The knock came. Three sharp raps. I felt it in my chest before I heard it, like the sound was already waiting there, hollow and final.
Siobhan's hand found mine under the table. Her fingers were cold, trembling against my palm, and I held them tight enough to feel her pulse jumping under the skin. The kitchen smelled of woodsmoke and the last of the stew her mother had heated for me—lamb and onions, the kind of meal that said stay, you're welcome here—and I'd been stupid enough to think maybe it meant something. That maybe the reckoning could wait one more night.
The knock came again. Harder.
"Declan." Her voice was low, steady, but I heard the crack in it. "Stay here."
She stood. She smoothed her jumper—the green one, the one that made her eyes look like the sea after a storm—and walked to the door with her spine straight and her chin high, and I loved her so fiercely in that moment that it ached.
I didn't stay.
I was behind her before she reached the latch, my hand finding her elbow, her name in my mouth. "Siobhan."
She looked back at me. Her lip was trembling, just barely, and I watched her bite it still.
"Together," I said. "We said together."
She nodded once. Then she opened the door.
The man on the step wasn't Billy.
He was older, maybe fifty, with a face like a fist and eyes the color of slate. He wore a dark coat buttoned to the throat, and his hands were empty, resting at his sides like he had nothing to prove. Behind him, the street was quiet—too quiet. No children kicking a ball. No women standing at doorways, arms crossed, watching the day pass. The street had been emptied.
"Mr. Morrow." His voice was low, flat, Belfast-flat. "You'll be Declan Morrow."
Not a question.
"Who's asking?"
He almost smiled. Almost. "A friend of Sean Connolly's. He sent me to fetch you."
Siobhan's hand found my back. Her fingers pressed into the space between my shoulder blades, and I felt her step closer, her breath warm on my neck.
"He's having supper with us," she said. "You can tell whoever sent you—"
"I'm not here for supper, love." The man's eyes slid to her, then back to me. "I'm here for the boy. Your father wants a word before the meal."
"Then he can come to the door himself."
Something flickered in the man's face—respect, maybe. He tilted his head, considering her. "Your father's in the back room of O'Malley's with two men who drove down from Derry to have this conversation. He sent me because he doesn't want you hearing what needs to be said until it's been said proper."
I felt her hand curl into a fist against my spine.
"What conversation?"
"The one about the Patterson boy. And the rifle he's been keeping under his bed for the last three weeks."
The air went cold. I felt it in my lungs, sharp and thin, and I heard Billy's voice in my head—I'll kill her myself before I let her spread her legs for a Prod—and I stepped forward, putting myself between Siobhan and the man on the step.
"I'll go."
"Declan—"
"I'll go," I said again, turning to her. I took her face in my hands, her skin warm under my callused palms, her eyes wide and wet and green. "I'll go, and I'll talk to your father, and I'll come back. I promised you I'd be here for supper. I keep my promises."
She shook her head. "Not without me."
"Siobhan—"
"I said not without me."
Her voice cracked like a whip, and I felt it in my chest. She pulled away from my hands, straightened her jumper again, and stepped past me onto the step. She looked at the man. "Tell my father I'll be there in five minutes. And tell him if he tries to send Declan away without me, I'll walk into O'Malley's myself and say whatever needs to be said in front of whoever needs to hear it."
The man stared at her. For a long moment, nothing moved—not him, not the air, not the light slanting through the grey Belfast sky. Then he nodded, just once, and turned and walked back down the street.
The door closed.
Siobhan stood with her back to it, her hands pressed flat against the wood, breathing hard. I watched her shoulders rise and fall, watched the tremor run through her fingers, and I crossed the room and took her hands and pressed them to my chest.
"You didn't have to do that."
"Yes I did." She looked up at me. Her eyes were dry, fierce, burning. "If they think they can separate us, they will. If they think they can send you home and I'll stay quiet and everything will go back to the way it was—" She shook her head. "I won't let them. I won't."
I kissed her. I meant it to be soft, just a press of lips, just a reassurance, but she opened under me like she was starving for it, her hands sliding up my chest to my neck, pulling me down, her mouth hot and desperate against mine. I tasted salt. I didn't know if it was hers or mine.
