“No,” I murmur, eyes flicking to his mouth. “You’re still far too loud.”
“And you’re still the only thing that ever quieted me,” he says, soft and raw and real.
Silence settles again, but this one is warm—lush and inviting, like the hush before a crescendo. He reaches for his glass. I reach for mine. Fingers brush. The air crackles.
I lift my chin. “You planning to behave tonight?”
He grins, slow and sinful. “That depends entirely on the encore, love.”
We move like muscle memory. Plates scraped. Glasses stacked. Wine poured again. He rinses, I dry. The dance of once-were-lovers and maybe-again-strangers.
“Didn’t poison us, so I’d call that a success,” he says, elbow brushing mine at the sink.
I hum, amused. “There’s still dessert.”
He tilts his head. “A threat or a promise?”
“Depends how much of an arse you plan to be for the rest of the night.”
“Too late. I was born this way.”
I shake my head and smile despite myself.
Cillian O’Dwyer is a man who could turn confession into foreplay and murder into metaphor. But right now, he’s just a man with rolled-up sleeves and suds on his fingers, looking at me like I’m the only symphony he remembers how to play.God, I hate how soft I feel around him.The wine warms my throat. His scent—woodsmoke and salt—pulls at something low in my stomach. Every laugh between us is a thread pulling tighter.
“You’ve got that look again,” he murmurs.
I don’t glance up. “What look is that,Cill?”
“The one that says you’re deciding whether to kiss me or stab me.”
I offer him a fresh dish towel instead. “Keep talking and you’ll get both.”
His laugh is low, rough around the edges. “There’s my girl.”
I should correct him. Should remind him I’m not his. Not anymore. But the words don’t come. Instead, I lean on the counter beside him, glass in hand, watching as he loads the final plate into the drying rack. He moves like he always has—fluid, focused, impossibly sure of himself. And dammit, that steadiness feels like a lighthouse in the middle of the fucking storm I’ve made of my life.Safe.That’s the worst part. I feel safe with him. I never wanted to feel safe again.
When the dishes are cleared, I move on instinct—opening drawers, pulling out sugar, flour, chocolate, the good salt. The quiet stretches between us, thick but not suffocating. Cillian leans against the counter, sleeves rolled, watching like I’m a show he’s paid admission for.
“You’re really going to bake,” he says, amusement curling at the edge of his voice.
“Not bake.Fix,” I correct. “You gave me dinner; I’m giving you penance.”
“For what sin, exactly?”
“Existing.”
He laughs under his breath, that low, sinful sound that used to crawl right beneath my skin. “Fair.”
The scent of melted chocolate fills the kitchen, slow and warm. He pours more wine—of course he does—and sets a fresh glass beside me. I don’t thank him, but I take a sip anyway.
“Still addicted to over complicating everything,” he says. “Could’ve just opened the biscuits.”
“And let you think I’ve gone soft? Not a chance.”
He hums, a sound like approval. “Never thought you were soft, dove.”
I glance over my shoulder. “Careful, Cillian. You almost sound like you missed me.”
