I disappear into the kitchen without another word. But Iknowthe tremor I leave in my wake. And God help me, I hope it wrecks him. The chair creaks softly as I sit, legs crossed, chin lifted. I don’t speak. I don’t have to.
He follows a moment later, slow like he’s walking into a storm hewantsto drown in. No weapons this time—just a bottle of wine in one hand, two glasses in the other. He pours for me first. Gentle. Intentional. Like I’m something sacred he’s trying not to shatter.
The wine pools dark in the glass, a deep garnet swirl that catches the light like blood and velvet. He sets it in front of me without a word, then fills his own and sits down across from me. No distance could feel farther. And yet his eyes burn like we’re nose to nose.
I take a slow sip. Let the silence stretch long enough to make him shift in his seat. Let himfeelthe weight of every second I keephim waiting. Because he may have knelt for me… But he hasn’t bled yet. And Ilikemy men in penance.
He lifts his glass, gaze fixed on mine like I’m the only thing left on Earth worth burning for. “To the games we play,” he says, voice low and velvet-dark. “And the fools who think they’re winning.”
I raise my glass, my smirk slow and sharp. “To the devils we dance with,” I murmur. “And the saints we leave bleeding.”
We clink. The sound is delicate. Final. We drink, never looking away. Not once. Not even to breathe. Because this isn’t wine. It’s a war offering. And we’re both starving. He sets the bottle down with care, as if even the wine might shatter under the weight of what we are tonight.
"Sláinte," he says softly, lifting his glass. "To the ones who always come back. Even when they shouldn’t."
I raise mine to meet his, the crystal chiming like the memory of a song I used to know. "To bad ideas," I murmur, watching him over the rim as I sip. "The best ones are always dressed in suits and regret."
He huffs a laugh, but doesn’t look away. Neither do I. We eat slowly. Carefully. The way one plays an unfamiliar composition—testing each note, waiting for something to break.
He clears his throat. “You still play?”
His question is casual, but I feel the weight behind it. NotifI play, butfor whom behind closed doors, not on the world stage.
I nod, swirling the wine in my glass. “Every night. Even when my fingers shake. Especially then.”
He tilts his head, studying me. “Still favor the nocturnes?”
I smirk. “Still favor chaos. Chopin when I’m sad. Rachmaninoff when I’m dangerous.”
Cillian chuckles under his breath. “Danger suits you, dove.”
I let that one hang between us like a high note held just a second too long.
“And you?” I ask. “Still pretending you don’t miss the cello?”
His jaw flexes. A half-smile ghosts across his lips. “Touché.”
We fall into something like peace. Bites of roast chicken and rosemary potatoes. A bottle of red dwindling. The edge dulling, but never gone.
He taps his glass to mine again. “To the wicked notes we don’t regret.”
“To the unfinished compositions,” I reply. “And the fools who keep playing them.”
Our smiles match now—wry and worn.
“Remember Venice?” he asks suddenly. “That rooftop bar with the pianist who only knew three songs?”
I laugh. “And you bribed him to stop playingFür Elise?”
“I saved a city, Siobhán. Single-handedly. You’re welcome.”
I arch a brow. “You were drunk and charming and tried to dance with me on a tile roof. We nearly fell off.”
He leans forward, voice lowering like velvet across a grand piano. “You kissed me first.”
“I was trying to shut you up.”
“Didn’t work.”