"We need to go," she said against my mouth.
"I know."
"I'm scared."
I pressed my forehead to hers. "I know."
"But I'm not going to let them take you from me."
I held her there, in the narrow hallway of her father's house, the smell of woodsmoke and stew and her lavender soap filling my lungs, and I thought about the photograph of her mother and Thomas in my pocket—his hands broken, his face swollen, a woman who loved a Protestant and paid for it with everything she had. I thought about Billy's rifle under his bed. I thought about the rosary beads pressing against my thigh, the cross warm from my body heat, and I wondered if God was watching and if He approved of what I was about to do.
I didn't care anymore.
"Let's go," I said.
She took my hand, and we walked out into the Belfast dusk.
O'Malley's was a pub on the corner of a street that didn't have a name anymore—the sign had been shot off years ago and no one had bothered to replace it. The windows were painted black, and the door was iron-studded, and when Siobhan pushed it open, the smell of stale Guinness and cigarette smoke rolled out like a wave.
Three men sat at a table in the back. Her father was one of them. He looked up when we walked in, and I saw something cross his face—anger, surprise, and then something softer, something that might have been pride.
"I told you to send the boy alone."
"I told your man I'd walk in myself if you tried." Siobhan's voice was steady. She walked to the table and stood in front of her father, her chin high, her hand still holding mine. "I meant it."
Sean Connolly looked at her for a long moment. Then he looked at me. His eyes were the same green as hers, but older, harder, worn down by years of watching his back and his daughter and his city fall apart piece by piece.
"Sit down, Declan."
I sat. Siobhan sat beside me, her hand still in mine, her knee pressed against my leg under the table.
The two men from Derry were watching me. One was young, maybe thirty, with a scar running from his temple to his jaw and a stillness in his hands that said he knew how to use them. The other was older, grey-haired, with a priest's collar and a drinker's nose and eyes that had seen too much to be surprised by anything.
"This is Father Kearney," Sean said, nodding at the older man. "And this is Michael Devlin. They've come down from Derry to help with the Patterson situation."
Father Kearney leaned forward. "You're the Protestant boy."
"I'm Declan Morrow."
"And you're in love with Sean's daughter."
I felt Siobhan's hand tighten. "Yes."
"Love." He said the word like he was tasting it, rolling it around his mouth. "Love is a luxury in this city, son. Love is what gets people killed."
"I know."
"Do you?" He leaned back, his eyes never leaving mine. "I buried a girl last week. Seventeen years old. She fell in love with a Protestant boy from the Ballybeen estate. They found her in an alley with her throat cut. The boy's family sent him to England the next day. No one was charged. No one will be."
I felt the words hit me like a punch to the chest. Beside me, Siobhan went still.
"I'm not telling you this to scare you," Father Kearney said. "I'm telling you so you understand what you're asking for. Sean tells me you're willing to leave everything—your family, your home, your community—for his daughter. Is that true?"
"Yes."
"Tell me why."
I looked at Siobhan. She was watching me, her eyes bright, her lip caught between her teeth, and I thought about the first time I saw her—crossing the Falls Road in the rain, her hair plastered to her cheeks, laughing at something a friend had said. I thought about her hand on my chest in the cold storage room, her tears on my collarbone, her voice in the dark saying my name like a prayer.
"Because she makes me want to be a man worth being," I said. "Because when I'm with her, the city doesn't matter. The walls don't matter. The names they call us don't matter. She's the only thing that's ever felt real."
The silence stretched. Father Kearney watched me, his face unreadable. Michael Devlin stared at his hands. Sean Connolly poured himself a whiskey and drank it in one swallow.
"Billy Patterson's made his move," Sean said finally. "He's got a rifle under his bed, and he's told three men he's going to use it. My cousin in Short Strand has a man inside the UVF who heard him talking. He's planning to hit you at the peace wall, day after tomorrow, at dawn."
