The fire had burned down to embers, orange glow dying to amber, the room cooling around them. Siobhan's weight settled against his chest, her spine curved into the hollow of his body like she'd been made to fit there, and Declan kept his breathing slow, steady, afraid that any movement would break whatever spell had brought them to this stillness.
Her hair smelled of woodsmoke and the lavender soap from her mother's kitchen. He pressed his mouth to the crown of her head, felt the fine strands catch on his lips, and she shivered—a small tremor that ran through her shoulders and settled in her hands, where they rested on his forearm.
"I've never held you like this," he said, and his voice came out rougher than he'd meant, scraped raw by the quiet. "Not in haste. Not in fear."
She didn't answer. Her fingers found his hand, laced through, and pulled it to her stomach. The wool of her jumper was soft, worn thin from years of wear, and beneath it he could feel the warmth of her skin radiating through.
"Here," she whispered, and guided his palm flat against the fabric. "Feel me breathe."
He did. The rise and fall of her ribs, slow and deliberate, the soft give of her belly under his hand. He traced the bones of her ribcage with his fingertips, light, asking, and her breath hitched—not from cold, not from fear, but from the waiting.
She turned in his arms, rolling onto her back across the threadbare cushions, and the sofa creaked beneath them. The sound was loud in the quiet room, a groan of old springs and worn upholstery, and Declan froze, listening for footsteps above, for the floorboards in her father's bedroom to shift.
Nothing.
Siobhan's hand found the back of his neck, pulled him down. Her eyes were green in the firelight, dark and deep, and she didn't look away. She never looked away, not from him, not from the hard things—and that was the truth of her, the thing he loved most and feared most.
He kissed her collarbone. The soft ridge of bone where her neck met her shoulder, the skin warm and salt-touched from the heat of the fire. She arched into him, a wordless yes, and he moved his mouth along the line of her throat, tasting the hollow where her pulse beat wild and fragile.
"Declan."
His name like a prayer, like a confession she'd held too long. He answered with his hand, sliding under the hem of her jumper, finding the bare skin of her waist. She was soft there, soft and warm, and when his thumb traced the curve of her ribs she made a sound low in her throat, barely audible, meant only for him.
He kissed the hollow of her throat again, slower this time, letting his lips linger on the place where her pulse fluttered against his mouth. She smelled of soap and sleep and the faint, sweet perfume she wore on Sundays, and he wanted to memorize every note of her, to carry her scent home with him through the grey streets of the Shankill.
Her fingers found his hair, threaded through the curls at his collar, and pulled gently. He looked up.
"I'm not afraid," she said, but her voice wavered on the last word, and he saw the truth in her eyes—she was terrified. She was choosing him anyway.
"I know, love." He pressed his forehead to hers, let himself breathe her in. "I know."
Her jumper had ridden up, and his hand rested on the bare skin of her stomach now, the soft plane of her belly rising and falling with each breath. He didn't move higher. He didn't push further. He stayed, his palm warm against her, and watched her eyes close, watched her surrender to the stillness.
This wasn't the frantic need of the night before, the desperate fumbling in her narrow bed with her father's footsteps in the hall. This was something else. Something slower. Something that asked her to trust him not just with her body, but with the silence between them.
She trusted him. He could feel it in the slack of her muscles, the way she let herself be heavy against the cushions, the way her hand lay open on his chest instead of gripping, holding, bracing for the next disaster.
He kissed her mouth. Soft. Barely a press of lips, a question asked without words. She answered with a small sound, a parting of her lips, and he tasted her—warm and sweet, the ghost of the tea she'd drunk hours ago, the familiar taste of Siobhan that he'd carried in his mouth through every sleepless night.
The kiss deepened slowly, like water rising, and he felt her hand slide from his chest to his shoulder, pulling him closer. He braced one arm against the back of the sofa, the other still pressed to her stomach, and let himself sink into the heat of her mouth, the soft surrender of her body beneath him.
When he broke the kiss, she made a small sound of protest, and he laughed—a quiet breath against her lips—and kissed the corner of her mouth, her jaw, the delicate shell of her ear where her hair had fallen away.
"You're shaking," he murmured.
"I'm not." But she was, a fine tremor running through her thighs where they pressed against his hip. He shifted his weight, letting his leg settle between hers, and she gasped—a sharp, involuntary sound that she cut off with her hand over her mouth.
Her eyes went wide, and they both listened.
The house was silent. The embers popped in the hearth. A car passed somewhere on the street outside, tyres wet on the cobblestones, and then it was gone, and the quiet returned heavier than before.
"He's asleep," she whispered, her hand still pressed to her lips. "He won't—"
"Shh." He touched her wrist, gently pulled her hand away. "I know."
He kissed her palm, the inside of her wrist where her pulse beat fast and fragile. She watched him, her green eyes dark in the low light, and he saw the question there—the same question she'd asked a hundred ways since that first morning in the butcher's back room.
How far will you go? How much will you risk?
He answered by pressing his mouth to the hollow of her throat again, lower this time, kissing the exposed skin above the collar of her jumper. She arched her back, a soft, broken sound escaping her, and he felt the heat of her through the fabric, the desperate wanting that matched his own.
Her hand found his again, guided it lower—not between her legs, not yet, but to the waistband of her skirt, where the wool of her jumper met the cotton of her blouse. She lifted her hips, a silent invitation, and he understood.
He worked the hem of her jumper up slowly, an inch at a time, watching her face in the firelight. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted, her breath coming in shallow gasps. He bared her stomach, the pale skin freckled like her shoulders, and he stopped to look at her—this woman who had chosen him, who had brought him into her home, who had told her mother and her father and the whole goddamn city that he was worth the fight.
"What?" she whispered, opening her eyes. "What is it?"
"Nothing." He shook his head, pressed a kiss to the soft skin just below her navel. "Just—you're beautiful."
She laughed, a breathless sound that caught in her throat. "You've seen me before, Declan Morrow."
"Never like this." He kissed her again, higher this time, tracing the line of her ribs with his lips. "Never still."
The fire popped, and the shadows shifted across the ceiling. He could feel the weight of the house around them—her father's silence upstairs, her mother's absence in the kitchen, the framed photograph of Thomas on the mantle with his hands intact and his eyes full of a hope that had been beaten out of him.
They were all watching. Declan could feel them in the walls.
But Siobhan was here, warm and alive beneath him, her fingers in his hair, her breath on his skin, and he couldn't bring himself to care about the ghosts.
He kissed her ribs, the soft swell of her breast through her blouse, the hollow where her heart beat beneath the cage of bone. She made a sound—a wordless plea—and he answered by sliding his hand higher, palming the curve of her breast through the cotton, feeling her nipple harden against his thumb.
"Declan." His name again, broken this time, desperate. "Please."
He knew what she was asking. He knew what he wanted. But the stillness held him, the moment stretching like a held breath, and he wanted to stay here—at the threshold, at the edge—where every touch was a question, every sound an answer.
He pressed his mouth to her breast through the fabric, felt her back arch, felt her fingers tighten in his hair. She was trembling now, a fine vibration running through her whole body, and he wanted to taste her, to feel her come undone beneath him without the rush, without the fear of discovery.
But the house creaked.
Not loud. A settling sound, the old bones of the building adjusting to the cold. But Siobhan froze, her hand stilling on his neck, her eyes going to the ceiling.
