The butcher's block was cold through her cardigan, a shock that ran up her spine and settled somewhere behind her ribs. She felt every ridge in the wood, every groove where decades of cleavers had left their mark, and above her Declan's shadow swallowed the lamplight.
His hands found her hip first — tentative, reading her through the wool. Then the dip of her waist, his thumb tracing the curve like he was memorizing a line of verse. She felt the sawdust on his palms catch on her stockings, the roughness of it, the realness of him, and her breath stuttered.
"You're shaking." His voice was low, barely above the hiss of the lamp.
"I know."
His eyes never left her face. Not her body, not the curve of her breast beneath the cardigan, not the pale skin of her throat where her pulse was hammering — her face. And what she saw in those gray eyes was a hunger so deep it made her chest ache.
"Tell me to stop."
His thumb pressed into the soft skin above her knee. Through her stockings she could feel the heat of him, the weight of the question he was asking. He wasn't asking for permission. He was asking her to save them both.
She didn't.
She couldn't.
His hand slid higher, palm flat against her thigh, and she felt the calluses drag against the nylon. Her skirt had ridden up — she didn't remember when, didn't care. The cold air bit at the exposed skin above her stockings, and then his hand was there, warm and rough, and she arched into the touch.
"Declan." His name came out broken, half a prayer.
"I know." He said it again, softer this time. "I know, love."
The endearment hit her like a fist to the chest. Protestant boys didn't call Catholic girls love — not in Belfast, not in '74, not anywhere the streets had names that divided even the dead. But he said it like it was the only word that fit.
His hand stopped at the hem of her stockings, fingers tracing the edge where skin began. She felt the hesitation in his touch, the tremble in his fingers that had nothing to do with cold.
"Declan."
He looked at her.
"Don't stop."
The sound he made was almost a groan, swallowed before it reached the air. His hand slid higher, palm pressing against the bare skin of her inner thigh, and she felt the heat of him like a brand. Her hips shifted, a small, involuntary movement that betrayed everything she was trying not to say.
"You don't know what you do to me." His forehead dropped to hers, his breath warm against her lips. "You don't know what it's like, lying awake at night, thinking about your hair, your voice, the way you say my name like it means something."
"It does."
"I know." He kissed her forehead, soft, almost reverent. "That's what terrifies me."
His hand was still on her thigh, unmoving, a question waiting to be answered. She pressed her knees apart, a fraction of an inch, and felt his fingers tighten.
"Siobhan."
"Yes."
His thumb traced a slow circle on her skin, and she felt the heat pooling low in her belly, the ache that had been building since the moment she'd stepped into this room. She wanted his hands everywhere. She wanted to feel the sawdust on his palms against her bare skin, wanted to know what he sounded like when he let go, wanted to be the thing that undid him.
His lips found her jaw, her throat, the hollow where her pulse beat against her skin. She tilted her head back, giving him room, and felt his breath hot against her collarbone.
"Tell me if—"
"Declan." She caught his face in her hands, made him look at her. "I'm here. I want this. I want you."
Something shifted in his eyes. The hunger deepened, sharpened, but there was something else underneath — a tenderness that made her chest ache. He kissed her, slow and deep, and she tasted the salt of him, the coffee he'd drunk that morning, the truth he'd never spoken aloud.
His hand moved higher, fingers finding the damp heat of her through her underwear, and she gasped against his mouth.
"Is this—"
"Yes." The word came out breathless. "God, yes."
He touched her through the cotton, tracing the shape of her, learning her, and she felt the pressure building, the world narrowing to the points where his fingers moved. She gripped his shoulders, felt the muscle beneath his shirt, the tension in his frame as he held himself back.
"I want to—" He stopped, jaw tight. "I want to feel you."
The request hung between them, heavy with meaning. She nodded, not trusting her voice, and watched his hand slide down. His fingers hooked into the waistband of her underwear, and he pulled them down her thighs, slow, deliberate, like he was unwrapping something sacred.
The cold air hit her bare skin, and she shivered.
His breath caught when he saw her. His hand hovered over her, trembling, and she watched his eyes darken, his pupils blown wide in the greasy lamplight.
"Siobhan." Her name was a prayer, a curse, a confession all at once.
And then he touched her.