I felt the air leave my lungs. The peace wall. The place where we'd been meeting for months—the gap in the fence where I passed her notes, where she kissed me for the first time, where we'd planned our future in whispers and half-finished sentences. Billy knew. He'd known all along.
"How do you know this?"
"Because I paid for the information," Sean said. "And because I have friends who owe me favors. The question is what you want to do about it."
I looked at Siobhan. Her face was pale, her freckles standing out like ink on paper, but her jaw was set and her hand was steady in mine.
"We leave," she said. "Tonight. We go to the Republic, we find a place to stay, and we start over."
"No."
The word came from Michael Devlin. He looked up from his hands, and I saw the scar on his face pull tight as he spoke. "Running won't save you. Patterson's got cousins in Dundalk. He's got friends in the UVF who'll pass word down the line. You'll be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life."
"Then what do you suggest?" Siobhan's voice was sharp. "That he stay here and let Billy shoot him?"
"Then what do you suggest?" Siobhan's voice was sharp. "That he stay here and let Billy shoot him?"
Michael Devlin didn't answer. He just looked at me, his scarred face unreadable, and I felt the weight of his silence like a stone in my chest.
Three sharp knocks cut through the room.
We all froze. The sound was wrong—too heavy for a friendly visit, too deliberate for a neighbor. It landed like gunfire in the quiet pub, and I felt my spine straighten before my brain caught up.
Siobhan's hand found mine under the table. Her fingers were cold, trembling against my palm, and I squeezed them without thinking. The rosary in my pocket pressed against my thigh—the cross digging in like a splinter I couldn't pull out.
Sean Connolly stood slowly, his hand moving to his belt where I knew he kept a knife. "Stay here."
"Da."
"Stay."
But Siobhan was already rising. She smoothed her jumper with both hands, the gesture so deliberate it looked like prayer, and walked toward the door with her spine straight and her chin high. The lamplight caught the edge of her hair, turning it to copper, and I watched her move through the shadows like she was walking into a storm she'd been expecting all her life.
I stood too. My legs felt wrong—too heavy, too slow—but I followed her, my hand in my pocket, the rosary beads wrapped around my fingers.
She reached the door before I did. Her hand hovered over the latch for a breath, and then she pulled it open.
The man on the doorstep was young—maybe twenty-five, with a thin face and a cigarette burning between his fingers. He wore a bomber jacket and jeans, and his eyes moved past Siobhan to me before settling back on her face.
"Message from Billy Patterson." His voice was flat, unhurried, like he was reading a shopping list. "He says the peace wall at dawn. Come alone, and he'll make it quick. Bring anyone, and he'll make it slow."
The man turned before Siobhan could answer. His footsteps faded into the dark street, and the door swung half-closed, leaving us standing in the threshold with the cold air curling around our ankles.
Siobhan didn't move. Her hand was still on the latch, her knuckles white, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. I stepped up beside her and pulled the door closed. The bolt clicked into place, and the sound was final in a way I didn't want to name.
Behind us, Father Kearney cleared his throat. "Well. That settles that."
Siobhan turned. Her face was pale, her freckles standing out like ink on paper, but her eyes were dry. "No."
"No?"
"No." She walked back to the table and sat down, her hands flat on the wood, her voice steady in a way that made my chest ache. "He wants a meeting. We'll give him one. But on our terms, not his."
Sean Connolly stared at his daughter. "Siobhan—"
"Da, I've been hiding my whole life. I've been quiet when I should have screamed, small when I should have taken up space, afraid when I should have been furious." She looked at me, and her eyes were bright and fierce and full of something I couldn't name. "I'm done."
I crossed the room and sat beside her. I didn't speak. I just took her hand and held it, and she leaned into me, her shoulder pressing against mine, and I felt the trembling she was trying to hide.
"What are you suggesting?" Michael Devlin's voice was careful, measured, like he was testing the weight of her words before he committed to them.
Siobhan looked at him, then at her father, then at the priest. "We meet him at the wall. But not at dawn. Not alone. We bring witnesses—people who'll remember what happens. We bring the truth, and we make him show his hand in front of God and everyone."
