11. Declan

ELEVEN

DECLAN

I step into the university's main hall, the familiar buzz of activity wrapping around me like a comforting hum. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingles with the sweet scent of pastries, but even that does little to distract me from the heaviness that's been weighing on me for a week now. It's been seven days since the kiss— that kiss—and I still can't get Savion out of my head.

I scan the room, taking in the crowd gathered for the foster youth initiative. It's a cause that means everything to me, and today should be a celebration of the work we're doing. But no matter how hard I try, my mind keeps wandering back to Savion. To that moment in the library when everything shifted between us.

That kiss… it was unlike anything I've ever experienced. The best kiss of my life, hands down. The way his lips felt against mine—soft, tentative, but with a hunger that matched my own. It sent sparks racing through me, as if the whole world had stopped, leaving only the two of us standing in the quiet of that library aisle.

But then it all fell apart. The look on his face the moment he pulled away—wide eyes, flushed cheeks, and sheer panic. He had stumbled back, breathless and scared, mumbling something about it being a mistake. And then he was gone, bolting before I could even process what had just happened. I didn't chase him, partly because I didn't know how to react, and partly because I knew he needed space. But every part of me wanted to stop him, to tell him that everything was fine—that we were fine.

For the next three days, I tried reaching out to him. Calls, texts, anything. But there was no response. After the third day, I forced myself to stop. If he needed space, I'd give it to him. But the silence since then has been eating at me.

Was the kiss really a mistake for him? Or was it something more that he couldn't deal with? I don't know. All I know is that it's been a week, and I'm still thinking about him. Constantly.

I spot Dr. Evelyn Greene near a quieter corner, her silver-streaked hair neatly pinned back in a bun. She's talking with a group of attendees, her round glasses slipping down her nose as she gestures animatedly. Seeing her brings a sense of relief. Her presence has always been grounding for me, ever since I was in the foster system myself. She was the one who helped guide me when things were rough, a lifeline when I had none.

"Declan!" Her voice is like a warm hug before she even pulls me into an embrace. "It's been too long," she says with that familiar twinkle in her eyes.

"Dr. Greene, it's great to see you," I say, returning the hug.

She steps back, looking me over with a fondness that eases some of the tension in my chest. "You look well. I'm so glad you could make it today. Your support means the world to us—and to them."

Her words bring a sense of purpose back into focus, reminding me why I'm here. The work we're doing to support foster youth is bigger than anything else, bigger than my own personal drama. This event is a chance to help kids like the one I used to be. And for now, that's what I need to focus on.

"Wouldn't miss it," I tell her. "This initiative—it's important. Anything I can do to help, I'm all in."

She smiles, squeezing my arm before getting called away to speak with another guest. I stand there for a moment, watching her go, letting the sense of gratitude settle in. Dr. Greene saved me in so many ways, and now, I'm paying it forward.

As I make my way toward the front of the room, I glance at the attendees—students, alumni, donors—all gathered to support the cause. My thoughts drift back to Savion. I wonder if he's okay. If he's thinking about me too. Part of me wants to text him again, just to see if he's ready to talk. But I push the thought away. Today is about the foster youth, not my tangled emotions.

As I approach the stage, I take a deep breath. The keynote is about to begin, and I need to pull it together. Grabbing the microphone, I clear my throat, the chatter around the room slowly dying down as all eyes turn toward me.

"Good afternoon, everyone," I begin, my voice steady despite the storm in my head. "Thank you all for being here today and for supporting this initiative. As someone who's been through the foster system, I know firsthand how critical programs like this are. They provide not just resources but hope. Hope that there's something better out there, that we can create a future that's brighter than the past we've lived through."

I pause, letting my words sink in. My eyes scan the room, seeing the nods of agreement. "This initiative is about more than just giving back. It's about breaking cycles, about showing these kids that they're worth something, that they can achieve their dreams no matter where they come from. It's about creating opportunities—opportunities I wish I had when I was their age."

My throat tightens as I think back to the scared kid I used to be—the one who felt alone, without a safety net. "I wouldn't be standing here today if it weren't for people like Dr. Greene and the support I received along the way. That's why we're here. To give these kids the same chance."

The room is quiet, the weight of my words hanging in the air.

"Thank you again for being here," I finish. "Your support means more than you know."

