The plaster gives under her palm before she understands what she's feeling. A hollow space where there should be solid lath and horsehair. Her fingers press deeper, finding the edge of something cold and metal, wedged between the studs like a secret the house has been keeping.
"Declan." Her voice is quiet, uncertain. "There's something here."
He turns from the window where he's been staring at the gray Atlantic, his hand still wrapped around a chipped mug of tea he hasn't drunk. "What is it?"
She works her fingers around the object, feeling rust flake against her skin. The plaster crumbles, dust falling in a pale curtain, and she pulls it free—a tin box, rectangular, the size of a book, its surface pitted and orange with years of damp. It's heavier than it looks.
"Jesus," he breathes, crossing to her. "Where was that?"
"Behind the wall. Under the window." She holds it out to him, and something in the way his hand hesitates makes her chest tighten. "There's writing on the lid."
He takes it. Turns it over. His breath stops.
The handwriting is faded, almost ghostly against the rusted metal, but it's there—a looping script, feminine and deliberate, the letters formed with care. For my son, when he finds his way home.
Declan's hands begin to shake.
"Declan." Siobhan steps closer, her voice dropping. "Is that—"
"My mother's." The words come out raw, scraped from somewhere deep. "I've only seen her writing once. On a photograph. The back of a photograph." He swallows. "She wrote my name the same way. The D the same. The loop."
He doesn't open it. His thumb traces the edge of the lid, once, twice, but he doesn't lift it. His knuckles are white where he grips the box, and his jaw is set so tight she can see the muscle jumping beneath his skin.
"She wrote that for you," Siobhan says softly. "She knew you'd come here someday."
"She died when I was four." His voice cracks. "I barely remember her face. Just—the smell of her. Lavender. And the way she hummed when she cooked. That's all I have." He looks at the box. "And this."
Siobhan moves behind him. She wraps her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek to the space between his shoulder blades, feeling the heat of him through his shirt. His back is rigid, every muscle locked, and she can feel his heart hammering against her own chest through the bone and flesh between them.
"You don't have to open it now," she says into his spine. "It's been waiting twenty-eight years. It can wait another hour. Another day."
He shakes his head. "If I don't open it now, I don't know if I ever will."
"Then I'm here." She tightens her arms. "Whatever's in there, I'm here."
He stands there for a long moment, holding the box, her arms around him, the sea muttering against the rocks outside. The kitchen is cold—the fire they built this morning has burned down to ash and ember—and the light through the window has that thin, watery quality of an Irish afternoon pretending to be later than it is.
He sets the box on the pine table. The sound it makes is solid, final.
Siobhan doesn't let go. She stays pressed against his back, her chin resting on his shoulder now, her breath warm against his neck. She can smell him—wood smoke and sweat and the faint salt of the sea—and she breathes him in like she's trying to memorize the shape of this moment.
"The lid's stuck," he says. "Rust."
"Let me."
She releases him, but only to reach past him, her fingers finding the edge of the lid where the rust has eaten through. She works it gently, side to side, feeling the metal give. A flake of rust falls onto the table, orange as dried blood.
"It's not locked," she says. "Just seized."
He watches her hands work the lid, and she can feel his gaze on her, heavy and grateful and terrified all at once.
It gives with a soft screech of metal on metal.
She steps back. "It's yours. Open it."
He doesn't move for a long moment. Then his hands come up, slow, and he lifts the lid.
Inside, there's a photograph.
A woman, young—younger than Siobhan, maybe twenty-two or twenty-three—with dark hair pinned up and a smile that seems to have been caught mid-laugh. She's standing in front of this cottage, the blue door bright behind her, wearing a simple white dress that catches the sunlight. Her hand rests on her belly, round with pregnancy.
Declan makes a sound. Not a word. Something older.
"That's her," he whispers. "That's my mother."
