Page 9

I wake to unfamiliar shadows dancing across an unfamiliar ceiling, my body deliciously sore in ways that instantly bring memories flooding back—Declan's hands exploring with reverent intensity, his lips tracing paths of fire across my skin, the weight of him pressing me into the mattress as we moved together in perfect, devastating synchronicity.

A flush of heat spreads through me at the memory, warming places that had been cold for so long I'd forgotten warmth was possible. I turn my head to find him watching me, propped on one elbow, eyes soft with something that makes my chest ache.

"Morning," he says, voice roughened by sleep, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Sleep okay?"

"Great," I admit, the truth easier in this hushed space between night and morning, when reality feels slightly suspended. "You?"

His smile widens, transforming his face with boyish delight that makes him look younger, more vulnerable than the confident hockey star the world sees. "Same," he says, fingers gently brushing a strand of hair from my face. The casual intimacy of the gesture steals my breath. "Though I'm not convinced I wasn't dreaming. Might need some confirmation that last night actually happened."

Before I can respond. The kiss is languid, unhurried, lacking the desperate edge of last night's passion but no less devastating for its gentleness. My body responds instantly, nerve endings firing like sparklers in July, heat pooling low in my abdomen.

"Convinced?" I murmur against his mouth when we finally part.

"Getting there," he teases, his hand sliding beneath the sheet to trace patterns on my bare hip. "Might need more evidence."

What follows is a slow, deliberate exploration If last night was revelation, this morning is confirmation, a testament to something that has nothing to do with arrangements or performances and everything to do with the simple, devastating truth of two people choosing each other in the clear light of day.

After, wrapped again in the warmth of his arms, my head tucked perfectly beneath his chin, the reality of it all begins to hit me.

"What are you thinking about?" Declan asks, his fingers tracing lazy circles on my shoulder. "You've got that look."

"What look?"

"The one where your mind is racing a million miles an hour, analyzing everything." His chest vibrates with quiet laughter beneath my cheek. "It's cute. Terrifying, but cute."

I pinch his side lightly, earning a satisfying yelp. "I was thinking about how weird this is," I admit. "Us. This. Everything."

He shifts slightly, tilting my chin up to meet his gaze. "Weird good or weird bad?"

"Weird unexpected," I clarify. "If someone had told me a month ago that I'd be waking up in Declan Wolfe's bed, having...feelings for him, I'd have suggested psychiatric evaluation."

"Feelings, huh?" His grin is unbearably smug. "What kind of feelings might those be, Gardner?"

I roll my eyes, trying to maintain some semblance of the walls he's systematically dismantled. "Don't push your luck, Wolfe."

His phone buzzes on the nightstand, saving me from emotional exposure. He sighs, pressing a quick kiss to my forehead before reaching for it.

"Coach," he explains, checking the screen. "Team meeting at noon. Something about championship preparations." He sets the phone down, returning his attention to me with a smile that melts my insides. "Which gives us exactly three hours to shower, eat breakfast, and maybe..." His hand slides down my side, leaving trails of electricity in its wake. "...continue this enlightening conversation."

I laugh, pushing him away halfheartedly. "I need to get back to my dorm. Change clothes, get my books for class."

"Skip it," he suggests, nuzzling my neck in a way that makes rational thought increasingly difficult. "Stay here with me."

The temptation is powerful—to remain in this bubble of warmth and newly discovered pleasure, to pretend the outside world with all its complications doesn't exist. But reality intrudes like cold water, reminding me of papers due and presentations to prepare.

"I can't," I say reluctantly. "I have Feminist Literary Theory at two, and the paper's due today."

He groans dramatically but releases me, flopping back against the pillows. "Fine. Be responsible. See if I care."

The petulant act makes me laugh again, a lightness in my chest that feels foreign after so many months of careful emotional control. "You could join me in the shower," I suggest, emboldened by this newfound intimacy between us. "For efficiency's sake."

His eyes darken at the suggestion, desire flaring hot enough that I feel it like a physical touch. "Efficiency," he repeats, already sliding out of bed, gloriously nude and completely unselfconscious. "Yes. Very important. Conservation of resources and all that."

What follows is anything but efficient, but the waste of water is more than compensated by the discovery that shower sex with Declan Wolfe is just as earth-shattering as bed sex, if somewhat more logistically challenging.

By the time we're dressed and fed—Declan insisting on making breakfast despite my protests that coffee would suffice—it's nearly eleven, and the real world is pressing in with increasingly urgent insistence.

"I'll walk you back," he says, gathering his keys and phone.

"Not necessary," I demur, suddenly anxious about being seen together on campus after the events of the last few days. The posts about our "fake" relationship have doubtlessly continued to spread, and while what's developing between us feels undeniably real, I'm not eager to subject it to public scrutiny so soon.

Declan's expression tells me he knows exactly what I'm thinking. "Hiding me already, Gardner?" The question is light, teasing, but I catch the hint of vulnerability beneath.

