clearly. The moment I really saw you, really talked to you... Ellie, there's been no one else since."
I want to believe him. God, how I want to believe him. But the evidence of my own experience screams caution—James's promises of fidelity, my mother's assurances of love, all proven false when tested.
"I need space," I say finally, struggling to keep my voice steady. "Time to think."
"Don't do this," he pleads, a vulnerability in his expression I've never seen before. "Don't let Kaitlyn win. Don't let her ruin what's real between us."
"Is it real?" I challenge, the question that's been haunting me since our first kiss. "Or just another performance that got too convincing?"
The hurt that flashes across his face makes something twist in my chest, but I hold firm. I need answers, need truth, need to understand what's happening between us before I fall any deeper into this quicksand of emotion.
"You know the answer to that," he says quietly. "Last night wasn't fake. This morning wasn't fake. The way I look at you, touch you, want you—none of that is fake, Ellie."
His words stir something molten in my core, memories of his hands on my skin, his lips against mine. But doubt persists, a persistent shadow over the brightness of what might be growing between us.
"I need to go," I say again, taking another step back. "Please, Declan. Just... give me time."
For a moment, I think he might refuse, might pursue this confrontation to its bitter end right here on the street. But then his shoulders slump slightly, resignation replacing the desperate intensity in his eyes.
"Okay," he concedes. "Time. But Ellie, don't shut me out completely. Please."
The vulnerability in his voice nearly breaks my resolve. "I won't," I promise softly. "I just need to think."
He nods, accepting this small concession. "Let me walk you back to your dorm at least. It's late, and after everything with Kaitlyn..."
"I'll be fine," I assure him, though the thought of walking across campus alone after the emotional turmoil of the evening is less than appealing. But I need the solitude, need space to process the chaotic swirl of emotions threatening to drown me.
"Text me when you get there?" he asks, his concern touching even through the hurt.
"I will," I agree.
He takes a step toward me, hesitates, then says, "For what it's worth, I never meant to hurt you. And I've never regretted anything less than asking you to be part of this arrangement, whatever it started as."
The sincerity in his voice, the raw honesty in his eyes—they chip away at the wall of anger and betrayal I'm trying to maintain. Before I can respond, he turns and walks back toward the hockey house, his shoulders set in a rigid line that speaks of restraint, of respect for my boundaries even at cost to himself.
I watch until he disappears inside, then turn and begin the long walk back to my dorm, tears finally falling freely in the darkness, where no one can witness my weakness.
He asked me first. He asked me first. He asked me first.
The words repeat in my head like a toxic mantra, feeding the insecurity that's haunted me since childhood—that I'm not enough, not worthy, not the one people choose when given options.
But beneath the hurt, another voice whispers insistently: He chose you anyway. He's choosing you still, even when it's hard, even when it's messy. Even when he could walk away without consequence.
By the time I reach my dorm, exhaustion has settled into my bones, emotional and physical. I text Declan as promised—a simple Home safe that feels inadequate but is all I can manage. His response comes instantly: Sleep well. I'm here when you're ready to talk.
I collapse onto my bed, still fully clothed, curling around the hollow ache in my chest. The sheets still carry the faint scent of him from this morning—was it only this morning?—when everything seemed possible, when the line between fake and real had blurred beyond recognition.
Now clarity has returned with brutal force. This began as an arrangement, a convenient fiction to serve our separate purposes. That Declan may have developed genuine feelings along the way doesn't change the fundamental dishonesty at its core—or the fact that I was his second choice when crafting this scheme.
Sleep eludes me, my mind replaying every moment between us, searching for signs I missed, clues to his true intentions. When dawn finally breaks, I've reached no conclusions, only a bone-deep certainty that whatever is developing between Declan and me is far more complicated, far more real, and far more dangerous than either of us anticipated.
And I have no idea what to do about it.