"That's suicide," Father Kearney said flatly.
"It's the only way." Her hand tightened on mine. "If we run, he wins. If we hide, he wins. If we let him dictate the terms, he wins. The only way to beat a man like Billy Patterson is to take away his shadows. Make him do his worst in the light."
The silence stretched. The fire crackled. Somewhere in the street, a dog barked, and the sound was swallowed by the weight of the night.
Sean Connolly poured himself another whiskey. He drank it, set the glass down, and looked at his daughter with something like pride and something like fear and something I couldn't quite read.
"You're sure?"
"I've never been sure of anything in my life." Siobhan's voice cracked, just barely, and she swallowed hard before she went on. "But I'm sure of him. And I'm sure I don't want to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder."
Sean looked at me. "And you, boy? You're sure enough to let my daughter walk into a bullet for you?"
The question hit me like a fist. I looked at Siobhan—at the curve of her jaw, the freckles on her nose, the way her hair curled at her temple where she'd tucked it behind her ear. I thought about the first time I kissed her, in the back of the butcher's shop, her breath warm against my cheek and her hands in my hair and the whole city burning around us and none of it mattering because she was there.
"No." My voice came out rough. "No, I'm not sure. I don't want her anywhere near that wall. I don't want her anywhere near Billy Patterson. I want to take her and run until Belfast is nothing but a memory in the rearview mirror."
I turned to face her. "But she's right. Running doesn't work. Hiding doesn't work. The only thing that's ever worked is her—her voice, her hands, her stubborn, beautiful, impossible faith that we could make something new out of this wreckage."
I brought her hand to my lips and kissed her knuckles, one by one, slow, deliberate, like I was memorizing the shape of her. "So if she wants to meet him at the wall, we meet him at the wall. And I'll stand beside her until the last bullet's fired or the last word's spoken."
Siobhan's breath hitched. She didn't speak, but her fingers curled around mine, and I felt her pulse racing against my palm.
"Well." Father Kearney leaned back, his chair creaking under him. "I've buried a lot of fools in this city. But I've never buried one who went to their grave with their eyes open and their hand in the hand of someone who loved them." He pulled out a worn rosary from his pocket, the beads clicking against each other. "If you're going to do this, you're going to need prayers—and you're going to need a plan."
Michael Devlin nodded slowly. "The wall at dawn. Three days from now—not two. Gives us time to spread word, to bring people who'll witness, to make sure Patterson can't bury this in the dark."
"We'll need someone on the other side," Sean said. "Someone with a camera. Someone whose word means something."
"I know a journalist at the Irish News," Father Kearney said. "He's been looking for a story that matters. He'll come."
The conversation spread across the table like a map unfolding. I listened, I nodded, I spoke when spoken to, but my attention kept drifting back to Siobhan—her hand in mine, the way she bit her lip when she was thinking, the small furrow between her brows that appeared when she was working through a problem. She was beautiful in the lamplight, fierce and fragile and utterly unmovable, and I loved her so fiercely it ached.
When the plan was settled and the whiskey bottle was half-empty, Sean stood and shook Michael Devlin's hand. "We'll meet again tomorrow night. Same place, same time."
"Aye." Michael pulled on his coat. "God keep you."
Father Kearney paused at the door. He looked at Siobhan, then at me, and I saw something in his eyes—not judgment, not fear, but a kind of tired hope that looked older than his face. "I'll pray for you both."
The door closed behind them. The pub fell quiet, the fire settling in the grate, and Sean Connolly gathered the glasses and carried them to the sink. He didn't look at us, but his shoulders were straight and his hands were steady, and I knew he was already working out how to keep his daughter alive.
Siobhan turned to me. Her eyes were bright, her lip caught between her teeth, and she reached up and touched my face—her fingers tracing my jaw like she was seeing me for the first time.
"Come home with me," she said. "Tonight."
"Your da—"
"He knows." She glanced at her father's back, still turned to us, still washing glasses. "He's known since the first night you stayed. He's just pretending not to."