Siobhan looks at the photograph and sees him in her—the same gray eyes, the same shape of jaw, the same slight quirk at the corner of the mouth. She's beautiful. Radiant. And she's looking at whoever took the photograph like he's the only person in the world.
Beneath the photograph, there's a letter.
The envelope is yellowed, the paper soft with age. Addressed, in the same looping hand, to My son.
Declan picks it up like it might burn him.
"Read it," Siobhan says quietly. "I'll be right here."
He doesn't open it. He holds it, turning it over in his hands, his thumb tracing the edge where the flap is still sealed. The glue has dried brown, brittle, and he could probably open it without tearing it if he was careful.
But he doesn't.
He sets it down. Picks up the photograph again. Stares at his mother's face like he's trying to pull her out of the paper and into the room with them.
"I don't know if I can," he says. "Read it. I don't know if I can."
Siobhan steps forward again, this time standing beside him, her shoulder brushing his. She doesn't touch him—not yet. She just stands there, a warm presence at his side, and waits.
"What if she's angry?" he asks. "What if she knew what I'd become? What my father made me?"
"Look at her face," Siobhan says. "Look at how she's smiling. She's not angry. She's proud. She's waiting for you."
He shakes his head, but he's still looking at the photograph. "You don't know that."
"I know that she wrote when he finds his way home. Not if. When. She believed you'd get here."
His breath shudders out of him, and she watches his shoulders drop, the tension releasing in a long, slow exhale. He sets the photograph down carefully, reverently, and picks up the letter.
His fingers work the flap open. It tears slightly at the corner, but he doesn't seem to notice. He pulls out the paper—two sheets, covered in the same looping script—and unfolds them.
He reads in silence.
Siobhan watches his face. Watches the way his eyes move across the page, the way his lips part slightly, the way a single tear escapes down his cheek before he seems to notice. He doesn't wipe it away. He just keeps reading.
When he finishes, he doesn't move for a long moment. The paper trembles in his hands.
"She knew," he says, his voice rough. "She knew she was going to die."
Siobhan's throat tightens. "What does she say?"
He reads aloud, his voice cracking on the words:
"My darling Declan. If you're reading this, you've found your way to the cottage, which means you've survived what your father and I always feared you might not. I'm sorry I won't be there to see the man you've become, but I know—I know—you'll be good. You were good from the moment I held you. You had your father's strength and my stubbornness, and I prayed every night that would be enough to carry you through."
He stops. Swallows. Continues:
"Your father will try to protect you by hiding the truth. Don't let him. The truth is the only thing that will set you free, even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts. You deserve to know who you are, where you come from, and what your family has done. Don't carry their sins. You're not responsible for anyone's choices but your own."
His voice breaks on the next line:
"I love you, my son. I have always loved you. I will always love you. And I am so, so proud of the man you've become."
He stops reading. The paper falls to the table, and he stands there, his hands empty, his chest heaving, tears streaming down his face.
Siobhan wraps her arms around him from the front this time, pulling him into her, holding him as his body shakes with sobs he's been holding for twenty-eight years. She holds him, her hand cradling the back of his head, her cheek pressed to his, her own eyes wet.
"You're home," she whispers. "You found your way home."
He holds her so tight she can barely breathe, but she doesn't care. She holds him back, her fingers in his hair, her mouth against his temple, her heart breaking and healing all at once.
They stand like that for a long time, the sea outside, the cold kitchen, the photograph of his mother smiling up at them from the table.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes are red, his face wet, but there's something new in his expression. Something lighter. Something unburdened.
"There's more," he says. "In the box."
He reaches in and pulls out a small leather pouch, tied with a faded ribbon. He unties it and tips the contents into his palm.
A ring. Silver, simple, with a small stone that catches the dim light—moonstone, maybe, or opal. Worn smooth with years of wear.
"It was my grandmother's," he says, his voice still rough. "My mother's mother. She gave it to my mother on her wedding day." He turns it over in his fingers. "She says in the letter that I should give it to someone I love. Someone who makes me want to be the man she knew I could be."