"Not hiding," I correct, stepping close to smooth the collar of his shirt, needing physical contact suddenly. "Just... protecting this. Whatever it is. Before it becomes public property."

His hands settle on my hips, warm and steady. "I get it," he says softly. "But Ellie, people already think they know what's happening between us. The only way to counter that is to show them the truth."

"And what is the truth?" I challenge, the question that's been hovering at the edges of my consciousness since last night. "What are we, Declan?"

"We're us," he says simply. "No labels necessary yet if you're not ready. But I'm not pretending this isn't real anymore, and I'm not hiding how I feel about you to make other people comfortable—including you."

The gentle challenge in his words silences my instinctive retreat. He's right. We've moved beyond performance into something authentic, and hiding it only feeds the narrative Kaitlyn is spreading—that we're a calculated arrangement rather than two people genuinely drawn to each other.

"Okay," I concede, rising on tiptoes to press a quick kiss to his lips. "Walk me back. Show the world that Declan Wolfe is willingly associating with a known academic."

His answering smile is worth the anxiety the decision provokes. "Their minds will be blown," he agrees, taking my hand as he leads me toward the door. "The scandal of it all."

The campus is busy with mid-morning activity when we emerge from his apartment building, students hurrying to classes or lounging on benches enjoying the early spring sunshine. I'm acutely aware of the stares that follow us, the whispers that trail in our wake as we walk hand-in-hand across the quad. Declan seems oblivious—or perhaps just unconcerned—his thumb tracing small, soothing circles on my palm as if sensing my discomfort.

"Ignore them," he murmurs, leaning close enough that his breath stirs my hair. "They'll find something else to gossip about by tomorrow."

"Easy for you to say," I mutter. "Your reputation is only enhanced by being seen with someone who spends more time in the library than at parties."

He stops abruptly, turning to face me with unexpected seriousness. "You think that's what this is about for me? Reputation enhancement?"

The hurt in his voice catches me off guard. "No," I backpedal quickly. "That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?" he presses, his eyes intent on mine.

I struggle to articulate the insecurity that still lingers despite the intimacy we've shared. "Just that... you have less to lose in this equation. People see you with me and think you're broadening your horizons, showing hidden depth. They see me with you and assume I'm just another conquest, or that I'm using you for social advancement."

His expression softens, understanding replacing the hurt. "Ellie," he says, his voice dropping to that register that seems to vibrate through my body. "I couldn't care less what people think about us. But I care very much what you think. And if you're still wondering if this is some kind of game or image rehab for me, then I need to do a better job showing you it's not."

Before I can respond, he cups my face in his hands and kisses me—not a casual peck, but a proper kiss, deep and thorough, right in the middle of the main quad with dozens of witnesses. It's a declaration, a claiming, a public announcement that whatever is happening between us is real and significant.

When he finally pulls back, my face is flaming and my knees are embarrassingly weak. Around us, the whispers have intensified, and several people aren't even bothering to hide the fact that they're recording the moment on their phones.

"There," Declan says with satisfaction. "That should clarify things."

"Or fuel speculation for weeks," I counter, but I can't suppress the smile tugging at my lips. The gesture was equal parts ridiculous and romantic, pure Declan in its blend of showmanship and sincerity.

"Let them speculate," he says, reclaiming my hand as we resume walking. "We know the truth."

The simple confidence in his statement settles something inside me—a persistent doubt that has lingered despite the evidence of his actions, his words, his touch. Maybe he's right. Maybe what matters isn't what others think or believe, but what we know to be true between us.

By the time we reach my dorm, some of my earlier anxiety has dissipated, replaced by a cautious optimism that perhaps we can navigate this transition from fake to real without the entire process becoming public entertainment.

"Team meeting in thirty minutes," Declan says, checking his watch reluctantly. "But I'll call you after? Maybe dinner tonight?"

"I'd like that," I admit, still getting used to the freedom of expressing what I actually want rather than what seems safest.

His smile is like sunrise after the longest night, transforming his features with simple joy. "Great. I'll pick you up at seven?"

"Perfect." I hesitate, then rise on tiptoes to press a quick kiss to his lips. "Good luck with Coach."

"I don't need luck," he says with theatrical confidence. "I've got you."

The simple declaration, delivered with his trademark blend of arrogance and sincerity, makes my heart skip. I watch him walk away, his athletic grace evident even in this mundane movement, and wonder at the strangeness of fate—how something that began as calculated performance has become the most authentic connection I've experienced since before my mother walked out the door without a backward glance.

As I climb the stairs to my room, my phone buzzes with a text message. Expecting Declan, I check it with a smile already forming.

The smile freezes, then dies as I read: Enjoy it while it lasts, Library Girl. He always comes back to where he belongs. Always.

Attached is a photo I've never seen before—Declan and Kaitlyn in what appears to be an intimate embrace, his face buried in her neck, her expression triumphant as she looks directly at the camera. The timestamp shows last night, around the time Declan and I were having our intense conversation on the library bench.

