Page 22 of Gray Area

Declan nods. “Yeah, Professor Edwards sent an email around lunchtime. Didn’t you get it?”

I shake my head, both in answer and to try and remove the fog around it. “I haven’t checked my email since yesterday,” I tell him.

“That would explain why you didn’t reply to mine.”

I scrunch up my forehead. “You sent me an email?”

“Yes, to ask if you wanted to meet in the library to work on our project. When I didn’t hear back from you, I took a chance on you being here.”

“Oh,” I say, still feeling foggy. And completely exhausted.

I blink but end up keeping my eyes shut, my eyelids too heavy to open again. I can feel Declan’s stare studying me. “Are you feeling okay?” he asks, his deep voice softer than I have ever heard it.

I nod and then wince, the motion causing my head to throb. “I have a headache,” I admit, putting my hand to my head.

“You don’t look well. Professor Edwards says he is sick, so maybe there is something going around,” Declan said. “We need to get you home.”

“No, I’m fine,” I say, shifting myself in my seat. “We can just head to the library and, ooph—”

On my attempt to stand, a sudden dizziness comes over me and I am pitched forward. Thankfully, Declan catches me before I careen to the floor.

“You are not fine,” Declan grinds out. His voice has a serious edge to it now, like he’s pissed off. I roll my head back and look up at him, his eyes giving the same serious vibe as his voice. “You need to go home.”

I want to argue, but I am really not feeling well. “I think you’re right,” I finally say. I move to gather my things, but Declan holds me firm.

“Sit,” he instructs and easily pushes me back into my seat. I watch as he gathers all my things from the desk and stuffs them into my bag. Normally anyone looking in my bag would be distressing for me, but currently I really don’t care—I just want to sleep. “Let’s go,” he says when he’s finished, putting his hand lightly on my arm. Despite my feeling like absolute garbage, his touch sends a little electricity up my arm.

“Where?” I ask, baffled.

“I’m going to take you home,” he tells me as he steers me to the door.

“I take the bus,” I tell him, refusing to move as he gives my arm a firm tug.

He glowers at me, as if my answer makes him angry. “You can’t wait out in the cold for the bus; you’re ill,” he informs me.

I do not like his tone. I pull my arm away from him and stand, forcing myself to remain still against the dizzy spell that sweeps through me. “Then I will walk home.”

“It’s ten fucking degrees out. You can’t walk home.”

“I did last week,” I tell him calmly, “and I made it just fine. And don’t swear at me.”

“Last week? Like when it was in the negatives? No wonder you are sick!” he explodes.

“It is actually a fallacy that walking in cold temperatures can make you ill,” I explain to him calmly. I move to go around him and he blocks my path. I heave out a breath and look up at him, squinting against the pressure in my head. “Please may I pass?”

He studies me, like I am a species of being from another world. “I am taking you home,” he finally states. Not an offer, or a question, but a demand.

“No, thank you,” I tell him.

“It wasn’t an offer,” he informs me. He is the sort of man who I am sure is used to his demands being met, and I am sure intimidating to one’s very core. But honestly, I have dealt with a lot of people in my short life that have demanded to be in charge, and I am over it. Also, I feel shittier the longer I stand.

“I’m good,” I say evenly. I push through my dizziness and move to take my bag but am stopped by a word I don’t expect.

“Please?”

Declan utters it so softly, so low, I’m not sure I heard it. And as I process that he actually said it, I realize it was asked as a question. I look up and his eyes are full of concern.

“I would feel much better if I knew you made it home okay. I just want you not to be in the cold, and safe at home.”

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