They waited.
No footsteps. No voice. Just the embers and the silence and the two of them, suspended in the dark.
She let out a breath. "God."
"He's asleep."
"I know." She laughed, a shaky sound. "I keep thinking—"
"Don't." He kissed her forehead, her temple, the bridge of her nose. "Don't think. Just stay here with me."
She looked at him for a long moment, her green eyes searching his face in the dim light. Then she nodded, a small, surrendering movement, and pulled him down to her.
They lay tangled on the narrow sofa, her skirt rucked up around her thighs, her jumper pushed to her ribs, his weight half on top of her, half braced against the worn cushions. The fire had burned to ash, the orange glow fading to grey, and the room was cold now, the chill seeping through the velvet curtains and the thin glass of the windows.
But she was warm. She was always warm, a furnace of heat and want and stubborn, impossible hope, and Declan pressed himself against her, burying his face in her hair, breathing her in.
Her hand found his, laced their fingers together, pressed them to her heart. "I can feel you," she whispered. "In my chest. Like you're part of me now."
He didn't answer. He couldn't. The words were too big, too heavy, and if he spoke them they would break something—the stillness, the spell, the fragile peace of this moment before the world came crashing back in.
So he held her. He kissed her hair. He let his hand rest on the warm skin of her stomach, rising and falling with her breath, and he let the silence say what he couldn't.
Outside, the first light of dawn touched the rooftops of the Falls Road, grey and thin, bleeding through the curtains like a warning. The city was waking—the milk carts, the factory whistles, the pubs opening early for the men who worked the docks.
And somewhere on the other side of the peace wall, Billy Patterson was probably still awake, nursing a whiskey and a grudge, waiting for Declan to make a mistake.
But that was later. That was the world.
Here, in the grey light of her father's sitting room, with her heartbeat under his hand and her breath warm on his neck, Declan closed his eyes and let himself believe, for one stolen moment, that they could stay like this forever.
Siobhan shifted against him, her hand finding his jaw, turning his face to hers. "Come back," she whispered. "Wherever you just went—come back."
He opened his eyes. She was watching him, her green eyes soft and knowing, and he realized she'd felt him drift—felt the tension return to his shoulders, the worry creeping back into his bones.
"I'm here," he said.
"No, you're not." She traced his jaw with her thumb, a light, almost teasing touch. "You're thinking about him. About Billy."
He didn't deny it.
"Don't." She pulled him closer, her mouth brushing his ear. "Not now. Not yet. Stay with me."
He let out a breath—long, slow, a release of something he'd been carrying since the alley, since the photograph, since Billy's voice in the rain promising blood. He let it go, just for a moment, and pressed his forehead to hers.
"I'm here," he said again, and this time he meant it.
She smiled—a small, tired, beautiful thing—and kissed him, soft and slow, her lips warm against his. The kiss tasted of sleep and salt and the faint sweetness of her, and he held her face in his hands like she was something precious, something fragile, something he would burn the whole city to protect.
The fire was dead. The room was cold. The light through the curtains was grey and thin and growing brighter.
But she was here. She was warm. She was his.
And for now, in this stolen hour between the dark and the dawn, that was enough.
The light through the curtains had shifted—from grey to pale gold, the first true warmth of morning touching the dust motes that hung suspended in the still air. Declan watched them drift, slow and aimless, and thought how strange it was that such small things could go on spinning while the whole world held its breath.
Siobhan's hand moved against his chest, her fingers tracing the ridge of his collarbone, the hollow of his throat. A question in the touch. A question he didn't know how to answer.
"What is it?" she asked.
He blinked. "Nothing."
"Liar." But she said it soft, without accusation.
He looked down at her—her hair spread across the worn cushion, her freckles dark against skin still flushed from sleep and closeness, her green eyes steady on his. She saw too much. She always had. From the first moment in the cold storage room, she'd looked at him like she could read the words he never spoke aloud.
"I was thinking," he said slowly, "about the first time I saw you."
A flicker of surprise crossed her face. "In the butcher's?"
"No." He shook his head. "Before that. The market, on the Falls Road. You were buying apples, and you argued with the vendor about the price for a full five minutes. Not angry. Just—determined. Like you'd decided you weren't going to be cheated, and nothing he said would change your mind."
She stared at him. "You never told me that."
"I never told anyone." He touched her jaw, running his thumb along the line of it, feeling the soft warmth of her skin. "I went home that night and I couldn't sleep. I kept seeing you. The way you held the apple in your hand, turning it over like you were checking for bruises. The way you smiled when you won. Small. Private. Like it was just for you."
Her eyes went bright, and she looked away, blinking hard. "Declan."
"I'm not good at saying things," he said. "You know that. I never have been. But I want you to know—" He stopped. The words were there, pressing against his teeth, but they wouldn't come out. They never did. Not the big ones, the ones that mattered, the ones that felt like standing on the edge of a cliff and looking down.
She waited. She didn't fill the silence.
He pressed his forehead to hers, closed his eyes, and let himself say the thing he'd been carrying since the alley, since Billy's voice in the rain, since the photograph of Patrick Patterson's dead face stared up at him from the wet ground.
"I'm not leaving you."
Her breath caught.
"Not ever," he said, and the words came easier now, softer, a whisper against her lips. "Not for him. Not for the Shankill. Not for anyone. They can burn the whole city down around us, and I'll still be here. Holding you. Breathing you in. Telling you I love you until my voice gives out."
She made a sound—small, broken, not quite a sob—and pulled him down, her mouth finding his, her arms wrapping around his neck like she was trying to pull him inside her skin. He kissed her back, deep and slow, tasting salt on her lips, feeling the tremor run through her body.
"Say it again," she whispered against his mouth.
"I love you."
"Again."
"I love you, Siobhan Connolly. I love your stubbornness and your freckles and the way you bite your lip when you're lying. I love the sound of your laugh and the smell of your hair and the way you say my name like it's something precious." He kissed her forehead, her temple, the corner of her eye where a tear had escaped. "I love you. And I'm never leaving you."
She laughed—a wet, shaky sound—and pulled him closer, her legs tangling with his on the narrow sofa, her body fitting against him like she'd been made to fill the spaces he didn't know were empty. He held her, his hand splayed across her back, feeling her heartbeat through the thin fabric of her blouse.
A long moment passed. The light grew brighter, the room warmer, the sounds of the city filtering in through the walls—a dog barking, a woman calling to a child, the distant rumble of a lorry. The world was waking, and with it, the danger. Billy Patterson. The Shankill. The threat that hung over them like a blade waiting to fall.
Declan felt it settling back into his bones, the weight of what he'd promised, the impossibility of keeping her safe in a city that wanted them torn apart. But he didn't let go. He held her tighter, pressed his lips to her hair, and let the warmth of her body anchor him.
"Declan." Her voice was small, muffled against his chest.
"Mm."
"I need to tell you something."
He pulled back, just enough to see her face. She was pale, her green eyes wary, her hand finding his and holding tight.
"My father," she said. "He's not just 'calling in favors.'"
Declan went still.
"He knows people," she continued, her voice dropping to a whisper. "People who owe him. People who can make things happen. He told me last night, after you left. He said if Billy comes near us, if anyone tries to hurt me or you—there are men in the Falls who will handle it."