I looked at Sean Connolly. He didn't turn around, but his hand paused on a glass for just a moment, and I heard him say, very quietly: "Be back before dawn. I won't have her mother worrying."
I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. "Yes, sir."
Siobhan took my hand and led me out the back door, into the narrow alley behind the pub, where the cobblestones glistened with damp and the air smelled of rain and smoke and the ghosts of a thousand other nights. We walked fast, her hand tight in mine, through streets that were quiet and watchful, past closed shutters and darkened windows, until we reached her house on the Falls Road.
She unlocked the door and pulled me inside. The hallway was dark, the house silent, and she pressed me against the wall and kissed me—hard, desperate, her fingers in my hair and her body against mine and the taste of her filling every corner of my mouth.
"I love you," she said against my lips. "I love you, I love you, I love you."
I kissed her back, my hands finding the curve of her waist, the small of her back, the heat of her skin through her jumper. "I love you too."
She pulled me up the stairs, her hand in mine, and closed her bedroom door behind us.
She closed the bedroom door behind us, the latch clicking soft in the dark. The room smelled of her—lavender and chalk and the faint, clean sweat of the evening's fear. A sliver of moonlight slipped through the curtain, falling across the narrow bed and the worn quilt her mother had stitched before she was born.
I didn't move. I stood there, my back against the wall, watching her. She stood facing me, her chest rising and falling too fast, her hands pressed flat against her thighs like she was trying to steady herself. Her hair had come loose from its pins, curling around her shoulders, and I wanted to reach out and touch it, but my hands felt heavy, like I'd carried too much and couldn't set it down yet.
"Declan." Her voice was barely a whisper. "I'm scared."
I crossed the distance in two steps. I didn't speak—I just pulled her into my arms, her face pressing into my chest, her fingers gripping the fabric of my shirt like she was drowning and I was the shore. I held her tight, my cheek against her hair, and I felt her shake—small tremors that ran through her body like the first shiver of winter.
"I know, love." My voice came out rough, cracked. "I know."
We stood like that for a long moment. The house was silent. The clock on the landing ticked its slow, relentless rhythm. Somewhere in the distance, a car engine turned over and faded. The world was still out there—the plan, the wall, the bullet with Billy Patterson's name on it—but in this room, there was only her.
She pulled back first. Her eyes were wet, but she wasn't crying yet—not quite. She reached up and touched my face, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw, the hollow of my cheek, the scar above my eyebrow that I'd had since I was twelve and fell off a roof on the Shankill. She touched me like she was memorizing me, like she was afraid she'd forget.
"I don't want to sleep," she said. "I want to stay awake and remember every second of this night."
I caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. "Then we'll stay awake."
She almost smiled. It flickered and died, but it was there. She turned and walked to the bed, pulling back the quilt, and I watched her climb onto the mattress in her jumper and skirt, her shoes already kicked off somewhere by the door. She lay on her side, facing me, and patted the space beside her.
I sat on the edge and pulled off my boots, then my jacket, letting them drop to the floor. I lay down facing her, the mattress dipping under my weight, and she reached out and pulled me closer until there was no space left between us. Her hand found my chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt, and I circled my arm around her waist and drew her in.
She smelled like woodsmoke and fear and the faint rosewater she used on her skin. Her breath was warm against my throat. I pressed my lips to her forehead and closed my eyes, and for a moment—just a moment—I let myself believe we were just two people in a bed, nothing else.
"Tell me something," she said, her voice muffled against my neck. "Something I don't know about you."
I thought about it. "I used to carve birds when I was a boy. Little wooden ones. I'd hide them in the trees in the park, hoping someone would find them and think it was magic."
She lifted her head, her eyes finding mine in the dark. "Did anyone ever find one?"
"I don't know. I stopped when I was twelve." I paused, tracing the curve of her spine with my thumb. "But I kept one. A robin. I put it in my pocket the day I met you."
Her breath caught. She looked at me for a long time, her green eyes searching mine, and then she pressed her lips to the hollow of my throat—soft, open, lingering. "I love that," she whispered. "I love that you kept it."
