“Do what?”
“Play nice,” I say. “You’re bad at it.”
Her mouth tightens, then curves again—this time sharper. “Funny. I was thinking the same about you.” She glances pointedly at the knives stacked beside my plate. Then back to me. “Are you going to keep those all night, or are you just enjoying the view?”
The table goes still again. I lean back in my chair, eyes never leaving her face. “Careful.”
“Oh?” she murmurs. “Or what?”
Or I’ll forget where we are, I think. Or I’ll stop pretending I don’t want to put my hands on you.
“You’re testing me,” I say instead.
She tilts her head, feigning innocence. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And you already know how that ends.”
Her foot brushes mine under the table. Not accidental. Not subtle. “I might be willing to risk it,” she says quietly.
Heat curls low in my gut—slow, unwelcome, impossible to ignore.
I lean in just enough that only she can hear me. “You don’t want sweet, Róisín.”
Her breath stutters. Just once. “No,” she whispers back. “I don’t.”
I straighten again before I do something I can’t explain away later. The steak remains untouched between us. The knives stay by my plate. The tension coils tighter, darker, waiting. And we both know this is only the beginning.
I’ve had enough. The sniping. The performance. The way she’s sitting there like she’s daring me to lose my grip in front of the whole table. I reach for my knife. Metal slides against porcelain—clean, deliberate. I cut her steak into neat, precise pieces like I’m doing it for myself. Like this isn’t a line I’m crossing on purpose. Across the table, my father exhales sharply.
“For God’s sake, Finn,” he mutters.
I ignore him. I spear a piece with my fork and lift it, turning toward Róisín slowly. Intentionally. Giving her every chance to stop this.
“Eat,” I say.
Her eyes flash. “No.” Not polite. Not playful. Back to herself. Furious. Proud. “I’m not a child,” she snaps. “Put that down.”
I don’t. I bring the fork closer, holding it just below her mouth. Not touching. Not forcing. Waiting.
“You want control,” I murmur, low enough that only she hears. “There it is. Take it.”
Her jaw tightens. The whole table is frozen now—every man pretending not to watch while watching anyway. “I said no,” she repeats.
I tilt my head. “You said you were hungry.”
“I said you were being clever.”
Her gaze flicks to my mouth. Back to my eyes. Heat snaps between us like a live wire. I don’t move the fork. I don’t blink. Róisín leans forward and bites it. Clean. Deliberate. Teeth closing around the fork without breaking eye contact for a single second.
Something in my chest goes violently still. She pulls back, chewing slowly, eyes locked on mine the entire time. No shame. No submission. Just possession turned inside out.
My father huffs in disgust. “Christ.”
I don’t hear him. All I see is her mouth. All I feel is the way my grip tightens on the fork like it’s the only thing keeping me seated.