He looks at Siobhan.
She feels her heart stop.
He takes her hand. His palm is warm, callused, rough from years of work. He slides the ring onto her finger—it fits perfectly, as if it was made for her—and then he lifts her hand to his lips and kisses the ring, his eyes never leaving hers.
"I want to give you this," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "I want to give you everything. The cottage. The future. The life we talked about. I want to give you all of it."
She looks at the ring on her finger. Looks at him. Feels the weight of the moment pressing down on her, and the lightness of it too, the impossible lightness of being loved by a man like this.
"Declan—"
"I know it's fast," he says. "I know we haven't known each other long. But I've known you my whole life, Siobhan. I just didn't know your name until a few weeks ago." He laughs, a wet, broken sound. "That doesn't make sense."
"It makes perfect sense."
She kisses him. Soft, at first, a brush of lips, a question. Then deeper, when he answers, when his hand comes up to cup her jaw, when he pulls her into him like he's afraid she'll disappear.
The ring glints on her finger, catching the pale light from the window.
When they break apart, he rests his forehead against hers, his breath warm on her lips.
"I love you," he says. "I know I've said it before, but I need to say it again. I love you, Siobhan Connolly. And I want to spend the rest of my life proving it."
She laughs, the sound bright and broken and full of joy. "I love you too. And I'll hold you to that."
He kisses her again, and this time it's slower, deeper, a promise sealed with tongue and breath and the press of bodies.
Behind them, the photograph of his mother watches, her smile frozen in time, her hand on her belly, her eyes full of a love that never died.
He breaks the kiss slowly, his forehead resting against hers, his breath warm and uneven against her lips. Her hand—the one with the ring—comes up to touch his cheek, and she feels the moisture there, the salt of tears he's still shedding, the tremor in his jaw that won't quite stop.
"Your mother," she says softly, "she knew exactly who you'd become."
He lets out a sound—half laugh, half sob—and pulls her close again, his arms wrapping around her, his face pressing into her hair. She feels his chest rise and fall against hers, feels the rhythm of his breathing slowly steadying, feels the tension in his shoulders begin to ease.
"I spent so long being angry," he says, his voice muffled against her. "At my father. At Robert. At the whole bloody world. I thought if I held onto it hard enough, it would protect me. That if I never let anyone in, no one could hurt me the way they hurt him." He pulls back, his gray eyes meeting hers, raw and open. "But I was wrong. It wasn't protecting me. It was starving me."
She strokes his cheek, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "What changed?"
"You." He says it simply, without hesitation. "You walked into Malloy's bookshop and you looked at me like I wasn't a monster. Like I was just a man. Maybe even a good one." He laughs, a soft, wondering sound. "No one's ever looked at me like that before."
She rises on her toes and kisses him again, softer this time, a brush of lips that says everything words can't carry. When she pulls back, she looks down at the ring on her finger, turning her hand so the pale stone catches the light from the window.
"It fits perfectly," she says.
"I know." He takes her hand, lifts it, kisses her knuckles just above the ring. "It was made for you. She was saving it for you."
"Declan." His name, just his name, and it holds everything—the weight of what he's given her, the terror and joy of it, the impossible hope blooming in her chest.
He reaches into the box again, his fingers brushing past the photograph, past the empty envelope, and finds something else—a small key, brass, tarnished with age, tied to a piece of twine. He holds it up, and she watches his face change, a flicker of recognition crossing his features.
"What is it?"
"There's a chest," he says slowly. "In the bedroom. I saw it when we came in. Old oak, carved, with a brass lock." He looks at the key in his palm. "I didn't think anything of it at the time. But this—this is the key."
He looks at her, and she sees the question in his eyes—do we go? do we open it?—and she nods, taking his hand, lacing her fingers through his.
"Together," she says.
