He nods once. “Maeve.”
“She looks like trouble.”
Cillian huffs a laugh. “She was.”
I smile despite myself and move again, and that’s when I see the open door at the end of the hall. Inside is a room painted pale blue with low shelves and a small wooden table covered in crayons and paper, and there’s a toy boat on the floor near a basket of blocks. Nothing expensive. Nothing curated. Just used.
I slow without meaning to.
Cillian notices. “My nephew,” he says. “He spends Sundays here.”
There’s something in his voice that softens when he says it, and I glance at him briefly before looking back into the room.
The rug is worn in the center, like a child sits there often. There’s a blanket folded on the arm of a tiny couch and a stack of storybooks with creased spines.
It hits me unexpectedly.
This house wasn’t built to intimidate anyone. It wasn’t built to impress investors or outshine rivals. It was built to hold people. To gather them. To keep them close.
My childhood home had marble floors and high ceilings and silence that echoed too long after arguments ended. We had art on the walls worth more than the furniture in this place, and none of it mattered when doors slammed and security guards stood outside like reminders that affection came with conditions.
This feels different.
This feels… normal.
Cillian stops beside me. “You like it?” he asks.
“Yes,” I answer honestly.
He studies me for a moment, like he’s trying to measure the truth in that, then gestures forward. “Come on.”
We turn the corner into a wider space where the dining room opens toward the kitchen, and the smells of roasted meat and fresh bread drift through the room in a way that feels almost disarming. There’s no long table polished to a mirror shine. There’s a sturdy oak table with mismatched chairs and a linen runner down the center, and plates are already set without any formal place cards or ceremony.
His mother stands near the stove with a serving spoon in her hand, and when she sees us, her face lights in a way that doesn’t look rehearsed.
“Welcome,” she says warmly, stepping forward. “I’m glad Cillian didn’t scare you off right after you had the tea.”
“I’m harder to scare than I look,” I reply, offering my hand.
She takes it and squeezes gently instead of shaking it. “I like that.”
There’s flour on her apron and a faint smudge near her wrist, and I find myself oddly comforted by the fact that she hasn’t changed out of it to present something more polished.
“You can call me Siobhán,” she adds. “No need for anything formal here.”
“Thank you, Siobhán,” I say, and I mean it.
An older man with broad shoulders and oil-stained hands steps in from the back door, wiping them on a cloth. “Is this thefamous Riley?” he asks with a grin that matches Cillian’s in a way that makes the resemblance obvious.
“Don’t encourage her,” Cillian mutters.
I tilt my head slightly. “I prefer infamous.”
The man laughs. “Good. She’ll fit.”
“That’s my uncle, Declan,” Cillian says.
“And you’re underdressed for someone meeting the family,” Declan adds with mock seriousness.