The word hung in the air. Handle. Declan knew what that meant. Knew the weight of it, the blood on the other side of that word. Knew what it cost.
"Siobhan—"
"I know." She cut him off, her eyes fierce. "I know what it means. I know what he's offering. But Declan, Billy threatened my family. He threatened my mother. He threatened you. If there's a way to stop him before he does something we can't undo, I have to take it."
"That's not protection," he said, his voice rough. "That's a war."
"It's already a war." She sat up, her hand still in his, her gaze steady. "It's been a war since the day we met. The only difference is now we have people on our side."
He opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. Because she was right. He hated it, but she was right. Billy Patterson wasn't going to stop. The photograph of his brother, the threat in the rain, the promise of blood—those weren't empty words. Billy meant every one of them. And if Declan didn't find a way to meet that threat, Siobhan would pay the price.
"Your father," he said slowly. "What else did he say?"
She looked down at their joined hands. "He wants to meet you. Properly. Not the stew-and-questions version. The real version."
"When?"
"Tonight. After supper. Just the three of us, in the kitchen." She looked up, her eyes searching his. "He said he wants to see the man his daughter is willing to burn her life down for."
Declan let out a breath. It wasn't a threat. It wasn't a demand. But it felt like one—a test he didn't know the shape of, a door he had to walk through without knowing what waited on the other side.
"Alright."
She blinked. "Alright?"
"I'll meet him. Tonight. After supper." He squeezed her hand, a small smile tugging at his mouth. "I'll bring my best manners and my cleanest shirt. I'll tell him the truth. I'll look him in the eye and tell him I love his daughter and I will die before I let anyone hurt her."
Siobhan stared at him, her lips parted, her eyes bright with something that looked like wonder. Then she laughed—a real laugh, warm and surprised—and kissed him, hard, her hands cupping his face like he was something she'd just discovered.
"You're impossible," she said against his mouth.
"Or determined."
"Same thing."
He held the laugh in his chest, let it settle there, warm and aching. Her lips were still close, her breath mixing with his, and he could feel the shape of her smile without seeing it.
"Determined," he repeated, quieter this time. The word felt small against everything he was carrying.
She pulled back, just enough to look at him. The fire had burned low, casting long shadows across her face, and her eyes caught the orange light like embers. She was beautiful in a way that hurt—not the easy beauty of a photograph, but the kind that came from knowing her, from watching her bite her lip when she was nervous and laugh too fast when she was scared and hold his hand like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
"What is it?" she asked, her thumb tracing the bone of his wrist.
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Shook his head.
"Declan."
"I don't—" He stopped, swallowed. The words were there, pressing against his teeth, but they didn't want to come out. They were too raw, too young, too much like the things he'd only ever said to himself in the dark of his attic room, when the city was quiet and the only proof she existed was the rosary beads warm against his palm.
She waited. Didn't push. Just let her hand rest on his chest, over his heart, like she was listening to it beat.
He turned his head, pressed his mouth to her hair, and whispered it. Not the words he'd rehearsed. Not the promises he'd made in the dawn light. The thing underneath.
"I'm afraid."
Her breath caught. She didn't move.
"I'm afraid," he said again, his voice barely a thread, "that I'm going to fail you. That I'm going to try so hard to keep you safe that I lose you anyway. That Billy Patterson is going to find a way to hurt you, and it'll be because I couldn't let go, couldn't walk away, couldn't do the one thing that would actually protect you." He closed his eyes, feeling the shape of her skull against his lips. "I'm afraid that loving you is going to kill you, and I'm going to have to live with that."
She was still for a long moment. Then she shifted, her hand sliding up from his chest to his jaw, turning his face toward hers. Her eyes were wet, but she wasn't crying—not yet. Just holding him in that steady green gaze, like she was seeing through the bone to the marrow of him.
"You can't protect me by leaving," she said. "Don't you understand that yet? If you walk away, I'm still in danger. Billy doesn't stop because you're gone. He stops because someone makes him stop. And I'd rather be in danger with you beside me than safe without you."
"Siobhan—"
"No." She pressed her fingers to his lips, silencing him. "You don't get to carry this alone. That's not how this works. You don't get to love me and then decide what's best for me. We decide together. We fight together. We burn this city down together."
He stared at her. The firelight caught the edge of her jaw, the curve of her throat, the small, fierce set of her mouth. She looked like something out of a myth—a woman made of flame and stubbornness, ready to stand in front of him and dare the world to try.
"I can't lose you," he said. It came out broken, a confession he hadn't meant to make.
"You won't."
"You don't know that."
"I know it." She took his hand, pressed it flat against her chest, over her heart. "Feel that? That's yours. It's been yours since the night you kissed me in the butcher's back room and told me I was beautiful. And it's going to keep beating for you, Declan Morrow, no matter what Billy Patterson or anyone else tries to do."
His hand trembled against her ribs. He could feel her heartbeat, steady and sure, a rhythm he wanted to anchor himself to for the rest of his life.
"I love you," he said, and the words felt different now—heavier, truer, carved out of something he hadn't known he had. "I love you, and I'm never leaving you. Not because I can protect you. Because I can't breathe without you."
She made a sound—a small, broken thing—and kissed him. Not hard. Soft. Tender. Her lips moved against his like she was learning the shape of him, memorizing the way he fit against her. Her hand slid into his hair, her fingers tangling in the auburn curls at his collar, and he felt the last of his resistance crumble.
He pulled her closer, his arm wrapping around her waist, his other hand still pressed to her heart. The sofa creaked beneath them, the fire popped in the grate, and somewhere outside a bird began to sing—a small, hopeful sound that cut through the grey morning light.
When she finally pulled back, her cheeks were flushed, her lips swollen, her eyes bright with something that looked like joy. "We're going to be alright," she said. It wasn't a question.
He wanted to believe her. Wanted to let the words settle into his bones and take root. But he could still feel Billy Patterson's presence in the alley, the photograph of a dead brother, the promise of blood. He could still hear his mother's voice, broken and tired, asking him what he was doing with his life.
But Siobhan was looking at him like he was already the answer, and he couldn't bring himself to shatter that.
"Alright," he said, and the word tasted like a prayer. "Alright."
The light grew stronger, the room warmer, the sounds of the waking city filtering through the walls. A dog barked in the distance. A woman called to her child. The world was returning, bringing with it all the weight and danger and impossibility of what they were trying to build.
But for this moment—for this single, stolen moment—Declan held Siobhan in his arms on a threadbare sofa in her father's sitting room, and let himself believe that love might be enough. That two people, holding each other in the dark, could hold back the tide.
"Tonight," she said quietly. "After supper. You'll meet him."
"I'll meet him."
"And you'll tell him the truth."
"I'll tell him everything." He pressed a kiss to her forehead, letting his lips linger. "Except how your voice sounds when you say my name in the dark. That's mine."
She laughed—a real laugh, warm and surprised—and buried her face in his chest. Her shoulders shook, and he wasn't sure if she was laughing or crying, but he held her through it, his hand stroking her hair, his heart full to bursting.
Outside, the city stirred. Inside, the fire died to embers, and two lovers held each other in the quiet, suspended in a moment that couldn't last but felt, for now, like forever.
"Declan?"
"Mm."
"Thank you."
"For what?"
She looked up at him, her eyes red-rimmed but steady, her smile small and true. "For being afraid. And staying anyway."
