“I had a bet going with Myra. She lost. You finally said no—I was starting to think you’d say yes again this week and I’d lose my money.”
“You did this on purpose?” I ask in disbelief.
“Yes! I wanted you to say no.” She says it simply, with no apology. “You never do. So I kept asking until you did. Myra thought it would take three times. I said two.” She grins. “I was right.”
“I can’t wait to tell Myra you said no and take her money.” She is already reaching for her phone, thumbs flying across the screen as she crafts a message to broadcast the news of my rebellion.
An unfamiliar warmth blooms in my chest, carrying a weight that could only be pride.
My mouth curves upward. “First wash the clothes. Then gloat about winning money.”
I turn toward my room, still carrying that curve on my face while a groan follows me from behind.
*****
A few days later at the café, I notice it almost immediately.
Kieran is… off.
His smiles don’t reach his eyes. They come too fast, fade just as quickly. His shoulders stay tight, carrying more than they should.
Maeve has been glancing at him all day. The glances are quick, almost hidden, careful enough that he doesn’t notice.
And his hand keeps drifting to his arm.
Kieran always keeps his sleeves rolled just enough that his tattoo stays hidden, even on the hottest days. An unspoken rule. The ink exists, but only in glimpses. Never fully seen.
I’ve caught pieces of it before. A flicker of black when he reaches for a high shelf. A hint of script when he passes me a cup. I’ve never asked about it.
The tattoo is hidden today as well. And his attention keeps snapping back to that spot, his hand brushing it again and again, as though it aches.
So when the café closes for our fifteen minutes and we sit side by side outside, and I catch his hand drifting there again—
“Kieran.” I angle my head toward him, waiting.
He looks up, his focus lagging behind the movement. “Yeah?”
I search his face, looking for the man beneath the tension. “Are you okay?”
He blinks. Then his mouth curves into a tired, almost fond smile.
“That’s not what you’re supposed to ask.” The words come out flat, almost amused, but underneath sits a heavier weight.
I frown. “What?”
He nods toward his arm, where his hand hovers again. “You’re supposed to ask about that. Or why I keep touching it.”
His hand drifts to his arm again, fingers pressing in for a second before easing off. His shoulders stay tight, his jaw set, that faint smile hovering where it doesn’t belong.
“That’s not what I’m curious about,” I admit. “I just want to know if you’re okay.”
A shift ripples across his features. The practiced smile fades; his guard slips.
His eyes shine suddenly, too bright, and for one terrible second I think I have pushed too hard, stepped somewhere fragile I was never meant to enter.
“I’m not—” he rasps, the sound catching in his throat. “I’m not crying because of you. This isn’t your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
The words spill out of him, quick, urgent, almost tripping over each other—like he needs me to understand before I can misunderstand, before I can take it on myself and pull back.