They walk through the cottage, the floorboards cold under their bare feet, the dust stirring in the pale afternoon light. The bedroom is small, the bed frame iron and rusted, the mattress bare and spotted with age. And there, at the foot of the bed, is the chest—dark oak, carved with ivy and thorns, the brass lock dull with tarnish.
Declan kneels in front of it. He doesn't hesitate. He slides the key into the lock, and it turns with a click that sounds loud in the quiet room.
He lifts the lid.
Inside, wrapped in oilcloth, is a wooden box—plain, unadorned, the kind of box a man might make with his own hands. Declan's breath catches, and she sees his hands tremble as he lifts it out and sets it on the floor beside him.
He unwraps the oilcloth. The box is pine, still smelling faintly of sawdust and resin. The lid is held closed by a simple brass latch.
He opens it.
Inside, there's a stack of letters, tied with twine. A pocket watch, the face cracked, the hands frozen at quarter past eleven. A wedding ring, gold, thin, engraved with a date. And at the bottom, a folded piece of paper, yellowed with age, the ink faded but still legible.
Declan picks up the paper. Unfolds it. Reads it silently, his eyes moving across the page, his face shifting through emotions she can't quite name—surprise, grief, wonder, and something that looks like forgiveness.
"What does it say?" she asks softly.
He looks up at her, and there are tears in his eyes again, but he's smiling now, a real smile, the kind she's only seen a handful of times.
"It's from my father," he says. "He wrote it after I was born. He says he's sorry he'll never get to see me grow up. He says he hopes I'll understand why he did what he did. And he says—" His voice cracks, and he has to stop, swallow, try again. "He says he loves me. That he's proud of me. That he knows I'll be a better man than he ever was."
He looks at the letter in his hands, then at her, then at the box, at the letters, at the watch, at the ring.
"They were saving this for me," he says, his voice rough with wonder. "All of it. They were saving it for me to find, when I was ready."
She kneels beside him, her hand finding his, the ring on her finger pressing against his palm.
"You're ready now."
He nods. He sets the letter aside, gently, reverently, and takes her face in his hands. His thumbs trace her cheekbones, her temples, the line of her jaw, as if he's memorizing her by touch.
"I don't know what comes next," he says. "I don't know how to be a man who isn't running from something. I don't know how to build a life that isn't made of waiting for the other shoe to drop." He laughs, a broken, beautiful sound. "But I know I want to learn. With you. Here."
She covers his hands with hers. "Then we learn together."
He kisses her again, and this time it's not desperate, not hungry—it's a homecoming. It's the slow, certain kiss of a man who has stopped running, who has finally arrived, who is exactly where he's meant to be.
They stay there, kneeling on the dusty floor of the cottage bedroom, surrounded by the remnants of his parents' love, the letters and the watch and the ring, and she feels the past settle around them like a blessing, not a curse.
After a long moment, he pulls back, his forehead resting against hers, his breath warm on her lips.
"Will you stay?" he asks. "Here. With me. In this cottage, in this life, in this mess of a future we're trying to build?"
She laughs, the sound bright and wet and full of joy. "I'm not going anywhere, Declan Morrow. I've got a ring on my finger and a promise in my heart, and I intend to hold you to every word you've said."
He laughs too, and the sound fills the small room, chases away the dust and the shadows, makes the cottage feel alive again.
"Good," he says. "Because I intend to spend the rest of my life keeping those promises."
They stand together, her hand in his, the ring catching the light, the photograph of his mother still smiling from the kitchen table, the letters and the watch and the box of memories waiting to be explored. The sea crashes against the cliffs outside, the wind rattles the windowpanes, and the cottage settles around them, old and tired and full of ghosts.
But the ghosts, for the first time in twenty-eight years, are quiet.
And in the quiet, there is only this: his hand in hers, her heart beating against his, the ring on her finger, the hope in his eyes.
Home.
They've found it.
And they'll spend the rest of their lives keeping it.
They don't speak for a long time after that.
