Page 7 of The Endless Want

“I’ll keep things running,” I tell him.

He studies me a moment longer, then lowers his voice. “Be patient with him. He’s… rebuilding in his own way.”

“Rebuilding or self-destructing?”

“Sometimes those look the same.” Then, he turns and gives a pointed look to Mackenzie but doesn’t openly say a word.

And with that, Liam’s gone—off to his next crisis, leaving the scent of expensive cologne and impossible expectations in his wake.

I don’t wait around to see how Mackenzie takes it. My job is done here, and I’m suddenly exhausted again. That same exhaustion Declan always gives me.

Except now he doesn’t even have to be in the room to cause it.

I leave my car at the warehouse and walk. It’s forty minutes to my building and the rain has finally stopped, and I tell myself it’s because I need the air, even if the air tastes like rust. The truth is that I have been driving the same route home for three years and tonight I would rather not be predictable.

My phone buzzes once in my pocket—no name, just a message:

Lock your doors tonight. Don’t ask why.

Declan.

Of course.

Half a warning, half a command. Typical.

I should ignore it. Instead, I check the locks twice before pouring another drink. To much is going on to not heed a warning, no matter who it came from.

The apartment’s too quiet again. I turn on the radio just for noise—low jazz, the kind Mackenzie swears makes her feel like a femme fatale. I close my eyes and let it fill the space between thoughts.

But thoughts don’t listen. They circle back to him.

To the rain dripping from his hair at the dock. To the muscle ticking in his jaw when I told him I used to have a reason to trust him. To the half-second where I thought he might actually reach for me.

I drop the glass into the sink before I shatter it.

Stop it, Ailish.

You’re not a silly teenager. You’re not that girl who thought loyalty and love could coexist in the same body.

I grab my laptop, try to drown myself in spreadsheets—inventory, shipment logs, security rotations—but the words blur. My chest aches in that stupid, familiar way.

I push the laptop aside and pace the living room. Every creak of the floorboards sounds like footsteps. Every gust of wind against the window sounds like his voice.

When the knock comes, I freeze.

Three sharp raps. The same rhythm Declan used to use when he didn’t want the neighbors to know he was there.

My pulse trips over itself.

I cross the room on silent feet and look through the peephole. No one. Just rain and hallway light.

“Paranoid,” I whisper, but my voice shakes.

I slide the chain off anyway and open the door an inch. The hallway’s empty—except for a folded piece of paper on the floor.

I pick it up. His handwriting again. Two words:

Declan handwritten note; Stay sharp.