His fingers found her wet, found her ready, found her aching for him, and she cried out — a sharp, broken sound she couldn't contain. He watched her face as he moved, reading her, adjusting, learning what made her back arch and what made her bite her lip.
"You're so beautiful," he said, his voice rough. "Every part of you."
She reached for him, fingers fumbling with his belt, and he caught her wrist.
"Not yet."
"Declan—"
"I want to remember this." His thumb found her where she needed him most, and her words dissolved into a moan. "I want to remember every sound you make, every time you say my name, every moment you let me touch you like this."
He lowered his head, his lips brushing her stomach, her hip, the inside of her thigh. She felt his breath hot against her skin, and she knew what he was about to do, and she wanted it, wanted him, wanted this moment to last forever even as it threatened to undo her.
"Declan."
He looked up at her, his mouth inches from where she needed him most.
"I love you."
The words left her before she could stop them, raw and terrified and true. She saw something flicker in his eyes — surprise, fear, and then something deeper, something that looked like hope.
He pressed his lips to her inner thigh, soft, a benediction.
"I know," he said. "God help me, I know."
And then his mouth found her, and she stopped thinking.
The world narrowed to the heat of his tongue, the roughness of his jaw against her skin, the sounds he made as he tasted her. She fisted her hands in his hair, felt the auburn strands slip through her fingers, felt him groan against her as she pulled him closer.
She was lost. She was found. She was nothing but nerve endings and breath and the weight of his hands on her hips, holding her steady as she unraveled.
The orgasm built slowly, then all at once, cresting like a wave she couldn't outrun. She heard herself cry out, heard his name on her lips like a prayer, felt his arms wrap around her as she shook.
He held her through it, his cheek pressed against her thigh, his breath warm against her skin. When she finally stilled, he kissed her hip, her stomach, the dip between her breasts, working his way up until his face hovered above hers.
"I love you too." His voice was barely a whisper. "I've loved you since the first time I saw you, standing in the rain outside the library, your hair plastered to your face, looking at me like I was the only person in the world."
She pulled him down, kissed him, tasted herself on his lips and didn't care.
"What are we going to do?" she asked, her forehead against his.
He was quiet for a long moment. Outside, a car passed, its engine loud in the narrow street, and they both held their breath until it faded.
"We meet next week," he said finally. "And the week after that. And the week after that. And we pretend the rest of the world doesn't exist, just for an hour at a time."
"And after that?"
He looked at her, and she saw the answer in his eyes before he spoke — the same answer she'd been carrying in her chest since the moment she'd walked into this back room.
"We figure it out."
She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that love could cross the lines men had drawn in blood and stone, that two people could be enough to bridge a divide that had swallowed generations. She wanted to believe it with everything she had.
And sitting there, in the cold back room of a Catholic butcher's shop, with his arms around her and the memory of his mouth still warm on her skin, she almost did.
Later — she didn't know how much later — they lay together on the damp wool blanket, her head on his chest, his fingers tracing patterns on her shoulder. The lamp had burned low, casting long shadows across the scarred wooden table.
"I have to go soon," she said. "My mother will notice."
"I know."
Neither of them moved.
The minutes passed. Somewhere, a dog barked. The wind rattled the window frame. The world was still out there, waiting, divided and dangerous, but in this room there was only the two of them, breathing together.
Finally, she sat up. Her skirt was wrinkled, her stockings ruined, her hair falling loose from its pins. She looked at him — his shirt untucked, his lips swollen, his gray eyes soft in a way she'd never seen before — and she wanted to memorize every detail.
"Same time next week?"
He caught her hand, pressed his lips to her palm.
"Same time."
She stood, smoothed her skirt, tucked her hair behind her ears. At the door, she paused, one hand on the frame.
"Declan."
"Yeah?"
"Be careful."
He smiled — a small, sad thing that didn't reach his eyes.
"You too, love."
She stepped out into the cold Belfast night, the bell jingling behind her, and walked home through streets that had never felt more dangerous. The weight of his hands was still warm on her skin, a secret she carried like a flame cupped against the wind.
And behind her, in the butcher's back room, Declan Morrow sat alone in the dying lamplight, his hands still trembling, wondering how much longer the world would let them pretend.