He didn't have words for that. So he kissed her, slow and deep, and let her feel everything he couldn't say. The fear. The hope. The vow that burned in his chest like a flame that wouldn't die.
He would meet her father tonight. He would look Sean Connolly in the eye and tell him the truth. And then he would figure out how to keep the woman he loved alive in a city that wanted them dead.
But for now, he held her. And that was enough.
The quiet settled back around them, thick as smoke. Declan listened to her breathing, to the tick of the mantel clock, to the distant clatter of a milk cart somewhere on the street. His hand still rested against her chest, her heartbeat steady beneath his palm. He wanted to stay here forever—suspended in this sliver of morning where nothing else existed but her warmth and the soft fabric of her cardigan and the smell of lavender in her hair.
But the knot in his chest wouldn't loosen. Billy's face. The photograph. His mother's voice.
He felt Siobhan shift, felt her fingers trace the collar of his shirt, and he knew she'd caught something in the tension of his shoulders.
"What is it?" she asked, her voice low and quiet, like she was afraid of breaking something.
He didn't answer at first. Just pressed his lips to the crown of her head and breathed her in. Then: "Your father. The men he knows. What exactly is his plan?"
She went still against him.
"Declan—"
"I need to know." He pulled back just enough to look at her face. Her green eyes were cautious, measuring him. "You said he knows people. Dangerous people. What does that mean, Siobhan? What's he going to do?"
She bit her lower lip, a habit he'd come to recognize as a prelude to a half-truth. But then she let out a breath and met his gaze.
"He fought in the early days. Before I was born. He knows names—men who still respect him, men who owe him. He said he'd make a call, have someone talk to Billy. Man to man."
"Talk to him." Declan's voice came out flat. "You mean threaten him."
"I mean warn him off." Her jaw tightened. "The same way he threatened us. Eye for an eye, Declan. That's how this city works."
He looked away, staring at the cold ashes in the hearth. A dying ember still glowed orange at the edge, barely alive. He thought about the weight of a favor called in—a debt that never quite got paid, only passed along. He thought about what it would mean to owe something to men who carried guns and kept grudges.
"I don't want more violence," he said quietly. "I've seen what it does. It doesn't end anything. It just makes the next round easier."
She reached up and turned his face back to hers. Her thumb traced the line of his jaw, gentle and deliberate.
"You think I want that?" Her voice cracked. "You think I want my father calling men who've done terrible things? But Billy Patterson threatened to kill me, Declan. He threatened my mother. What else are we supposed to do?"
He closed his eyes. The truth of it settled into his bones like cold water.
"I don't know," he whispered. "I don't know."
She pressed closer, her forehead against his, her breath warm on his lips.
"My father's not a monster. He won't ask for blood. Just a conversation. A warning. Enough to make Billy understand that we're not alone."
"And if Billy doesn't listen?"
Siobhan was silent. The clock ticked. A bird sang, loud and close, just beyond the window.
"Then we leave," she said finally. "We go to the Republic, like I said before. We disappear."
"You'd leave your mother? Your father?"
"I'd leave everything." Her eyes were wet, but her voice didn't waver. "I'd leave everything if it meant keeping you alive."
He kissed her then—hard, desperate, tasting salt and sorrow. She responded with the same urgency, her fingers digging into his shoulders, pulling him closer as if she could merge them into one person, one unbreakable thing.
When they broke apart, they were both breathing hard. The fire had faded to grey ash. The room had grown brighter, the shadows retreating from the corners.
"Tonight," she said, her voice steadier now. "After supper. You'll ask him yourself. You'll look him in the eye and hear what he's planning. And then we decide together."
He nodded. His throat was too tight for words.
"I trust him," she added, almost to herself. "I have to."
Declan pulled her back against his chest, wrapping both arms around her, feeling the rise and fall of her ribs. He didn't know if he trusted Sean Connolly. He didn't know if he trusted anyone in this city—not his brother, not his mother's prayers, not the peace walls that pretended to keep people safe.
But he trusted this. Her weight against him. The way her fingers found his and held on.
Above them, a floorboard creaked.
They both froze. Siobhan's hand tightened on his. The sound came again—slow footsteps overhead, the groan of old timber settling under someone's weight.
Her father was awake.
Siobhan looked up at him, her eyes wide and bright in the grey morning light. She didn't say anything, but she didn't have to. The clock was ticking now. The day had begun.
Declan pressed a kiss to her forehead, letting it linger. Then he sat up, straightened his shirt, and ran a hand through his hair. He could feel the tension settling back into his shoulders—the familiar weight of being watched, of being measured, of being a Protestant boy in a Catholic house whose father knew exactly what he'd been doing in the dark.
"Will you stay for breakfast?" Siobhan asked. Her voice was light, almost playful, but he could hear the tremor underneath.
He looked at her. Her hair was mussed, her cardigan wrinkled, her lips still pink from his kisses. She looked like something he'd dreamed—too beautiful, too fragile, too real.
"Yes," he said. "I'll stay."
Declan sat up straighter on the sofa, running his palm over his stubble. The footsteps above grew louder—closer—then paused. A door opened. Water ran through old pipes, a toilet flushed, and the footsteps retreated toward the stairs.
Siobhan's hand found his knee. Squeezed once. "Breathe."
He realized he'd been holding his breath. He let it out slow, feeling the tension in his ribs.
"What does he know?" Declan kept his voice low. "About last night. About us."
"He knows I brought you here. He knows I love you." She said it simply, like it was the most ordinary thing in the world. "He doesn't know about the sofa. But he's not stupid."
A staircase groaned under someone's weight. Heavy footsteps. Measured. Declan pictured Sean Connolly coming down the stairs, still in his dressing gown, his work-roughened hands gripping the banister. He'd met him only briefly the night before—a handshake at the door, a long look that said more than words could.
The footsteps stopped at the bottom of the stairs. A moment of silence. Then the kitchen door opened, and the clatter of a kettle being filled broke the quiet.
Siobhan stood, smoothing her cardigan. Her hair was mussed, her skirt wrinkled, and she looked like she'd been awake for hours. She ran a hand through her red curls, attempting some order, then gave up and let them fall.
"Come on," she said, holding out her hand. "He makes tea strong. You'll need it."
Declan took her hand and let her pull him to his feet. His joints ached from the sofa—a night of half-sleep, her weight on his chest, the constant awareness of a house that wasn't his. He followed her into the kitchen, where the smell of brewing tea and frying bacon hit him like a wall.
Sean Connolly stood at the stove, his back to them. He was a solid man, broad-shouldered and grey-haired, with the kind of stillness that came from years of hard work and hard silences. He didn't turn around when they entered.
"Sit," he said. Not a question.
Declan sat at the small kitchen table, the wood worn smooth by years of elbows and plates. Siobhan moved past him to the cupboards, pulling down three cups, moving with the ease of someone who knew exactly where everything lived.
The kettle clicked off. Steam rose. Sean poured water into a teapot, set it on the table, and finally turned.
His eyes landed on Declan first—that same long look from the doorway last night, measuring, searching. Then they moved to his daughter, and something softened behind them.
"You look tired, love."
"I'm fine, Da." She sat across from Declan, her knee brushing his under the table. "We were talking. Late."
