I kiss him again, softer this time. A promise instead of desperation. A beginning instead of an ending.
"I'll move back," I tell him when we finally pull apart. "But I'm keeping Luna's guest room as a standing option if you ever slip back into your controlling, emotionally constipated, secret-keeping ways."
He laughs, and it sounds rusty but genuine. "That's fair. I can't promise perfection. But I can promise I'll try."
"That's all I need," I say honestly.
He nuzzles into my hair, breathing me in like he's trying to memorize this moment. "I love you, Rosanna. And I'm going to spend the rest of our lives proving that I'm capable of the kind of love you deserve."
"I love you too." I pull back to look at him. "And you don't have to prove anything."
We stand there holding each other while the sun sets outside the conference room windows.
"Take me home?" I whisper against his chest.
“Yes,” he says simply.
He kisses the top of my head.
“Let’s go home.”
Chapter forty-two
Seamus
Iwake to the sound of cabinet doors opening and closing in the kitchen. For half a second, I'm disoriented—my penthouse has been silent for so long that domestic sounds feel foreign, like I'm in someone else's home. Then I hear her humming, that off-key melody she unconsciously produces when she's focused on a task, and everything clicks into place.
Rosanna is home. She's been home for three days now, and I still wake up half-convinced it's a dream. That I'll open my eyes and find the penthouse empty again, her sketchbooks gone, her terrible tea collection vanished, all evidence of her presence erased except for the hollow ache in my chest.
But the humming continues, punctuated by the clink of dishes and the smell of coffee brewing. Real sounds. Real evidence that she chose to come back. That she chose me—not the careful, controlled version I've spent years perfecting, but the real me. The messy, damaged Seamus who's also Shay who never fully trusted he could be loved.
I lie still for a moment, just listening.
The bedroom door opens slightly, and I see Rosanna peek in. When she notices I'm awake, her whole face lights up with that smile that still makes my chest tight.
"Morning," she says softly. "I'm making breakfast. Stay there—I'll bring it in."
I want to tell her she doesn't have to wait on me, that I can come to the kitchen like a functional adult. But there's something in her expression that tells me this matters to her. That she wants to do this—wants to bring breakfast to bed, wants to take care of me the way I've been trying to take care of her since she moved back in.
So I just nod and watch her disappear back toward the kitchen, and I let myself feel the full weight of gratitude and wonder that she's here. That she forgave me. That we get to try again.
Ten minutes later, Rosanna returns with a tray loaded with more food than two people could reasonably eat. There's coffee—made the way I like it, which she finally learned after I admitted that yes, the precise ratio of cream to coffee actually matters to me. Toast with the good butter from the farmer's market she dragged me to last weekend. Scrambled eggs that smell like she added that fancy cheese she loves. Fresh fruit arranged in a way that's probably aesthetically pleasing but mostly just looks like Rosanna—colorful and warm and slightly chaotic.
She sets the tray on the bed between us and climbs in next to me, tucking her feet under the covers. Her hair is pulled into a messy knot, and she's wearing one of my old t-shirts that she's claimed as sleepwear. No makeup, no effort to look polished or put-together. Just Rosanna in the morning, comfortable enough in our space to be completely herself.
"This is amazing," I tell her, reaching for the coffee first. "You didn't have to go to this much trouble."
"I wanted to." She steals a piece of my toast, and I don't even pretend to be annoyed. "Besides, we need fuel. We have that walkthrough with Dr. Vince this morning, remember? The historic preservation architect wants to show us what the restoration could look like."
Right. The Heritage Street building. Our building now, in a way I'm still getting used to. O'MalleyMart owns the property, but Rosanna has the long-term lease. We're partners in this preservation effort, figuring out together how to honor the building's history while making it functional for the community art center she's envisioning.
"What time is the walkthrough?" I ask, trying to remember the email Dr. Vince sent.
"Ten o'clock. Which gives us—" Rosanna checks her phone, "—about ninety minutes."
We eat in comfortable silence for a while, passing dishes back and forth, stealing bites from each other's plates. Rosanna has her sketchbook next to her—she always has it within reach—and she's absently doodling between bites. I watch her draw, fascinated by the way illustrations seem to appear effortlessly under her pencil.
"What are you working on?" I ask, nodding toward the sketch.
