Mateusz felt something shift in his chest. He stepped closer—not much, just a half-step—and saw Declan's breath catch.

"I don't understand you," Mateusz said quietly. "You act like you don't care. Like I'm just—just some annoyance you have to deal with. But then you do things like that. Like Cross. Like coming out here tonight."

"I didn't—" Declan's voice was rough. "I didn't plan to come out here."

"But you did."

"Yeah." Declan's eyes met his. "I did."

They were close now. Too close. Mateusz could see the way Declan's chest was rising and falling, could see the pulse jumping in his throat.

The air between them felt charged. Electric.

Co ja robię? [What am I doing?]

Mateusz should step back. Should say something cutting, something that would break this tension and put them back on solid ground.

But he didn't.

Instead, he said, "Downstairs. When I was talking to Sloane. You were watching."

Declan's jaw tightened. "I wasn't—"

"You were." Mateusz tilted his head. "You're always watching."

"So are you."

The words hung in the air.

Mateusz's heart was beating too fast. His cigarette had burned down to the filter, forgotten in his hand.

Declan's eyes dropped—just for a second—to Mateusz's mouth.

Kurwa mać.

The door banged open.

"Declan!" Micky's voice, loud and drunk. "Dude, Sloane's looking for you. Says you promised her a dance or some shit."

Mateusz stepped back.

The cold rushed in, filling the space between them.

Declan blinked, looking dazed. "I—yeah. Okay."

He didn't move.

Micky was still standing in the doorway, oblivious. "You coming or what?"

Declan looked at Mateusz.

There was something in his expression—something that looked almost like an apology. Or a question.

Don't go, Mateusz thought. Stay. Say something. Be brave for once in your fucking life.

But Declan just nodded once, small and tight, and turned away.

"Yeah," he said to Micky. "I'm coming."

And then he was gone.

Mateusz stood on the balcony alone.

The cold bit at his skin. His hands were shaking again—definitely not from the cold this time.

He thought about the way Declan had looked at him. The way his eyes had dropped to Mateusz's mouth. The way the air between them had felt like a live wire, crackling with something neither of them was willing to name.

Pierdolić. [Fuck.]

He pulled out another cigarette and lit it with unsteady hands.

This was bad.

This was so, so bad.

Because for a second—just a second—Mateusz had wanted to close the distance between them. Had wanted to grab Declan by the front of his stupid perfect sweater and kiss him until neither of them could breathe.

And the worst part?

He was pretty sure Declan had wanted it too.

Yolanda found him twenty minutes later.

"There you are." She stepped out onto the balcony, arms wrapped around herself. "Jesus, it's freezing. What are you doing out here?"

"Thinking."

"About?"

Mateusz shook his head.

Yolanda studied him for a moment. Then she came to stand beside him, leaning against the railing.

"I saw Dawson come down from upstairs," she said quietly. "Looking like someone had stolen his puppy."

Mateusz didn't answer.

"Mat." Her voice was gentle. "What happened?"

He took a drag of his cigarette. Exhaled slowly.

"Nothing happened," he said.

"Liar."

"Nic się nie stało." [Nothing happened.]

Yolanda was quiet for a moment. Then: "You know you can tell me, right? Whatever it is."

"I know."

"And you know I'm not going to judge you."

"I know."

She waited.

Mateusz closed his eyes.

"I think," he said slowly, "I'm in trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

He thought about Declan's eyes. The way his voice had gone rough. The way he'd said I couldn't just stand there like it meant something.

"The worst kind," Mateusz said.

Yolanda didn't ask anything else. She just stood there with him in the cold, shoulder to shoulder, while the party continued below.

And Mateusz thought about Declan Dawson, and choices, and what it meant to want something you couldn't have.

They left an hour later.

The walk back to campus was quiet. Mateusz's head was spinning—from the vodka, from the cold, from everything that had happened on that balcony.

When they reached his dorm, Yolanda hugged him—tight, fierce.

"Get some sleep," she said. "And drink water."

"Tak, mamo." [Yes, mom.]

She punched his shoulder. "I'm serious."

"I know."

He watched her walk away, then headed inside.

His room was dark and quiet. He stripped off his hoodie, kicked off his shoes, and fell onto his bed without bothering to change.

His phone buzzed.

He almost ignored it. But something made him look.

Unknown Number: It's Declan. Got your number from the team list. I just wanted to say

The message ended there. Three dots appeared, then disappeared. Then appeared again.

Finally:

Declan: I'm sorry I left.

Mateusz stared at the screen.

His heart was pounding.

He should ignore it. Should put the phone down and go to sleep and pretend none of this was happening.

Instead, he typed:

Mat: you're always sorry

A pause. Then:

Declan: I know.

Declan: I'm trying to be better.

Mateusz's chest ached.

Cholera. [Damn.]

He typed:

Mat: try harder.

Then he turned off his phone and closed his eyes.

Sleep didn't come for a long time.

When it finally did, Mateusz dreamed of grey-blue eyes and a balcony in the cold and the feeling of almost—

Almost.