He still hasn’t told me what she said.
My hand rests at the back of his neck while I talk business over him, thumb moving in slow circles against the pulse beneath his ear. The contact is public enough that everyone in the bar understands the message and controlled enough that only Oisín knows the pressure is for him.
His shoulders stay straight, but every time my thumb drags over that sensitive place under his hairline, his breathing changes. He tries to hide it by lifting his glass or looking toward Moth’s tablet or pretending to follow the conversation about the false route pattern, but his body answers before pride can get in the way.
That should satisfy me. It doesn’t.
For four nights, I’ve gotten used to him under my hands. Worse than that, I’ve gotten used to the silence in my head afterward. Oisín gives me something I didn’t ask for and don’t know how to want cleanly, a peace I can’t seem to find anywhere else. After I denied him last night, I spent the night staring at the ceiling while he shook beside me and pretended not to need what I refused to give. The static came back meaner than before, crawling through every thought until morning felt like punishment.
Bricks looks at Oisín, then at my hand on his neck, then back at me with the kind of expression that means he’s about to say something he already knows I won’t appreciate. “You keeping a tighter leash than usual, brother?”
Oisín stills beneath my palm, and the nearest conversations lower by a fraction. Demo, carrying beer behind the bar, freezes with one crate against his hip. Tally doesn’t turn around, but the towel in her hand stops moving.
I look at Bricks. “Mind your business.”
“Usually do.” He finally lifts his whiskey, takes a drink, and sets the glass down with a soft click. “Then your business sits beside you looking like he might bolt if somebody breathes too hard.”
Oisín’s fingers tighten around the water glass. His voice comes quiet, but not weak. “I’m right here.”
Bricks shifts his attention to him, and the edge of his grin dulls into something almost respectful. “I know. That’s why I kept it polite.”
Tally snorts from behind the bar. “That was polite?”
“For me, it was goddamn diplomatic.”
Demo snorts. “You once got stabbed in a Waffle House parking lot over hash browns.”
“They were on my side of the table.”
A small movement catches at the corner of Oisín’s mouth before he can bury it. It’s gone almost instantly, but I feel it beneath my hand when his neck loosens by a fraction. He’s still carrying Varina’s words, and yet Bricks being a violent idiot can pull a smile out of him. The contradiction irritates me because it makes him harder to categorize. He doesn’t belong neatly in any box I try to build around him: Rogue, spouse, liability, asset, liar,good boy.
Moth crosses from the far corner and sets his tablet on the bar in front of me. “The false pattern is in place. Two windowsremain unchanged, one dead drop has been staged as active, and Pike’s people are rerouting through the county access road instead of the spur.”
I glance at the screen, then angle it toward Oisín. “Look.”
Surprise flickers across his face before caution shuts it down. Good. Let Cade and every other bastard with a mouth understand the man at my side isn’t decoration just because he looks soft enough to bruise.
Oisín studies the map for a few seconds. “The county access road works if you vary departure times by more than forty minutes. Anything less, and you’re still giving them rhythm. Also, don’t move the same drivers from the original run to the false window. If someone is watching faces instead of vehicles, they’ll know which pattern matters.”
Moth’s eyes narrow slightly with interest. “That’s correct.”
Bricks leans back. “Christ. There’s two of you now.”
Tally slides a plate toward Oisín without asking. “Eat, genius.”
Oisín colors at that, but he takes the plate. “Thank you.”
I keep my hand where it is and feel the pulse under my thumb jump again. He likes being useful when the word isn’t a knife. He likes being heard before he’s dismissed. He likes it so much that he doesn’t know how to receive it without looking startled, and that does something unpleasant to my temper because it means Canon spent years teaching him praise was a trap or a debt.
I tell Moth, “Run it his way. Put Halo on the false window.”
Moth’s mouth tightens. “He’ll complain.”
“That’s why I’m telling you instead of him.”
Bricks mutters, “Leadership.”
The business moves on, but Oisín doesn’t settle. He picks at the food, drinks water, looks toward the side door twice, and keeps his throat soft under my hand like he doesn’t know whether he wants comfort or punishment from it. I let itcontinue until my patience thins down to wire. Then I stand, my palm sliding from his neck to the back of his chair.