"Talking." Sean's voice carried no judgment, but the word hung in the air like a question mark. He sat down heavily, the chair creaking under him, and poured tea into each cup with the precision of a man who'd done it ten thousand times.
Declan wrapped his hands around the warm mug. The heat seeped into his fingers, steadied something in his chest.
"I told him about Billy," Siobhan said, her voice quiet but steady. "He knows what happened."
Sean took a long sip of his tea, his eyes fixed on the table. For a moment, the only sound was the ticking of the clock on the wall and the hiss of fat in the pan.
"Billy Patterson," he said finally. "I know the name. His father was a hard man. Worse than the son, if you can believe it."
"I believe it," Declan said.
Sean looked up at him. "You've met him, then."
"He cornered me in an alley." Declan swallowed. "Twice. The second time, he showed me a photograph of his brother. Killed by the IRA for loving a Catholic girl."
Sean's jaw tightened. He set down his tea, his hands flat on the table, the knuckles white.
"You told Siobhan about this."
"The same night it happened."
"And you stayed."
"I came back the next morning." Declan met his eyes. "I'll keep coming back."
The silence stretched. Sean studied him, his face unreadable, the firelight casting shadows across his weathered features. Then he nodded—a small movement, barely perceptible, but it felt like a door opening.
"I have a cousin," Sean said. "Lives in the Short Strand. Known to a few men in the UDA—the ones who aren't loyal to the hardliners. He can arrange a conversation. A quiet one." He picked up his tea again, taking a slow sip. "Nothing for you to worry about. Just men talking."
Declan's grip tightened on his mug. "And if talking doesn't work?"
"Then we find another way." Sean's voice was flat, final, not inviting further question.
Siobhan looked between them, her fingers wrapped around her own cup. "Da says he'll handle it. I trust him."
"I don't want blood," Declan said. "I don't want Billy dead. I just want him to leave her alone."
Sean's eyes narrowed. "You're a Protestant boy who crossed the wall for a Catholic girl. Billy Patterson doesn't forget that. He won't stop until you're dead or gone."
"Then we'll go."
"And take Siobhan with you?" Sean's voice hardened. "Take her away from her mother, her school, the only home she's ever known?"
"Da—" Siobhan started.
"No, love. I need to hear him say it." Sean leaned forward, his hands clasped on the table. "You love my daughter. You tell me what you're willing to sacrifice for her."
Declan met his gaze. The weight of the question pressed down on him—the weight of everything he'd have to leave behind. His mother. His attic room. The only life he'd ever known.
"Everything," he said. "I'd give everything."
Sean held his eyes for a long moment. Then he sat back, picked up his tea, and took a long drink.
"Good," he said. "That's what I needed to hear."
Siobhan's hand found his under the table, her fingers lacing through his, holding tight.
The three of them sat in the kitchen as the morning light grew stronger, the bacon cooling in the pan, the tea growing cold in their cups. Sean talked about his work at the docks, the men he knew, the lines that got crossed and uncrossed in a city that ran on grudges and old favors. He spoke carefully, never naming names, but Declan caught the shape of the world he was describing—a web of debts and loyalties that stretched across both sides of the peace wall.
"I don't want you involved," Sean said finally, pushing back from the table. "You stay here with Siobhan. Keep your head down. Let me handle Billy Patterson."
"And if he comes here?" Declan asked.
"He won't." Sean stood, picking up his tea. "Not once my cousin has a word with him."
Declan wanted to believe him. He wanted to believe that men talking could solve what guns and threats had started. But he'd grown up on the Shankill. He knew what happened when one side called in favors—the other side called in bigger ones. The violence didn't end. It just changed shape.
Siobhan stood too, clearing the cups, her movements quick and deliberate. "He'll be back tonight, Da. For supper. You'll talk properly then."
Sean paused at the door, looking back at Declan. "Seven o'clock. Don't be late."
Then he was gone, his footsteps retreating down the hall, and they were alone in the kitchen with the cooling tea and the morning light.
Siobhan turned to him, her eyes searching his face. "You did well."
"He's testing me."
"Of course he is. He's my father." She stepped closer, her hands coming up to rest on his chest. "But he likes you. I can tell."
Declan let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "What happens tonight? What does he want from me?"
She was quiet for a moment, her fingers tracing the collar of his shirt. "He wants to know you're serious. That you're not going to run when it gets hard."
"I'm not running."
"I know." She looked up at him, her green eyes bright. "But he needs to hear it from you. See it in your face. He's lost too much to trust words alone."
Declan thought about the photograph Siobhan had shown him—her mother's lover, Thomas, whose hands were broken for loving across the line. He thought about the weight of that story, the way it shaped everything Maeve Connolly did, the way it shaped the way Sean held his daughter a little too tight.
"What do you expect from tonight?" he asked. "What do you think he'll say?"
Siobhan bit her lower lip, thinking. "I think he'll tell you about the plan. What his cousin's arranged. And I think he'll ask you to promise him something."
"What?"
"That you'll take care of me. If it goes wrong." Her voice dropped. "That you'll get me out."
The words settled into his chest like stones. He pulled her closer, his arms wrapping around her, his chin resting on the top of her head.
"I promise," he said. "Whatever happens. I'll get you out."
She pressed her face into his shoulder, and he felt her breathe—slow, deep, like she was trying to memorize the feel of him.
Outside, the city was waking up. A car engine turned over. A dog barked somewhere down the street. A child laughed, high and bright, cutting through the grey morning like a blade of light.
The day stretched ahead of them, full of hours to fill before the reckoning at dusk. And in the quiet of her mother's kitchen, with the smell of bacon and tea still hanging in the air, Declan held Siobhan close and tried not to think about what would happen when the sun went down.
The sitting room was dim when they finally moved from the kitchen, the fire burned down to orange embers that popped and settled in the grate. Declan stood in the doorway for a moment, watching the light play across the worn leather chairs, the mahogany table dull with age, the heavy velvet curtains that kept the grey morning at bay. The room smelled of woodsmoke and dust and something faintly sweet—perfume, maybe, or the dried flowers in a vase on the mantelpiece.
Siobhan crossed to the sofa and sat down, her hands folding in her lap, her eyes finding his in the half-dark. She didn't say anything. She didn't have to.
He crossed the room and sat beside her, the springs creaking under his weight. For a long moment, neither of them moved. The fire crackled. A clock ticked somewhere in the hall. Outside, the city went about its morning, indifferent to the two of them sitting in the quiet of her father's house, waiting for the hours to pass.
Siobhan leaned into him slowly, her shoulder pressing against his chest, her head finding the hollow of his neck like it belonged there. He wrapped his arm around her, his hand settling on her hip, and she let out a breath that seemed to carry the weight of everything she'd been holding.
"This is strange," she said softly.
"What is?"
"Being still." She shifted, her fingers finding the collar of his shirt, tracing the edge of the fabric. "We're always in motion. Always sneaking, or running, or—" She stopped, her throat working. "I don't know how to just be with you."
Declan pressed his mouth to her hair. Lavender and smoke. "Neither do I."
She laughed, a soft, tired sound. "We're a right pair, aren't we?"
"Yeah." He tightened his arm around her, pulling her closer. "But I'd rather be a mess with you than anything else with anyone."
She was quiet for a long moment, her breath warm against his chest. Then she shifted, turning toward him, her knees coming up onto the sofa so she could face him properly. Her hand found his jaw, her thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone, and he felt the calluses on her fingers—from chalk, from gripping a pen too long, from the small, ordinary work of a life he was only beginning to know.
