It's been seventeen hours since I gave her a phone and a proposal. She has seven more.
The front door opens before I knock. Johnson, the household manager my mother insists isn't a butler, nods with the careful deference of a man who knows exactly what I'm capable of.
"Mr. O'Rourke. They're in the formal living room."
I nod back. Johnson is ex-military. We've never discussed it, but the recognition is mutual. He carries himself with the vigilant alertness of a man who has seen things—things that have never fully left. A calculation lives behind his eyes that I respect. He sees the world the same way I do—as a series of angles, exits, and potential threats.
The formal living room brims with pre-dinner conversation. Lorcan is sprawled in an armchair, his lankiness a deliberate contrast to the stiff antique upholstery, glass of whiskey in hand. He's in the middle of a story that requires expansive hand gestures. Ronan sits on the opposite couch, an amused half-smile playing at his mouth. Ma occupies her usual throne-like chair, her posture ruler-straight, rings glinting on every finger.
Cillian stands near the window with Nora. His hand rests at the small of her back in a gesture so casual it's clearly automatic. Her body angles toward his, not touching except for that point of contact, but oriented in his direction like a compass finding north. For some reason, I find it hard to pull my gaze from them.
"Declan.” Ma stands extending her cheek for the obligatory kiss. "You're late."
"Traffic," I lie.
"You look exhausted." Her eyes narrow, then flit down to my raw knuckles. "And your hand?—"
"Heavy sparring session.”
Ma crosses to the bar cart. "Drink?"
"Whiskey. Neat."
She pours with the precision of a woman who serves alcohol as both hospitality and strategy.
Lorcan finishes his story with a flourish that makes Ronan snort. Something about a bouncer at that club he frequents. I tune it out and accept the crystal tumbler from Ma’s hand.
"Declan," Cillian says, crossing the room. "Glad you made it."
His gaze travels from my face to my wrapped knuckles and back. A question sits there, unvoiced but clear. I answer with a subtle head shake. Not yet. Later.
Nora follows him, and up close, the change in her is striking. The last time I saw her, she was thin and bruised and hollow-eyed, clinging to a garbage bag of possessions. Now she stands with her chin up, wearing a dress that fits her properly, curves filling out where malnutrition and fear had carved her down. Her hand finds Cillian's without looking, fingers twining with his in a gesture that seems instinctual.
"Hi, Declan," she says.
I nod. "Nora."
The dinner bell chimes—an actual silver bell, my ma insists on these small feudal touches. We move to the dining room in a choreographed procession—Cillian and Nora first, Ma on Ronan's arm, Lorcan and me bringing up the rear.
"You look like shit," Lorcan says under his breath.
"Thanks."
"No, seriously." His voice drops lower. "What's up with you? You're wound tighter than usual."
"Focus on keeping your own shit together."
He grins, undeterred by my tone. "But your shit is so much more interesting."
The dining room is formal to the point of parody—crystal chandelier, damask tablecloth, fresh flowers in silver vases. Johnson pulls out Ma’s chair at the head of the table and she nods her imperial thanks.
We settle into our places. I watch Cillian pull out Nora's chair, his hand lingering on her shoulder a beat longer than necessary before he takes his own seat.
The meal unfolds with the precision of a tactical operation. Servers appear and disappear. Plates arrive and depart. Ma asks Nora about her schooling. Nora answers with calm poise—something about online college courses in social work.
I tune out the details and focus on the non-verbal conversation happening between my older brother and his wife. The way Cillian's hand occasionally finds her knee under the table. The way she leans in slightly when he speaks, even when he's not addressing her. The way they communicate in glances—subtle shifts in their faces that seem to form a private language.
I've never had that. Not with anyone. Physical release, yes—discreet arrangements, cash for services. But no relationship. No one who speaks to me in glances. No one who leans into my gravity.