The photo is clearly doctored—I know exactly where Declan was last night, and it wasn't with Kaitlyn. But the manipulation is skillful enough to give me pause, to awaken the dormant insecurities that have merely been sleeping, not banished. What if it was taken right before I saw him? What if --

"Delete it," a voice behind me says, making me jump. I turn to find Mia, her expression a mixture of concern and anger as she peers over my shoulder at my phone screen. "It's fake, Ellie. Badly photoshopped. Look at the lighting on his hair versus the rest of the scene."

I squint at the image, seeing what she means now that she's pointed it out. Relief floods through me, quickly followed by anger at my own gullibility, at Kaitlyn's increasing desperation to drive a wedge between Declan and me.

"She's escalating," I say, deleting the message as Mia suggested. "First the social media post, now fake photos. What's next?"

"Nothing, if she has any sense of self-preservation," Mia says darkly. "Because if she keeps this up, I'm going to personally ensure she regrets it."

The fierceness of her defense warms me even as I shake my head. "Don't. It's not worth it. She's just—"

"Pathetic?" Mia supplies. "Desperate? Psychotic? All of the above?"

I laugh despite myself, the tension easing from my shoulders. "Something like that."

"So," she says, linking her arm through mine as we continue up the stairs. "I hear you and Declan put on quite a show in the quad. Want to tell me what's going on there?"

“We're just... I don’t know, figuring things out," I hedge.

"Figuring things out," she repeats skeptically. "Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"

"Shut up," I mutter, but there's no heat in it.

She studies me as we reach my door, her expression turning serious. "You really like him, don't you? This isn't just the arrangement anymore."

"It never really was," I admit quietly, unlocking my door and ushering her inside. "Or at least, it stopped being just that pretty quickly. I just couldn't admit it to myself."

"And now?"

I sink onto my bed, suddenly overwhelmed by the events of the past twenty-four hours—the confrontation with Declan, the intensity of our connection, the looming complications of Kaitlyn's vendetta and campus gossip.

"Now I'm terrified," I confess, the words escaping before I can censor them. "Because this is real, Mia. Really real. And real means it can really hurt when it falls apart."

"Who says it's going to fall apart?" she challenges, sitting beside me.

"Statistics. Experience. Common sense." I tick off the points on my fingers. "He's going to the NHL after graduation. I'm going to Columbia. Those worlds don't exactly align. And even if they did, people like him don't end up with people like me in the long run."

"People like him?" she echoes. "You mean genuinely good guys who look at you like you hung the moon? Who defend you against psycho exes and treat you with respect and make you smile more in the past week than I've seen in the entire time I've known you?"

Put that way, my objections sound hollow, paranoid. But the fear remains, bone-deep and persistent. "You don't understand," I try to explain. "My mother left. James cheated. Everyone I've ever trusted has proven untrustworthy in the end."

"Declan isn't James," Mia says gently. "And he's certainly not your mother."

"I know that," I say, frustrated at my inability to articulate the tangled web of fear and hope and desire churning inside me. "Logically, I know that. But emotionally..."

"Emotionally, you're waiting for the other shoe to drop," she finishes for me. "For him to reveal that this has all been another kind of performance."

The accuracy of her assessment silences me.

"Ellie," she continues, her voice softening. "At some point, you have to decide if the possibility of joy is worth the risk of pain. Because from where I'm sitting, Declan Wolfe is offering you something real. Something worth risking for."

Her words echo in my mind long after she leaves for her afternoon class, long after I've showered and changed and gathered my books for Feminist Literary Theory. The possibility of joy versus the certainty of safety. The risk of pain versus the guarantee of emotional isolation.

When has playing it safe ever made me truly happy? When has guarding my heart ever brought me genuine fulfillment?

The questions haunt me through my afternoon classes, through dinner preparations with Declan, through the quiet intimacy of his apartment as we talk and laugh and explore this new territory between us. They follow me into his bed, into his arms, into the moments of breathtaking vulnerability as we move together in the darkness.

And in the quiet after, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear, his breathing deep and even in sleep, I find myself whispering the truth I'm not yet brave enough to voice when he's awake:

"I'm falling in love with you."

The words hover in the darkness, both terrifying and liberating in their simple truth. I am falling in love with Declan Wolfe. Despite my best efforts at emotional self-preservation, despite the walls I've built and the doubts I've nurtured, despite the rational objections and the statistical improbability—I am falling, have fallen, into something I never thought possible after James's betrayal.

The realization should send me running for the familiar safety of emotional distance. Instead, I find myself curling closer to Declan's warmth, allowing myself to imagine a future where this isn't temporary, where the expiration date we initially established dissolves into something open-ended and full of possibility.

It's a dangerous fantasy, one I've denied myself for so long that indulging it now feels almost illicit. But in the safety of darkness, with Declan's arms around me and his heart beating steady against my cheek, I permit myself this small rebellion against years of careful emotional control.

.