Page 217 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

And it would be messy.

Naturally, the day I decide to move on, Dexter gives him a human-of-the-year award.

Et tu, Dexter?

Silence stretches between us.

Not hostile. Not cold.

Just... heavy.

Like we’re both dragging around a conversation we’re too scared to start.

I open my mouth to say something—anything—about the weather, the Mets, literally not kissing in closets.

But Declan beats me to it.

“I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable,” he says.

Voice low. Rough around the edges.

“In the closet. I was just trying to calm you down. Maybe I got carried away.”

Oh.

My heart twists.

Because for a moment—I let myself wonder. What if.

I plaster on a bright smile, forcing the lie to come easily.

“No, of course not. It was just... a lot. You know? Stress. Adrenaline. Tiny closet.”

He nods once.

But something flickers in his eyes I can’t read.

And because I’m a walking panic attack in human form, I blurt:

“You probably have a girlfriend anyway.”

Smooth, Poppy. Very smooth.

God, someone shoot me with a tranquilizer dart.

Declan’s expression shifts—barely. The smile fades. Something quieter moves in.

“No girlfriend.”

The words hit like a dart to the chest.

No girlfriend.

Sweet buttered pancakes, Poppy—you already knew that!

Sebastian grilled him like a steak last week in a speed round of “Declan’s Love Life.”

I should nod politely.

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