The things I’d do if she did.God, the things I will do when the time is right.
Careful not to make a sound, I slip deeper inside. I want to see everything, to understand the shape of her life when she thinks no one’s watching. Maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll find something to take with me. Something to keep my hands busy while I wait for the moment that I can finally have all of her.
The picture forming in my mind doesn’t match what I see. It’s softer, lived-in, full of ordinary things that make her seem painfully real. The inside of her life is a contradiction to everything I told myself about her. From the street, her house looks neglected, fading, but inside it’s strangely alive.
There’s a small entryway lined with hooks, a few coats hanging neatly, each one in its proper place. A pair of worn-out boots stand by the door, scuffed but clean. The floorboards are pale and creak faintly, betraying every movement.
The living room carries the same muted quiet. A grey sofa with a dark blanket thrown over its frayed corners, faces a low wooden table stacked with books and half burned candles. The walls are painted cream; however, time has left them uneven, patches of light and shadow in the places sunlight can’t reach.
It’s all so ordinary and that’s what makes it ache.
The scent of her clings to the air, faint yet sharp enough to pull me forward. My boots whisper over the floorboards, testing each step until I find the kitchen. Stepping inside, it feels weirdly intimate, standing where she cooks. I open every cabinet, everydrawer, taking in each detail, cataloguing her piece by piece. Tea bags, boxes of pasta. A half-empty jar of jam with a silver spoon still tucked inside as if she’d been interrupted mid-comfort. I want to know everything. What she eats, what she craves, what comforts her when she’s alone. Maybe someday I’ll cook for her, or better still… I’ll feed her from my fingers until she’s got no choice but to swallow whatever I give her.
Before I overexcite myself, I move to the fridge. Cold air spills out as I lean in. I scan the rows of vegetables, leftover takeout in neat containers before grabbing a bottle of water,her waterand crack it open. The snap of the cap breaking awakens something in my chest that shouldn’t feel this fucking good. As I close the fridge my reflection stares back at me in the stainless steel, my pupils blown wide, my teeth worrying at my lip like a dog with a bone.
As if I’m walking on air, I drift back into her living room and sink down onto her sofa as though I belong there, pretending I haven’t just crawled into her life like a parasite. Her scent is stronger here, it clings to the cushions and the blanket tossed over the armrest. Sweet and warm, almost enough to make me dizzy.
Out of desperation, I tip the bottle back and take a long gulp, imagining I’m swallowing part of her, as if I can actually taste her on my tongue. My cock twitches painfully and I nearly palm it, but I force myself to stop. So fucking badly, I want to unzip, to stroke myself raw surrounded by her.
Instead, my eyes catch on a stack of letters scattered across her coffee table. I lean forward, the water bottle dangling from my fingertips, and pick one up.
Croía McLouchain.
The name on the envelope punches a hole in my chest. My pulse stutters, then pounds harder. I mouth the name to myself. Kree-ah. (Croía.) It tastes right, fits her somehow, it’s delicate and sharp all at once. But, why does it scrape at the back of my mind like a splinter? Why does it sound as if it’s something I should know?
With a soft thunk, I set the bottle down on the coffee table, the condensation dripping onto the letter. I force myself up off the couch and begin pacing back and forth as though I’m a caged animal. Her name rolls around inside my skull, too slippery to catch. Why can’t I recall? Why does her name feel like a secret that I almost have my hands around, something just out of reach?
When the information doesn’t come, I stop pacing and stare at the letter again. It doesn’t matter, I’ll remember at some point.Faighim i gcónaí an rud atá uaim sa deireadh.(I always get what I want in the end.)
Croía McLouchain… she’s already mine. She just doesn’t know it.
Quietly, I slip down the hallway, my breath a ghost against the walls. My fingers trail along the light faded paint, grounding me. But my mind is already drifting ahead, locked on the pull thatdrags me closer to her room. Maybe if I see her again, up close, the memory will snap into place. Maybe I’ll remember why her name tastes similar to déjà vu on my tongue.
The second I step into her bedroom, the thought is ripped clean from my skull.
Fuck me, I forget how to breathe. My chest goes tight, my pulse a drumbeat in my ears. Croía is sprawled out on her back, just like an offering. Her arms stretched above her head. Her silver hair spilled across the pillow reminding me of moonlight. The blanket hangs low, baring her perfect breasts. Black lace hugging soft flesh, her pink nipples peeking through sheer fabric. My cock throbs, straining so hard against my pants, it’s agony. I swallow hard, the lump in my throat lodged there like a stone.
Before my brain can catch up, my body moves. Hungry and reckless. One step, then another. Until I’m standing over her, so close I can see the way her chest rises and falls with every soft breath. I drink her in, inch by inch. Her pale, creamy skin glowing in the dim light of her room, the soft curve of her stomach, the dark shadow where I know she’s warm and wet for me, even if she doesn’t know it.
God, I ache to touch her. My hands ball into fists at my sides, my nails biting into my palms as my teeth grind together, trying to clamp down the filthy growl crawling up my throat. Then, she moans. A soft, helpless sound that shatters me. She shifts, half-asleep, and the blanket slips away entirely.Fís neofa.(A holy fucking vision.)
My mouth goes dry, and my tongue tastes of ash. My knees buckle and I let them. I drop to the floor, kneeling at the side of her bed as though I’m some sinner begging for forgiveness. But, there’s no forgiveness left in me, just raw, clawing hunger. I crawl closer, drawn by her scent. That sweet warmth that makes me dizzy. My head dips low, my nose brushing between her thighs. I breathe her in, slowly and deeply, until my vision swims. She smells like salvation and sin all tangled up together. Fuck me, I want to bury my tongue inside her, taste every inch until she screams my name into the dark.
A low, broken whimper tears out of me before I even realize it. My nails dig deeper into my palms.Pionós.(Punishment.) In desperation I jerk back, forcing the heat to burn itself out behind my ribs instead of through my hands.
Stars form in my vision as I stumble to my feet, each heartbeat a roar of don’t do it. I can’t be that man.I won’t be that man.I would never force her. Even if every rotten, feral part of me wants to chain her to this bed and ruin her for anyone else.
One step at a time, I back away, choking on my own breath. I have to force my hands off the door frame before I splinter the wood with my grip. I retrace my steps, back to her front door. Every breath is measured, every shift of weight calculated so the floorboards don’t betray me. Then quietly I slip through the door and ease it shut until the lock clicks back into place. Sealing the monster on the outside of the threshold, for tonight, anyway.
Disgusted with myself, I gulp the chilly night air hoping it doesn’t wash the taste of her out of my mouth. It doesn’t.Ní dhéanfaidh aon ní.(Nothing will.)
Reluctantly, I force myself to walk away. I don’t dare look back. I can’t… because if I do, I’ll go back inside and this time, I won’t stop. I would never force her.
But God help me… I’ll make her want it.
Today has been one of those mornings. The kind that feels strange in a way I can’t quite pin down. Since the moment I opened my eyes, there’s been this restless flutter in my chest, as if something good is coming, though I can’t say what. I feel lighter somehow, as if the shame and embarrassment that wrapped around me like a noose has simply melted away overnight.
It might be because I’m seeing my sister Éire today. We meet once a week without fail. Just the two of us, with no ghosts and no secrets. Well, not the ones that matter. Nothing in this world fills my chest with warmth like watching Éire thrive. She’s in her final year at university, almost a doctor now. She’ll make a fine doctor, better than fine.Beidh sí iontach.(She’ll be brilliant.)
