She nods, and we walk in comfortable silence for a few minutes. I notice the way she looks around, taking in the city with curious eyes, and I try to see it through her perspective—the narrow streets and old buildings, the mix of modern and ancient that makes Dublin what it is.
"It's beautiful," she says softly, and I glance at her in surprise.
"You think so?"
"Yes." She looks up at me, and there's something in her expression I can't quite read. "It feels... real. Like it has history. Like it's lived."
I think about that, about the centuries of blood and struggle that have soaked into these streets, and I suppose she's right. Dublin has lived. It's survived. Maybe that's why I've always felt more at home here than in Boston, where everything felt too clean, too new, too full of memories I'd rather forget.
We reach the pub, a small place tucked away on a side street, and I hold the door open for her. Inside, it's warm and dimly lit, with dark wood and the smell of beer and greasy food. There are a few other patrons scattered around, but it's not crowded, and I lead Maeve to a booth in the back corner where I can keep my back to the wall and watch the door. Old habits, and all of that.
She slides into the booth across from me, and I order us both drinks when the server comes by. Maeve asks for a hard cider, and I get a Guinness, and when we're alone again, there's a moment of awkward silence.
"I've never really done this before," Maeve says suddenly, her fingers tracing patterns on the worn wood of the table.
"Done what?"
"This. A date." She looks up at me, and there's vulnerability in her eyes. "My father never let me go out much. And after he died, Desmond was even more protective. I think I went to maybe three social events in the last two years, and they were all with family watching me like a hawk. Not that I really wanted to go to any of them, anyway," she adds with a shrug.
The thought of her locked away in that big house, isolated and alone, makes something dark and angry stir in my chest. "Your family shouldn’t have treated you that way," I say, and her eyes widen slightly at the vehemence in my tone. "Keeping you sheltered like that. You're not some fragile thing that needs to be locked away."
"They thought they were protecting me," she says softly. "Especially after Siobhan died. Desmond was terrifiedsomething would happen to me, too. So was my father, in his own way, I think."
"And something almost did anyway." I lean back as the server returns with our drinks, waiting until she's gone before continuing. "You can't live your life in a cage, Maeve. Even if the bars are made of good intentions."
She takes a sip of her cider, considering my words. "Is that why you left Boston? To get out of a cage?"
The question catches me off guard, and I find myself answering more honestly than I intended. "Partly. Boston has too many ghosts for me. Too many memories of things I'd rather forget. Dublin felt like a fresh start.” It’s not the whole truth, but it’s part of it. The closest I’ve come, with her.
"But you're a killer here," she says, and there's no judgment in her voice, just curiosity.
"Yeah." I take a long drink of my Guinness, the bitter taste familiar and grounding. "But I chose it. I was given a choice, and I made mine. Before, I felt… trapped. Like my life was turning out in a way that I hadn’t had any say in.”
"I understand that," she says quietly. "Feeling trapped in a role you never chose."
Our eyes meet across the table, and I realize we're more alike than I thought. Both of us shaped by violence and loss, both of us trying to figure out who we are outside of the expectations placed on us. Neither of us can escape them, not entirely… or this marriage we’ve been forced into.
The server returns to take our food order—a burger and fries for me, and fish and chips with a salad for Maeve, the only green thing in this place, I think—and the moment passes, but something has shifted between us. The conversation flows more easily after that, moving from topic to topic with a naturalness I didn't expect. Maeve tells me about the books she likes to read, about how she used to play piano before the deaths in her family.I find myself telling her about Dublin, about the places I like to go when I need to think, about Flynn and how we met years ago when we were both young and stupid and thought we were invincible.
She laughs at some of my stories, and the sound is like music, bright and genuine. I realize I want to hear it again. I want to be the reason she laughs, I think, and the thought startles me. I’ve never had it before, about anyone.
The food arrives, and I watch her try to navigate eating fish and chips with a fork and knife before I show her how to just use her hands. She looks scandalized at first, then amused, and when she takes a bite, she closes her eyes in pleasure.
"This is amazing," she says, and there's a smudge of grease on her lower lip that I have the sudden urge to kiss away.
"Told you the food was good," I say, my voice rougher than I intend.
We order a second round of drinks, still talking. I can see the roses in Maeve’s cheeks, a smile on her lips, and suddenly, I want to stay out here with her forever. I don’t want to go back to the apartment, where I’ll have to decide how this night ends, where I’ll have to grapple with my desire and my guilt. I want this—the most simple pleasure I’ve ever enjoyed with a woman. I wanther.
When we’ve finished our second round, I pay the bill and get Maeve her coat. When we step back out into the Dublin night, the air has turned colder still, biting down to the bone with the wet. Maeve shivers slightly, and without thinking, I shrug out of my jacket and drape it over her shoulders. It's far too big on her, swallowing her small frame, but she pulls it tighter around herself and smiles up at me.
"Thank you."
"Come on," I say, offering her my arm. "I want to show you something."
She takes my arm, her hand small and warm against my forearm, and I lead her through the streets toward the river. It’s dark and quiet tonight, the water reflecting the lights of the city, and we walk along the quay in silence. It's peaceful, the kind of peace I rarely allow myself to feel, and having Maeve beside me makes it better somehow.
"It's beautiful," she says, looking out over the water. "I can see why you like it here."