The kitchen settles around them, the photograph of his mother still propped against the salt cellar, his grandmother's ring warm on her finger. He brews tea in a pot that's been sitting on the counter since they arrived—chipped, too small, but the only one they have—and she watches his hands as he works, the way they've stopped trembling now. The way they're steady.
"Tell me about her," she says, when he sets the mug in front of her. "Your mother. What do you remember?"
He sits across from her, wraps his hands around his own mug, stares into the steam. "Not enough. I've tried, over the years. Tried to hold onto something, but it's like trying to remember a dream the morning after. There are fragments." He pauses. "Her voice. She had a low voice, for a woman. And she sang. Lullabies, mostly. I remember the weight of her arms around me, the smell of her—like bread and roses, I think. Something floral. Something warm."
She doesn't speak. Doesn't want to interrupt the memory as it surfaces.
"I remember her reading to me," he says, his voice softer now. "Sitting on the edge of my bed, turning the pages. She'd point at the pictures and name the things. 'Horse,' she'd say. 'Tree.' 'House.' Like she was giving me the world, one word at a time." He looks up at her, and there's a raw, open vulnerability in his eyes she's never seen before—not even in their most intimate moments. "I think she knew she didn't have long. I think she was trying to give me everything she could, while she could."
She reaches across the table and takes his hand. The ring presses between their palms.
"She'd be so proud of you, Declan."
He shakes his head, a small, almost involuntary motion. "I don't know about that. There's a lot of blood on my hands. A lot of choices I'm not proud of."
"She wouldn't care about the blood." She squeezes his fingers. "She'd care about what you did with it. She'd care that you're here, in her cottage, with a ring on my finger and a future in your eyes. She'd care that you stopped running."
He looks at her, and something breaks open in his face—a dam she didn't even know was there. He doesn't cry, not this time, but his breath shudders out of him, and he nods, once, sharply.
"I don't know how to do this," he says, his voice rough. "Be still. Stay. I've been moving so long I don't know what it feels like to stop."
"Then we learn together." She brings his hand to her lips and kisses his knuckles, one by one. "That's what you said, remember? We learn together."
He laughs, a broken, beautiful sound. "I remember."
They finish their tea in silence, but it's a good silence—the kind that doesn't need to be filled. Outside, the wind picks up, rattling the windowpanes, and she can hear the distant crash of the sea against the cliffs. The cottage groans around them, old and tired, but it doesn't feel cold anymore. It feels like shelter.
"Should we go see the rest of it?" she asks. "The bedroom's the only room we've really explored. There must be other rooms. Other secrets."
He considers this, then shakes his head. "Tomorrow. I think I've had enough secrets for one day." He stands, takes her mug, carries them both to the sink. "Tonight, I just want to be here. With you. In this kitchen, in this cottage, in this moment."
She understands. She stands, moves to him, wraps her arms around his waist from behind, her cheek pressed to his spine. She feels his heartbeat, steady and slow, a counterpoint to the wind outside.
"This is real," she says. "Isn't it?"
He turns in her arms, takes her face in his hands. His thumbs trace her cheekbones, her temples, the line of her jaw. "Yes. This is real. We're real."
He kisses her, and it's not the desperate, hungry kiss of the night before, or the tender, wondering kiss of the morning. It's something else—something settled. A kiss that tastes like home.
When they break apart, she's smiling, and so is he.
"We should make a fire," she says. "It's getting cold."
He nods, and they spend the next half hour scavenging wood from the pile by the back door—old timber, half-rotten, but dry enough to burn. He builds the fire with the practiced ease of a man who's done it a thousand times, stacking the kindling just so, striking the match with a steady hand. The flames catch, crackle, fill the small sitting room with light and warmth.
They sit on the floor in front of it, her back against his chest, his arms around her, the ring catching the firelight every time she moves her hand.
"We'll need to fix this place up," she says, looking around the room. "The plaster's crumbling in the bedroom. The kitchen window's cracked. There's probably mice."