Stepping back from the mic, I hear the applause, but all I can think about is the gnawing absence of Savion. I hope he's okay. And more than that, I hope he knows that kiss meant something. To me, it meant everything.

After my stint at the event and exchanging pleasantries with some of the attendees, and with the promise to Dr. Greene that we would have dinner before I head to Rocktoberfest, I slip out of the room. Luckily, an elevator is there, its doors open.

As I step inside, the doors begin to slide shut, and I almost jump when I see Savion rush in just before they close. My breath catches. But the initial flicker of relief at seeing him is replaced by a tightening knot of tension in my chest. We haven't talked. Not about the kiss. Not about what it meant. And now we're here, face to face, and I'm not ready. Hell, I don't know if I'll ever be ready.

Savion looks… different. His honey-blond hair, always styled so perfectly, now falls messily over one eye, like he's been running his hands through it all day. His clothes are rumpled, not at all like the put-together version of him I'm used to. He's always been meticulous, composed, but now—now, he looks exhausted. Worn down. The sharp edges of his control fraying at the seams.

God, he's beautiful. Even like this. Especially like this.

He glances up, his eyes locking on mine. There's a flash of surprise there, maybe even something softer, something I can't quite read, before he quickly masks it. "Declan," he says, his voice rougher than usual, like he hasn't slept.

"Savion." I try to sound neutral, unaffected, but my voice betrays me. There's a tightness in my throat, the syllables coming out too stiff. "Didn't expect to see you here."

"Yeah, me neither." He rubs a hand over his face, a weary gesture that makes my chest ache. His exhaustion is palpable, and I can't help but notice the faint tremor in his fingers as he lowers his hand.

The silence that follows is suffocating. The elevator feels impossibly small, the walls pressing in on us. I can't stop watching him, taking in every little detail I've missed this past week—how his hand fidgets with his shirt, how he's trying so hard to seem fine when I know he's not.

I hate that I know. I hate that I care so much.

The air between us is thick—too thick. His cologne lingers in the air, a familiar scent that brings memories of that kiss flooding back with painful clarity. My pulse quickens. I want to say something, anything, but the words stick in my throat. Instead, we just stand there, the silence stretching, filled with everything we haven't said.

It's like he's standing a foot away and a million miles apart at the same time. And all I can think about is the way his lips felt against mine, the way he tasted, the way I've been trying and failing to stop thinking about it ever since.

The elevator lurches to a stop, jerking us both slightly off balance. The lights flicker, then settle into an eerie, dim glow. The doors don't open. Great. Now we're stuck.

The tension ratchets up another notch, the space between us shrinking with every labored breath. I glance at him again, and his face is tight, like he's holding something back—panic, maybe. His hand tugs at his shirt, his fingers trembling as he fidgets with the fabric. Sweat beads on his forehead, smudging the makeup he always uses to cover his scars. He looks like he's barely holding it together, and it does something to me, seeing him like this. Makes me want to reach out, to touch him, to offer something—comfort, connection, anything.

But the last time I touched him it upset him. I don't want to cause him any more pain.

"This is just perfect," I say, trying to lighten the mood. "Just what we needed, right?"

"Yeah, perfect," he echoes, his voice strained. His breathing's shallow now, quick and uneven, and I realize with a jolt that he's on the verge of panicking. His eyes dart around the small space, and I can almost feel the walls closing in on him.

He's unraveling. Right here, in front of me.

His breaths are shallow, ragged. His chest rises and falls too quickly, each inhale seems to be a struggle, as if the air itself is conspiring against him. He grips the railing, knuckles white, and I can see the tremor in his hand. His eyes are wide, unfocused, darting around the cramped space like a trapped animal. It's like he's shrinking into himself.

"I can't stand this," he whispers, voice trembling. The words cut through the suffocating silence, raw and exposed, just like him. "The walls are closing in." He pauses to take a breath. "I can't breathe."

The heat in the elevator is oppressive, making it hard to think clearly. My own shirt is sticking to my back, but I barely notice. All I can focus on is him—his quick, panicked breaths, the way his hand occasionally brushes against his face as if he's trying to hold himself together.

"Hey." My voice softens instinctively. "Breathe with me, okay? In… and out." I try to keep my tone steady, calm, even though inside, I'm anything but.