I held her tighter, my hand sliding up her back to the nape of her neck, my fingers threading through her hair. She sighed against my skin, and the tension in her shoulders eased, just a little.
"Your turn," I said.
She was quiet for a moment. Then: "I used to pretend my father was a different man. A man who smiled more. A man who didn't come home with blood on his knuckles." She paused, her hand stilling on my chest. "I don't pretend anymore. I just try to understand him."
I kissed the top of her head. "That's brave."
"It's not brave. It's just something I have to do." She shifted, pressing closer, her leg hooking over mine. "I think that's what loving someone is. Understanding them even when it's hard."
I had no words for that. I just held her, my hand moving in slow circles on her back, and the silence settled around us like a second blanket.
The minutes passed. The moonlight shifted across the floor. I could hear her breathing slow, feel the weight of her body growing heavier against mine. I thought she was falling asleep, but then she spoke again, her voice thick.
"Declan? If I don't make it to the wall—"
"Don't." I cut her off, my voice sharp. "Don't talk like that."
"I have to." She pulled back, just enough to look at me. Her eyes were wet now, and the tears spilled over, tracking down her cheeks in the dark. "I have to say it. If I don't make it, I want you to know—I want you to know that I don't regret a single second. Not the lying, not the sneaking, not the fear. I'd do it all again. I'd choose you a thousand times."
I felt something crack open in my chest. I pressed my forehead to hers, breathing her in, my eyes burning. "You're going to make it. We're both going to walk away from that wall."
"Promise me."
I swallowed. "I promise."
She kissed me then—soft, slow, like she was trying to pour every unspoken word into that one press of lips. I kissed her back, my hand cradling her face, my thumb brushing away the tears I couldn't stop. We kissed until we were both breathless, and then she pulled back and tucked her head under my chin.
"Hold me," she said. "Don't let go."
I wrapped both arms around her, pulling her as close as I could, and she curled into me like she was trying to disappear into my body. I held her and stroked her hair and listened to her breathing, and I didn't let go. Not once.
We lay there, tangled together, the quilt half-over us, the night stretching out like a held breath. I thought about the plan—the journalist, the witnesses, Father Kearney's prayers. I thought about Billy Patterson's rifle and the peace wall at dawn. I thought about her father's quiet approval and her mother's silent worry. But mostly I thought about her. The weight of her. The warmth of her. The impossible, stubborn, beautiful fact of her.
At some point, she stopped talking. Her breathing evened out steady and deep, and I knew she'd fallen asleep. I didn't move. I lay there with her in my arms, watching the moon track across the window, listening to the faint sounds of the house settling, and I made a silent vow to the dark: I would burn down every wall in Belfast before I let anyone take her from me.
I kissed her hair, soft enough not to wake her.
"I love you, Siobhan Connolly." The words were barely a breath, but I meant them with every bone in my body.
She stirred, just slightly, and murmured something I couldn't make out. Her hand tightened on my shirt, and she settled deeper into my arms.
I stayed awake for a long time after that, watching the darkness, feeling her heartbeat against my chest, and counting the hours until the sun would rise on the first day of the rest of our lives—or the last day of everything I'd ever loved.
I watch the moonlight shift across the ceiling, counting the hours by the quality of the dark. The house has settled into that deep silence that comes before dawn, the kind that feels like the world is holding its breath. Against my chest, Siobhan sleeps, her breathing slow and even, her hand still curled in my shirt like she's holding on even in dreams.
I should let her sleep. She needs it. We both do. But there's something clawing at my ribs, a need I can't name, and I find my hand moving before I've decided to move it—my fingers tracing the curve of her shoulder, the line of her jaw, the soft skin behind her ear.
She stirs. A small sound, something between a sigh and a question, and her fingers tighten on my shirt.
"Siobhan." My voice is barely a whisper in the dark. "Love."
Her eyelids flutter. She blinks, slow and heavy, her green eyes finding mine in the dim light. "Declan?" Her voice is thick with sleep. "What time is it?"
"Don't know." I brush a strand of hair from her face, my thumb tracing the freckles across her cheekbone. "Early. Still dark."