"There are definitely mice," he says. "I saw one earlier. Bold as brass, sitting on the counter like he owned the place."
She laughs. "We'll need to get a cat."
"A cat." He considers this. "I'm more of a dog man, myself."
"Then we'll get both. A dog for you, a cat for me. They'll fight, and we'll referee, and it'll be chaos, and it'll be wonderful."
He presses a kiss to the top of her head. "You've got it all figured out, don't you?"
"No." She turns her head, looks up at him. "But I've got you. And you've got me. And we've got this cottage and a ring and a future we're building from scratch. That's enough to start."
He doesn't answer with words. He just holds her tighter, his cheek resting against her hair, and watches the fire burn.
The flames dance, cast shadows on the walls, paint the room in gold and amber. The wind howls outside, and the sea crashes, and the cottage creaks and settles around them, but none of it matters. None of it touches them.
They are here.
They have found each other.
The fire pops, a spark landing on the hearthstone, and she watches it fade to ash. The ring on her finger catches the light again, throwing a small gold reflection onto the cracked plaster wall. She turns her hand, watches the light dance.
"Declan."
"Mm."
"What happens tomorrow?"
He's quiet for a long moment. His arms tighten around her, just slightly. "We wake up. We make tea. We figure out what needs fixing first."
"And after that?"
"After that, we go find my sister. We see if she'll come visit. We start building something that looks like a life." He pauses. "And we wait to see if the world Burns around us or doesn't."
She turns in his arms, enough to see his face. "You think Robert's arrest will hold?"
"I think Robert's been running this city for thirty years. He's got people everywhere—cops, politicians, men who owe him favours. One ledger might not be enough."
"But Flynn published it."
"Flynn published it. And Patrick Malloy talked. But Robert's survived worse. He's survived informants, internal investigations, men who tried to put a bullet in his head." He looks at the fire, his jaw tight. "I don't trust it to stick."
She feels the tension in his body, the old wariness rising. She reaches up, touches his cheek, turns his face toward hers. "Then we stay ready. But we don't live in fear. That's what he wants—for us to be looking over our shoulders forever. We don't give him that."
He holds her gaze. Something shifts in his eyes, a softening. "You're remarkable, you know that?"
"I'm practical. There's a difference."
He laughs, low and warm. "No. There isn't. Not with you."
She kisses him, soft and slow, her fingers threading through his hair. The fire crackles beside them, and the wind shakes the windows, but the kiss is warm, steady, a promise sealed in breath and touch.
When she pulls back, she's smiling. "We should see the bedroom. Properly, I mean. In the light."
"It's dark."
"There's a lamp. I saw it on the nightstand."
He considers this. "And if the lamp doesn't work?"
"Then we'll fix it. Together." She stands, offers him her hand. "That's what we do now."
He takes her hand, lets her pull him to his feet. They leave the fire burning low and walk down the narrow hallway, their footsteps echoing on the bare floorboards. The bedroom door is still open from earlier, the bed still unmade, dust motes floating in the thin light from the window.
She crosses to the nightstand, clicks the lamp. It flickers, sputters, then holds—a warm, amber glow that fills the room with soft shadows.
The bedroom is small. A double bed pushed against the wall, its iron frame rusted in places. A wooden wardrobe with one door hanging slightly askew. A small mirror on the wall, its silver backing clouded with age. The plaster is cracked above the window, and the curtains are thin, faded floral prints that look like they haven't been washed in decades.
It's perfect.
She turns in a slow circle, taking it all in. "This is ours."
He's watching her, not the room. "Yes."
"We can paint the walls. Something warm—cream, maybe, or a soft yellow." She touches the wardrobe, runs her finger along the cracked wood. "We can fix this. Sand it down, stain it. Make it beautiful again."
"We can."
She turns to face him. He's still standing in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, his eyes soft in the lamplight. The shadows carve out the lines of his face, the tension in his jaw, the quiet wonder in his gaze.
