Declan isn't wrong about Gansey, but hardly anyone sees the doubt, sees how much it torments him, how deep under his skin it goes. It makes the moment feel almost confessional.

But then there's that challenge, the insistence that he still has to choose, to command. And that he'll never know what he's doing. He sighs, and his lips thin. Because he doesn't think that he's wrong, not in the context of the world outside the walls of Monmouth, at least. But there's a small piece of comfort in that his struggles, fraught as they may be, at least make him better than a tyrant.

"Yes," he answers, a flush to his face as he says it, meeting his eyes despite the urge to hide from it. No hesitation or caveats or excuses, even if it would be easier. He's never talked about this. Never admitted to these things- but anything else feels like it would be a lie. There's still that edge of control in how he touches him, though. The way his fingers curl in his hair and pulls a little, like he's unwilling to let go when Declan makes that threat about slipping through his fingers.

"I'm not indecisive, I know what I want. Stay." It should be a question, a request, but it isn't. He's never actually had to let go. He wants so badly to give it all up for a while, but he's never had the luxury.