She doesn't ask why I woke her. She just looks at me, her gaze soft and searching, and I feel the weight of everything I haven't said pressing against my throat.
"I need you closer." The words come out rough, raw. "I know that's—I know you're right here. But I need—"
I stop. I don't have the words for what I need. I never do.
She shifts, her hand coming up to cup my face, her palm warm against my stubbled jaw. "Then take what you need." Her voice is quiet, steady. "I'm right here."
I pull her closer, rolling onto my back and drawing her on top of me until she's draped across my chest, her legs tangled with mine, her face tucked into the hollow of my neck. She settles against me like she was made to fit here, her body soft and warm, her breath a steady rhythm against my skin.
I wrap both arms around her, one hand splayed across her back, the other buried in her hair. I press my lips to her forehead, her temple, the corner of her eye, each kiss a word I can't speak.
She lifts her head, her eyes finding mine in the dark. "You're shaking."
I hadn't noticed. But she's right. There's a tremor running through me, fine and constant, like a wire pulled too tight.
"I can't stop thinking about it," I say. "The wall. The rifle. What happens if—"
"Don't." She presses her fingers to my lips, silencing me. "We promised. No more ifs."
I turn my head, kissing her palm. She shivers, and I feel it travel through her body, a ripple that ends where our hips meet.
"Then give me something else to think about." The words leave my mouth before I can stop them, low and rough, and I see something flicker in her eyes—surprise, maybe, or the same hunger I'm trying to keep leashed.
She doesn't answer with words. She kisses me instead, slow and deep, her mouth opening under mine like a door swinging wide. Her tongue finds mine, and I groan, my hands tightening on her back, pulling her harder against me.
She grinds down, just once, and I feel the heat of her through the thin fabric of her skirt. My cock hardens, pressing against her through my trousers, and she breathes a soft sound into my mouth that makes me ache.
"Declan." She pulls back, breathless, her forehead pressed to mine. "Is this—are you sure—"
"I've never been more sure of anything." I cup her face in my hands, holding her gaze. "I need to feel you. I need to feel alive. Before—" I swallow. "Before tomorrow."
She studies me for a long moment, her green eyes searching mine. Then she nods, slow, and reaches down to pull her jumper over her head.
The moonlight catches her skin, pale and freckled, her collarbones sharp in the dark. She's still wearing her skirt, her hair falling around her shoulders, and she looks like something out of a painting—a woman caught between sleep and waking, between fear and wanting.
I sit up, my hands finding her waist, pulling her closer. I press my lips to her chest, just above her heart, and she sighs, her fingers threading through my hair.
"I love you," she whispers. "I don't say it enough. I don't say it nearly enough."
I look up at her, my hands sliding up her ribs, my thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts. "Say it again."
She smiles—a real smile, warm and soft and hers. "I love you, Declan Morrow. I love your quiet hands and your sad eyes and the way you say my name like it's a prayer." She pauses. "I love that you carved a robin when you were twelve and kept it for fourteen years."
I feel something crack open in my chest. I pull her down, kissing her hard, pouring everything I can't say into the press of my mouth against hers. She kisses me back with the same urgency, her hands gripping my shoulders, her nails digging in through my shirt.
I lay her back on the mattress, my body covering hers, my weight a promise she accepts without hesitation. She hooks her leg over my hip, pulling me closer, and I feel the heat of her through our clothes, a warmth that seeps into my bones and quietens the shaking.
"Tell me what you need," she says, her voice low, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw. "Tell me, and I'll give it to you."
I press my forehead to hers, my eyes closed. "I need to feel you. All of you. I need to know you're real."
She guides my hand to her breast, her fingers covering mine, pressing my palm against the soft weight of her. "Feel me."
I do. I trace the curve of her through her thin undershirt, feeling her nipple harden under my thumb, hearing her breath catch. She arches into my touch, and I lower my head, pressing my mouth to the fabric, tasting the warmth of her skin underneath.
She gasps, her hand tightening in my hair, and I want to stay here forever—in this bed, in this room, in the space between her body and mine where nothing else exists.