"Tell me something," she said. "Something I don't know about you."
He thought about it. The fire popped. The light shifted across her face, painting her in amber and shadow.
"I used to build boats," he said. "When I was a boy. Small ones, out of scrap wood. I'd float them in the river behind my uncle's house."
Her thumb stopped moving. "What happened to them?"
"They always sank." He smiled, a small, crooked thing. "I never figured out how to make them waterproof. But I kept building them anyway."
She was quiet for a moment, her eyes searching his face. "Why?"
"Because I liked watching them try." His voice dropped. "Even when they were taking on water, they'd keep going. Keel up, listing to one side, but still moving. Still trying to reach the other bank."
Her breath caught, a small, sharp sound. She leaned forward and kissed him—soft, slow, her lips barely brushing his at first, then pressing deeper, like she was trying to memorize the shape of him. His hand came up to cradle the back of her head, his fingers threading through her hair, and he felt the pins give way, the red silk of it spilling over his hand.
She pulled back, her forehead resting against his. "You're still trying to reach the other bank, aren't you?"
"I am," he said. "With you. Always with you."
Her eyes glistened in the firelight. She kissed him again, harder this time, her hand sliding down his chest to rest over his heart. He could feel the heat of her palm through his shirt, the steady thrum of her pulse against his ribs.
"I want to show you something," she whispered against his mouth.
She took his hand and guided it under her jumper, pressing his palm flat against the warm skin of her stomach. He felt her breath hitch as his fingers spread across her belly, tracing the soft curve of her, the rise and fall of her breathing. She was warm. So warm. Like the embers in the grate, like the memory of sunlight in a city that had forgotten what it looked like.
He moved his hand slowly, his fingers tracing the bones of her ribs, counting them one by one. She shivered, her eyes closing, her head falling back against the cushions.
"Declan."
His name on her lips, soft and breathless, like a prayer she'd been saving for this moment.
"Tell me what you want," he said, his voice low. "Tell me, and I'll give it to you."
She opened her eyes, and in the firelight, they were the deep green of moss after rain, of the hills he'd only ever seen in pictures, of a country he'd never set foot in but was already learning to call home.
"I want to feel you," she said. "All of you. Not just your body. Not just your hands." She took his face in her hands, her thumbs brushing the rough stubble on his jaw. "I want to feel the parts you don't show anyone. The parts you keep hidden in your chest. I want to hold them, Declan. All of them."
His throat tightened. He didn't have words for what she was asking—didn't know how to give her the thing she was reaching for. So he showed her instead.
He rolled her onto her back, the sofa creaking beneath them, and settled over her, his weight pressing her into the cushions. She looked up at him, her hair spread across the worn fabric, her chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths. He lowered his head and pressed his mouth to her collarbone, tasting salt and soap and the faint sweetness of her skin.
She gasped, her hands finding his shoulders, her fingers digging into the muscle.
He kissed the hollow of her throat, the delicate skin where her pulse beat wild and vulnerable beneath his lips. He felt it—the frantic flutter of it, the way it quickened when he moved lower, trailing kisses across the swell of her breast, the fabric of her jumper bunched beneath his hands.
"Declan—"
He looked up at her, his mouth still pressed to her skin. Her eyes were dark, her lips parted, her breath coming in uneven gasps.
"Tell me," he said. "Tell me what you need."
Her hand found his, guiding it lower, pressing his palm against the waistband of her skirt. Her skin was hot beneath his fingers, and he felt her tremble as he traced the edge of the fabric, his knuckles brushing the soft skin of her hip.
"I need you," she whispered. "Right now. I need you inside me."
The words hit him like a blow—clean and precise and devastating. His cock hardened against his trousers, aching with the need to be inside her, to feel her tight and wet and desperate around him. But he didn't move. He held himself still, his hand resting on her hip, his forehead pressed to her chest.
"Not yet," he said, his voice rough. "Not like this."
She stiffened beneath him. "Why?"
He lifted his head, meeting her eyes. "Because I want to remember this. Every second of it. I don't want to rush through it like we're stealing time." He traced the line of her jaw, his thumb brushing her lower lip. "I want to take you apart slowly. I want to feel you come apart in my hands, piece by piece, until there's nothing left but us."
Her breath caught, a small, broken sound. Her eyes glistened, and she nodded, a single, jerky movement.
"Okay," she whispered. "Okay."
He lowered his mouth to hers, kissing her slowly, deeply, his tongue sliding against hers in a rhythm that was less about urgency and more about promise. Her hands moved down his back, tracing the ridges of his spine, the hard planes of muscle, the places where his shirt had pulled taut across his shoulders.
He rolled them onto their sides, facing each other on the narrow sofa, the firelight flickering across their skin. Her hand rested on his chest, her fingers playing with the buttons of his shirt, and he watched her face in the amber glow—the freckles scattered across her nose, the fine lines at the corners of her eyes, the way her lips curved when she caught him looking.
"What?" she said.
"Nothing." He shook his head. "Just—I want to remember this. The way you look right now. The way the light catches your hair." He reached out, tucking a strand behind her ear. "I want to remember every single thing about you, Siobhan. Every freckle. Every breath." His voice dropped. "Every time you say my name."
She bit her lower lip, her eyes bright. "You're going to make me cry."
"Good." He smiled, soft and crooked. "I want to remember that too."
She laughed, a wet, trembling sound, and pressed her face into his chest. He held her there, his arms wrapped around her, his chin resting on the top of her head. The fire crackled. The clock ticked. The world outside the velvet curtains kept turning, indifferent to the two of them folded together in the quiet of her father's house.
But in here, in this moment, there was nothing else. No peace wall. No Billy Patterson. No reckoning at dusk. Just the warmth of her body against his, the steady rhythm of her breathing, the slow, deliberate unfolding of two people learning to trust each other with their fear.
She shifted, her hand sliding down his chest, past his stomach, coming to rest on the hard length of him through his trousers. He sucked in a breath, his hips jerking involuntarily, and she looked up at him with those green eyes, dark and knowing.
"You said you wanted to take me apart slowly," she said, her voice low. "But you didn't say I couldn't touch you."
He swallowed. "I didn't."
She smiled, a slow, wicked thing, and pressed her palm against him, feeling the shape of him through the fabric. He was hard—achingly hard—and the pressure of her hand sent a jolt through him that made his vision blur at the edges.
"Siobhan—"
"Shh." She pressed a finger to his lips. "Let me."
She worked the button of his trousers open, her fingers deft and sure, and slid her hand inside. Her palm was warm against his cock, and he bit back a groan as she wrapped her fingers around him, stroking slowly, deliberately, the way he'd stroked her ribs—like she was memorizing him.
He buried his face in her hair, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Jesus, Siobhan."
"Is this okay?"
"Yes." The word came out strangled. "Yes. Don't stop."
She didn't. She moved her hand in long, slow strokes, her thumb brushing the head of him with each pass, and he felt the pressure building in his gut, the familiar ache that promised release. But he didn't want to come like this—not yet, not without being inside her.
He caught her wrist, stilling her hand. "Wait."
She looked up at him, her eyes questioning.
"I want to be inside you," he said, his voice rough. "I want to feel you around me when I come."
