Maeve snorts. “You alphabetized your toy soldiers when you were eight.”
“I was organized,” he corrects.
Declan laughs into his wine. “You were insufferable.”
The tension I’d braced for dissolves into easy teasing, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Cillian shoots me a brief glance, not protective, exactly, just steady, as if to say he’s got it handled.
Food begins to move in earnest after that.
Siobhán sets a platter of roast lamb in the center of the table, the crust browned and fragrant with rosemary and garlic, juices pooling beneath it in a way that makes my mouth water instantly. There are bowls of buttery potatoes dusted with parsley, glazed carrots shining under a thin coat of honey, cabbage cooked down until it’s tender but still bright. Fresh soda bread sits warm beside a crock of salted butter, and when I tear into a piece, the steam hits my face and for a second, I close my eyes.
“Eat,” Siobhán insists again when she catches me pausing.
I do.
The lamb is rich and tender, the herbs sharp and clean against the slow heat of roasted meat. The potatoes are soft enough to melt without being bland, and the bread tastes like something made by hand rather than ordered for appearance. I didn’t grow up with meals like this, not ones where dishes were passed without ceremony and people leaned over each other to refill plates without asking permission.
At my parents’ table, dinner had been quiet and staged. Plates were plated in the kitchen and delivered by staff. Conversation was controlled, measured, careful. If someone laughed too loudly, it stopped quickly.
Here, Declan tells a story mid-bite and nearly chokes on his own punchline. Maeve rolls her eyes and hands him water. The baby smacks the table with a spoon and everyone pretends it’s percussion.
“You should tell her about the time you tried to run away,” Maeve says suddenly, pointing her fork at Cillian.
Cillian gives her a warning look. “Don’t.”
“You packed a duffel bag with three shirts and a jar of coins,” she continues anyway. “You made it as far as the pier before Da found you.”
“I was ten,” he mutters.
“You left a note,” Maeve adds, grinning at me. “It said you were going to build your own shipping empire somewhere warmer.”
I laugh before I can stop myself. “Ambitious.”
“He had maps,” Declan says. “Charts spread out on the floor. We thought he was planning a treasure hunt.”
Cillian leans back in his chair, one arm resting loosely along the back. “I was planning.”
“You were sulking,” Maeve corrects.
“Yes, but with method.”
The room fills with warmth that isn’t forced, and I watch him as he listens to them dismantle the myth he’s built elsewhere. The devil of the docks is reduced to a boy with maps and coins in a jar.
“You were always serious,” Siobhán says gently. “Even when you were small.”
He shrugs. “Someone had to be.”
The table quiets for a brief second at that, and I see something flicker across his mother’s face before she smooths it away and reaches for more bread.
“Do you remember the Christmas you tried to cook breakfast for everyone?” Maeve presses on, lightening the mood again. “You nearly burned the kitchen down.”
“I improved,” Cillian replies.
“You set the toast on fire.”
“It was a learning curve.”
They laugh again, and I find myself laughing too, though there’s something tight beneath it that I don’t fully understand.