But I can feel the dark pressing against the window, the hours slipping away. I can feel the wall waiting, the rifle waiting, Billy Patterson's finger on the trigger.
I lift my head, looking at her in the moonlight. Her freckles. Her hair, fanned across the pillow. Her eyes, dark and green and full of everything I don't deserve.
"I need to say something." My voice cracks. "And I need you to listen."
She stills, her hand falling from my hair. "What is it?"
I take a breath. "If something happens tomorrow—if the plan doesn't work—"
"Declan—"
"No. Let me finish." I hold her gaze. "If I don't make it, I need you to know that you were the best thing that ever happened to me. Not the only good thing—the best. You made me believe in something bigger than the walls. Bigger than the hate. Bigger than all of it."
Her eyes are wet. I can see the tears glistening in the dim light, and I reach up and brush them away with my thumb.
"I want a life with you," I continue. "I want a kitchen with a window that faces the sea. I want to carve you a hundred birds and hide them in trees all over whatever town we end up in. I want to wake up next to you every morning until I'm old and gray and can't remember my own name."
A tear spills over, tracking down her cheek. "Declan—"
"And I want you to promise me something." I swallow. "If I don't make it, I want you to live. Really live. Find someone who deserves you. Have those babies you talked about. Grow old in that kitchen by the sea."
"Don't." Her voice breaks. "Don't ask me to promise that."
"I have to."
"No." She shakes her head, hard, her jaw setting. "You don't get to do that. You don't get to say goodbye before the fight even starts." She grips my shirt, pulling me closer. "You promised me. You said we'd both walk away from that wall."
"I know. I just—"
"No." She cuts me off, her voice fierce. "No hedging. No contingencies. We survive together, or we don't survive at all. I won't—" Her voice cracks, and she takes a breath, steadying herself. "I won't live in a world without you in it. So don't you dare ask me to plan for one."
I stare at her for a long moment. Then I kiss her, hard and desperate, and she kisses me back with the same ferocity, her fingers tangling in my hair, her teeth catching my lower lip.
We don't speak after that. We move together in the dark, shedding clothes until there's nothing between us but skin and heat and the unspoken terror of what's coming. She guides me inside her, slow, her eyes never leaving mine, and I feel the world narrow to the space where we're joined—warm and tight and impossibly hers.
We move slow, then fast, then slow again. She arches beneath me, her nails raking down my back, her breath coming in sharp little gasps that she muffles against my shoulder. I feel her tighten around me, feel the tremor that runs through her as she comes, and I follow moments later, buried deep inside her, my face pressed to her neck, her name a broken whisper on my lips.
Afterward, I don't pull out. I stay inside her, my forehead pressed to hers, our breath mingling in the dark. She wraps her arms around me, her legs locking around my waist, and we lie there, tangled and spent and silent.
"Stay with me tonight," she whispers. "Don't go back to your side of the bed. Stay right here."
I press a kiss to her lips, soft and slow. "I'm not going anywhere."
She smiles—a small, tired, beautiful smile—and I feel it in my chest like a blade.
We clean up in the dark, wordless, her hand finding mine in the basin of cold water. Then we climb back into her narrow bed, and she curls into me, her head on my chest, her hand over my heart.
Outside, a dog barks somewhere in the distance. The moon has begun its slow descent toward the horizon. Dawn is coming.
I hold her closer. I trace patterns on her back, the same slow circles I've been drawing since the first night she let me stay. I feel her breathing slow, feel the weight of her settling into sleep, and I press a kiss to the crown of her head.
I don't sleep. I watch the dark fade to gray, the gray to pale blue. I listen to the birds start their tentative morning calls, and I feel the hours slipping through my fingers like water.
Siobhan stirs against my chest. Her hand tightens on my shirt, and she murmurs something in her sleep—a name, maybe mine, maybe someone else's—and I pull her closer, pressing my lips to her hair, breathing her in.
The reckoning is coming. I can feel it in the air, taste it on my tongue.
But right now, in this room, in this bed, she's warm and alive and pressed against every inch of me.
And I'm not letting go.