Her breath caught, and she nodded, her hand sliding out of his trousers. He rolled onto his back, pulling her with him, so she was straddling his hips, her skirt pooling around her thighs. The firelight caught the pale skin of her legs, and he reached down, his hands finding the hem of her skirt, pushing it up her thighs until he could see the damp spot on her knickers.
He groaned. "You're so wet."
She bit her lip, her cheeks flushing. "I've been wet since you kissed me in the kitchen."
He slid his hand up her thigh, his fingers tracing the edge of her knickers, feeling the heat of her through the thin cotton. She gasped, her hips rocking into his hand, and he smiled—a slow, satisfied thing.
"Tell me what you want," he said again.
She looked down at him, her eyes dark and desperate. "I want you inside me. I want to feel you. I want—" She stopped, her throat working. "I want to know what it feels like to come with you inside me. Not in a hurry. Not in fear. Just—us."
He pulled her down, kissing her deeply, his tongue sliding against hers as his fingers found the waistband of her knickers. He pushed them down her thighs, and she lifted her hips to help him, the fabric sliding away until she was bare above him, the heat of her pressed against the hard length of him through his trousers.
He broke the kiss, breathing hard. "I need to feel you. All of you."
She sat up, her hands going to his shirt, working the buttons open with shaking fingers. He watched her face as she pushed the fabric aside, her eyes tracing the lines of his chest, the scars he'd never explained, the places where his body told stories he'd never spoken aloud.
She leaned down, pressing her mouth to his chest, right over his heart. He felt her lips part, her tongue tracing a slow, wet path across his skin, and he shuddered, his hands gripping her hips.
"Siobhan."
She looked up at him, her mouth still pressed to his chest. "I love you," she said. "I love you, Declan Morrow. And I don't care who knows it."
The words hit him like a blade—clean and sharp and beautiful. He pulled her up, kissing her hard, his hands sliding down her back to grip her bare arse, pulling her tight against him.
"I love you," he said against her mouth. "I love you, Siobhan Connolly. And I'm going to spend the rest of my life proving it."
She kissed him back, fierce and desperate, and then she was reaching between them, her hand guiding him to her entrance. He felt the heat of her, the slick readiness, and he held his breath as she lowered herself onto him, inch by agonizing inch, until she was fully seated, her hips flush against his.
They both stilled, breathing hard, eyes locked.
"Okay?" he asked.
She nodded, her lips parted, her eyes dark. "Okay."
He moved his hands to her hips, guiding her as she began to ride him—slow, deep, deliberate. The firelight painted her in gold and shadow, her hair spilling over her shoulders, her head falling back as she found a rhythm that made them both gasp.
He watched her. He couldn't stop watching her—the way her breasts moved beneath her jumper, the way her lips parted with each thrust, the way her hands pressed flat against his chest, steadying herself, claiming him.
"Declan—"
"I know." He reached up, his hand cupping her face, his thumb brushing her cheek. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
She leaned down, kissing him as she moved, her pace quickening, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He felt her tightening around him, felt the tremor building in her thighs, and he knew she was close.
"Come for me," he whispered. "I want to feel you."
She cried out, her body convulsing around him, and he felt the wave of her release ripple through her, pulling him with her. He thrust up into her, once, twice, and then he was coming too, his hips bucking, his hands gripping her thighs, his breath lost in her hair.
They lay tangled together, breathing hard, the fire crackling in the grate. She rested her head on his chest, her hand over his heart, and he felt the slow, steady rhythm of her breathing, the weight of her body pressed against his.
Outside, the city was waking up. A car passed in the street. A dog barked somewhere down the lane. The clock in the hall ticked on, counting down the hours until the reckoning at dusk.
But in here, in the quiet of her father's sitting room, with the fire dying to embers and her body warm against his, Declan closed his eyes and let himself believe, just for a moment, that they had all the time in the world.
The fire had burned down to a glow, orange embers pulsing like a heartbeat in the grate. Declan lay with his back against the worn sofa cushions, Siobhan curled against his chest, her breath warm and slow against his collarbone. His hand moved in lazy circles across her bare hip, tracing the curve of her, the dip of her waist, the place where her ribcage met the soft give of her stomach. She was still half on top of him, her leg hooked over his thigh, her hair a spill of copper across his arm. He didn't want to move. He didn't want to speak. He wanted to stay here, in this pocket of silence, where the world outside was just a rumor.
The hall clock struck the half-hour. He didn't know which one. It didn't matter.
Her fingers traced idle patterns on his chest, following the line of a scar he'd never explained. She didn't ask. She just touched, her touch light and reverent, as if she was memorizing him by feel. He watched her hand move, watched the firelight catch the pale skin of her wrist, the rosary beads still wrapped there, the crucifix glinting like a small, stubborn promise.
"Declan."
Her voice was soft, almost lost in the crackle of the embers. He hummed in response, his eyes half-closed.
"Tonight feels like a long time from now."
He opened his eyes. She wasn't looking at him. She was looking at her hand on his chest, her finger tracing the same scar again, as if she could smooth it away with enough repetition. Her voice had been quiet, matter-of-fact, the way people state things they've already accepted. But he felt the weight beneath it—the hours between now and dusk stretching out like a road he didn't want to walk.
He shifted, his hand coming up to cup her face, tilting her chin until she met his eyes. "Hey."
She blinked. Her lashes were wet.
"We're here now," he said. "That's all we have to do. Be here now."
She let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "That's very Buddhist of you."
"My ma read me a poem once. About living in the moment." He paused. "I think it was actually a song. But the point stands."
She smiled, soft and tired, and pressed her lips to his chest, right over his heart. "I love you."
"I know." He stroked her hair, letting the strands slide through his fingers. "I love you too. And I'm not going anywhere."
She was quiet for a long moment. Then she lifted her head, her eyes searching his face. "What if they make you choose?"
"Who?"
"Them." She gestured vaguely toward the window, toward the city beyond. "Your family. Your street. The people who've known you your whole life. What if they say it's me or them?"
He didn't answer right away. He thought about his mother's face in the doorway, the rain on her shoulders, the way she'd looked at him like she was seeing a stranger. He thought about Billy's photograph, his dead brother's face, the weight of that history pressing down on him like a hand on his throat.
He thought about Siobhan's hand in his, the smell of her hair, the sound she made when she came.
He said, "Then I choose you."
"Declan."
"I know what it means. I know what I'm saying." He reached up, his thumb brushing the curve of her cheek. "I spent my whole life being what they needed me to be. Quiet. Reliable. Loyal. And it got me nothing but a house full of ghosts and a brother who thinks love is a weakness." He paused. "Then I met you, and I realized I'd been dead for years. You woke me up."
Her lip trembled. She bit it, hard, and looked away.
"Hey." He pulled her down, pressing his forehead to hers. "Look at me."
She did. Her eyes were wet, her breath shallow, but she looked at him.
"I choose you," he said again. "Today. Tomorrow. Every day after. I don't care what it costs."
She kissed him, fierce and desperate, her mouth tasting of salt and need. He held her, his arms wrapping around her, pulling her tight against him as if he could shield her from everything that was coming. She broke the kiss first, breathing hard, her forehead resting against his.
"I'm scared," she whispered.
"Me too."
"I don't want to lose you."
"You won't." He said it like a vow. "You won't."