"What?" she asks.
"Nothing." He shakes his head. "Everything. I'm just—" He stops, searches for the word. "I'm looking at you in this room, talking about paint and sanding wood, and I can't quite believe it's real."
She crosses to him, takes his hands, pulls them from his pockets. "It's real. Touch me. Feel me." She presses his palms to her cheeks. "I'm here."
He holds her face like she's made of glass. His thumbs trace her cheekbones, the edge of her jaw, the corner of her mouth. "I know. I know you are. It's just—" He exhales, a shaky breath. "I spent so long thinking I didn't deserve this. That people like me don't get happy endings."
"People like you?"
"Men with blood on their hands. Men who've done things they can't take back." His voice cracks. "I've hurt people, Siobhan. I've broken bones. I've held a man down while someone else put a knife in him. I've stood by while—" He stops, swallows. "I'm not a good man."
She doesn't look away. She doesn't flinch. She holds his gaze and says, "You're the best man I've ever known."
"Siobhan—"
"I know what you've done. You told me. Every scar, every fight, every choice you regret. I know all of it." She brings his hands to her lips, kisses his knuckles. "And I'm still here. I'm still choosing you."
His breath shudders out of him. His forehead drops to hers. "I don't deserve you."
"Maybe not. But you have me anyway." She smiles, a small, crooked thing. "So you're stuck with me."
He laughs, a broken, beautiful sound. "I think I can live with that."
She kisses him again, and this time it's not soft. It's hungry, desperate, a claim and a surrender all at once. Her hands slide up his chest, curl into his collar, pull him closer. He responds in kind, his arms wrapping around her, lifting her, carrying her to the bed.
They fall onto the thin mattress together, the iron frame groaning under their weight. She laughs, breathless, and he's laughing too, and for a moment they're just two people, tangled and happy, the weight of the world held at bay by four cracked walls and a flickering lamp.
He props himself up on his elbows, looking down at her. Her hair is spread across the pillow, flame-red against the faded fabric. Her eyes are bright, her lips swollen from his kisses. The ring glints on her finger, catching the lamplight.
"I love you," he says. Not a question. Not a discovery. A fact. Simple and absolute as gravity.
She reaches up, traces the line of his jaw. "I love you too."
He lowers his head, presses his forehead to hers. "We're going to make this work. I don't know how, but we're going to make this work."
"I know."
"We'll fix the roof. We'll plant a garden. We'll get that dog and that cat and let them fight it out." He laughs, soft and wondering. "We'll grow old in this cottage, you and me, and we'll die in this bed, and I'll still be holding your hand."
Her eyes glisten, but she doesn't cry. She smiles, wide and bright. "That's a good plan."
"It's a start."
He kisses her again, slow and deep, and she arches into him, her body answering his in the language they've been learning together. The lamp flickers, the wind howls, and somewhere in the distance, the sea crashes against the cliffs.
But in this room, in this bed, in this moment, there is only them.
Whatever comes tomorrow—Robert's arrest, the fallout of Flynn's article, the long work of building a life from rubble—it can wait.
Tonight, they have each other.
Tonight, they are home.
The fire burns low in the other room, casting long shadows through the doorway. The lamp on the nightstand glows amber and steady. Her hand finds his, their fingers interlacing, the ring warm between their palms.
He kisses her forehead, her temple, the corner of her mouth. "Sleep," he murmurs. "I'll be here when you wake up."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
She closes her eyes, her breath evening out, her body relaxing into his. He watches her for a long moment—the flutter of her lashes, the soft curve of her lips, the way her hand curls around his like she's holding onto something precious.
He doesn't sleep. Not yet. He lies awake, listening to her breathe, feeling her heartbeat against his chest, and he lets himself believe.
This is real.
They are real.
And for the first time in twenty-eight years, Declan Morrow is not afraid of tomorrow.