After dinner, she brings out dessert—Baileys chocolate mousse with shaved dark chocolate—and me and Rouge actually shut up for a good ten seconds just to appreciate it.
Then Rouge points his spoon at her hand. “So. When’s the wedding?”
Siobhán nearly chokes on a berry. “Rouge!”
“What?” He shrugs. “Man puts a boulder on your finger the size of a small planet, I’m allowed to ask questions.”
I glance at her. She glances back. And for a moment—just a moment—the entire future flashes between us. A church. A piano. Snow. Her last name becoming mine. My chest tightens with something I’ve never had before—hope that doesn’t terrify me.
“We’ll figure it out,” she says softly.
Rouge nods, satisfied. “Good. ‘Cause I better have a place in this family. Preferably one where I don’t have to babysit either of you.”
“You’re stuck with us,” she says, smiling over her glass. “Forever.”
I wrap my arm around her shoulders, tug her close. “You’re family, Rouge. Always have been.”
He looks down like maybehe’sabout to get emotional, then ruins it immediately. “Yeah well, if I walk in on you two on the damn kitchen counter again, I’m revoking my membership.”
Siobhán groans and covers her face. I throw a napkin at his head. And God—God—if this isn’t the closest thing to home I’ve ever felt, I don’t know what is.
We clean up dinner slowly, like none of us are quite ready for this night to end. Siobhán hums under her breath—some half-remembered carol—while I dry the dishes she hands me. Rouge leans against the counter with a glass of whiskey, pretending he’s supervising when really he’s swaying like a man twice his age.
“Don’t judge me,” he mutters when Siobhán raises a brow. “Near-death experiences and holiday emotions are exhausting.”
“You ate three helpings,” she says.
“That too.”
I snort, handing him another splash of whiskey. He takes it like I’ve just given him medicine for his soul. We sit with him for a while—talking wedding nonsense, futures, colors she pretends she hasn’t already picked, the way her eyes lit up when she talked about children’s concerts and charity shows. Rouge teases us. We tease him. It’s warm. Easy. The kind of night you don’t realize you’re going to remember until you’re right in the middle of it.
Eventually Rouge’s head starts to dip. Then dip again. Then drop fully onto his chest. Siobhán presses her lips together, trying not to laugh, but she fails spectacularly. A bright, soft sound that fills the whole house.
“Alright, soldier,” I murmur, standing. “Bed.”
He grumbles something that might be English or might be a prayer, but he lets us haul him up. We guide him to the couch—he insisted he didn’t need a guest room, said couches were the superior napping furniture—and he flops down like a corpse.
I grab the throw blanket from the armchair and spread it over him. Siobhán tucks it around his shoulders with all the care of someone tending a child. Rouge, half-asleep, slaps my handaway and mumbles, “Touch me again, Captain, and I’ll haunt you.”
Siobhán bites her lip, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. I stare at them—my soldier, my siren—and something in my chest goes soft in a way I don’t have language for.
“Goodnight, Rouge,” she whispers.
“‘Night… Duchess,” he mumbles without opening his eyes.
We turn off the lights, leaving only the glow from the fireplace and the tree. I take her hand. She squeezes back. And we head toward the bedroom. Her hair is down, wild from the night, curls brushing her collarbones. The ring I put on her hand glints with every breath she takes.
“Cillian…” she whispers, and it’s not a question. It’s an unraveling.
I cup her jaw with one hand, thumb sweeping over her cheekbone. “Come to bed,a rún,” I murmur.My secret. My beloved.
Her breath hitches. But when I guide her toward the hallway, she tugs on my shirt—soft, unsure, wanting. I stop.
Her fingers curl in the fabric. “Not bed,” she whispers, cheeks flushed. “Not yet.”
Oh. Oh, I’m done for.
I slide my hands to her waist, pulling her slowly against me. “Where, then?”