His eyes meet mine, wide and panicked, and for a second, I think he's going to fall apart. But then he nods, just barely, and starts trying to match my breathing. His chest rises and falls, too quickly at first, but slowly, slowly, it starts to even out.

My hand moves on its own, a tentative touch on his shoulder, meant to steady him. The warmth of his skin seeps through the cotton of his shirt, and for a second, I think he might pull away. But he doesn't. Instead, he leans into the touch, just a little, almost imperceptibly, and the tension in his body eases ever so slightly.

"You're not alone in this," I say softly, trying to bring some comfort. "We'll be out of here soon. Just keep breathing with me."

Slowly, agonizingly, his breathing begins to even out, the panic receding bit by bit. His grip on the railing loosens, though he still looks like he's teetering on the edge. I don't push, just stay close, letting him come back to himself at his own pace.

Minutes stretch into what feels like hours. The silence between us is thick. Finally, I decide to break it, hoping to distract both of us from the oppressive stillness.

"What brought you to the university today?" I ask, keeping my voice gentle. "I didn't expect to see you here."

Savion blinks, his gaze focusing on me as if he's pulling himself back from some distant place. "I gave a presentation in the archaeology department. They wanted me to talk about some recent finds in the field." His voice is still shaky, but there's a hint of strength returning.

"That's impressive," I reply, genuinely interested. "I was here to contribute to Dr. Evelyn Greene's event. She's the counselor who helped me survive my childhood when I was in foster care. She's the reason I'm still here, to be honest."

"You were in foster care?" His voice is softer now, tinged with something like empathy.

For once I don't mind. Apart from with my brothers in the band, that time in my life isn't something I talk about. It just goes to show how comfortable I've felt with Savion from the first evening I met him.

"Yeah," I nod, keeping my tone even. "Spent three years bouncing between homes and aged out when I turned eighteen. It wasn't easy, but Dr. Greene was there for me when I needed someone the most. She helped me deal with the trauma, the feeling of being unwanted. I'm here anytime she needs me at the university."

Savion doesn't say anything, but I can see the wheels turning in his mind.

After what feels like an eternity, the elevator suddenly lurches, a groaning noise echoing through the small space. Savion stiffens, his breath hitching again, but the lights flicker back on, brighter now, and with a shuddering jolt, the elevator starts moving.

Relief washes over me, but I'm not entirely sure if it's because we're finally getting out or because the tension between us has somehow eased during these minutes—or hours—together. The doors slide open with a soft ding, revealing a brightly lit lobby that feels a world away from the dim, claustrophobic space we've just left.

Savion glances at me, a flicker of something in his eyes—maybe gratitude, maybe something else—but he quickly looks away. "I'll be okay," he mutters, his voice strained but resolute.

A couple of maintenance workers stand there, looking relieved but also slightly concerned. One of them, a middle-aged man with a tool belt slung low on his hips, steps forward. "You two okay? We got an alert that the elevator was stuck, but it took a while to get it back up and running."

"We're fine," Savion says quickly, brushing past them before they can press further. He's already putting distance between us, physically and emotionally.

"Sorry about the trouble," I add, giving the maintenance workers a nod. "Thanks for getting us out."

"No problem," the older worker replies, his brow furrowed with lingering concern. "If either of you needs anything, the admin office is right down the hall."

I nod again and quickly follow Savion as he heads toward the exit. He's moving quickly, like he can't get away from the building—and from me—fast enough. But I can't just let him go like this. I don't know what to do, whether to follow or let him go.

My instincts scream to keep him close, to make sure he's really okay, but I can see the determination in his step, the way he's trying to regain control. I can't take that away from him, no matter how much I want to stay by his side.

"Savion," I call out, and he stops, turning to face me with a guarded expression.

"Let me know if you need anything," I manage, my voice softer than I intend. "I'll check in later, just to make sure."

He gives a small nod, then he turns back around and continues toward the exit. The distance between us grows with every step he takes, leaving me standing there, caught between frustration and longing. I hate this feeling—this sense of being on the outside, of wanting more but not knowing how to get it.

As I watch him disappear into the crowd of students milling around, I make a promise to myself. I'll reach out. I'll follow up, even if it's just to make sure he's okay. Because after everything, I can't just let this go. There's too much at stake, too much left unsaid. And I'm not ready to walk away from that—not yet.