She closed her eyes, and he felt her body relax against him, the tension leaking out of her shoulders, her hips, the hand that had been gripping his arm. She settled against his chest, her ear over his heart, and he felt her breath slow, felt the rhythm of her matching his own.
The fire crackled. The clock ticked. Outside, a car passed, its engine fading into the distance.
"Tell me something," she said, her voice muffled against his skin. "Something I don't know about you."
He thought about it. His life had been so small, so contained, before her. There were things he'd never told anyone—not from secrecy, but from the simple belief that no one would want to know.
"I used to carve birds," he said. "When I was a boy. Little wooden ones, from scrap my da brought home from the site. I'd leave them on windowsills, on fences, on the steps of the church. Just—put them where someone might find them."
She lifted her head, looking at him with soft surprise. "Why?"
"I don't know. I thought maybe they'd make someone smile. Make them feel like someone had thought of them." He shrugged, embarrassed. "It was stupid."
"It's not stupid." She traced his jaw, her fingers light. "Did anyone ever find them?"
"I don't know. I stopped when I was twelve." He paused. "Billy found my stash one day. Called me a fairy. Told me to grow up."
Her face tightened, a flicker of anger crossing her features. "He doesn't know what he's talking about."
"He was right, in a way. I couldn't stay a boy forever."
"No," she said. "But you could have kept making birds."
He looked at her. The firelight caught her eyes, made them glow like green glass. She was looking at him like he was something precious, something worth protecting, and he felt his throat close with the weight of it.
"Will you make one for me?" she asked.
"What?"
"A bird. Will you carve one for me?"
He stared at her. Then he laughed—a short, surprised sound. "I don't have any wood."
"Find some." She smiled, that slow, wicked smile that made his chest ache. "You're a carpenter, aren't you?"
He shook his head, still smiling, and pulled her down for a kiss. "I'll make you a whole flock."
"I only need one." She kissed him again, softer this time. "To carry me home."
He held her, his hands sliding into her hair, and he let himself feel it—the warmth of her body, the weight of her trust, the impossible, terrifying gift of being loved by someone who saw all of him and stayed anyway.
The fire popped, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. The clock ticked on. Somewhere down the street, a door slammed, and a woman's voice called out in Irish, sharp and quick.
Siobhan tensed. Then she relaxed, her hand finding his, their fingers lacing together.
"We should probably get dressed," she said. "Before my father comes down."
"Probably." He didn't move. Neither did she.
They lay there, tangled and naked, the blanket half-covering them, the firelight painting their skin in shades of amber and gold. He could feel her pulse through her wrist, steady and sure, a rhythm he wanted to memorize.
"Five more minutes," she said.
"Ten."
"You're negotiating against yourself."
"I know." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "I'm not good at this."
"You're good at it." She tilted her face up, her eyes soft. "You just don't know it."
She pulled herself up and kissed him, slow and deep, her body settling against his. He felt the warmth of her, the curve of her breasts pressed to his chest, the soft hair between her legs brushing his thigh. He was half-hard again, his body remembering hers before his mind caught up.
She felt it too. She smiled against his mouth.
"Again?" he asked, his voice rough.
She bit his lower lip, pulling gently. "We have ten minutes."
"That's plenty of time."
She laughed, low and warm, and reached down, her hand wrapping around him. He gasped, his hips bucking into her touch, and she kissed him again, swallowing the sound.
"Then don't waste it," she whispered.
He rolled them over, pinning her beneath him, his body covering hers. The sofa creaked, the springs groaning in protest, and he felt her legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer.
He looked down at her—her hair fanned across the cushion, her eyes dark and hungry, her lips swollen from his kisses. She was beautiful. She was everything.
"I love you," he said. "I love you, Siobhan Connolly."
She reached up, her hand cupping his face. "Show me."
He did.
He kissed his way down her body, slow and deliberate, tasting salt and heat. He took his time, learning her, memorizing the way she gasped when he bit the inside of her thigh, the way she cried out when his tongue found her center. He brought her to the edge and held her there, feeling her tremble, feeling her fingers tangle in his hair, feeling her need like a physical weight in his chest.
When he finally let her come, she screamed, her back arching, her nails raking across his shoulders. He didn't stop until she was shaking, until the last tremor had passed through her, until she pulled him up and kissed him, tasting herself on his tongue.
Then he was inside her, and she was wrapped around him, and the world narrowed to the sound of their breathing and the rhythm of their bodies and the impossible, aching sweetness of being exactly where he was supposed to be.
He came with his face buried in her neck, her name on his lips, her hands holding him close.
Afterward, they lay still, breathing hard, the fire now just a red glow in the grate. The clock struck the hour. He didn't count.
She shifted beneath him, her hand stroking his hair. "We should get dressed."
"I know."
"I know." He said it again, and still didn't move. His hand traced the curve of her hip, the dip of her waist, the ridge of her ribs beneath the blanket. She shivered, and he felt it—the goosebumps rising on her skin, the way her breath caught and held.
She pressed closer, her face buried in his neck. Her lips moved against his skin, soft and warm. "Declan."
"Aye?"
"Tonight." Her voice was quiet, almost lost in the crackle of the dying fire. "Tonight feels like a long time from now."
His hand stilled on her hip. The words settled into his chest like stones dropped into still water, rippling outward, spreading cold through the warmth of her body against his. He knew what she meant. The hours ahead stretched like a road he couldn't see the end of, curving into darkness, and he didn't know what waited around the bend.
"Aye," he said again, because there was nothing else to say.
She lifted her head, looking down at him. Her hair fell forward, brushing his cheeks, her green eyes soft in the grey light. "We have ten minutes."
"Not enough."
"No." She traced the line of his jaw with her thumb, feather-light. "Not nearly enough."
He caught her hand, pressed a kiss to her palm. She smelled of soap and woodsmoke and something underneath that was just her—warm and alive and real. He wanted to bottle it, carry it in his pocket, press it to his face when the world got too loud and too dark.
"When this is over," he said, "when we're through it—I'm going to take you somewhere. Somewhere there's no walls. No lines. Just open sky and green fields and you and me."
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "That sounds nice."
"It's not a dream, Siobhan. It's a promise."
She didn't answer. She kissed him instead, soft and slow, her lips lingering, her hand cupping the back of his head. He felt the weight of her hope and her doubt pressed together in that kiss, and he held her tighter, trying to pour everything he couldn't say into the press of his mouth against hers.
When she pulled back, her eyes were wet.
"I know," she whispered. "I know you mean it. But we have to get through tonight first."
He nodded. "Then we get through it."
She sat up, pulling the blanket with her, and he felt the cold rush in where her body had been. She stood, wrapped in the worn wool, her hair wild around her shoulders, and looked down at him with something that was almost a smile.
"I'll go first. Give me a minute, then come to the kitchen."
"And if your father's already there?"
She bit her lip. "Then we'll deal with that too."
She disappeared through the door, and he heard her footsteps padding down the hall, soft and quick. He lay there a moment longer, staring at the ceiling, feeling the ache in his body where she'd been. The fire had burned down to ash. The room was cold.
He sat up, found his trousers, pulled them on. His shirt was crumpled on the floor by the hearth, and he shook it out, buttoning it slowly, his fingers clumsy with the small buttons. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to make himself presentable, and failed.
The kitchen smelled of bacon fat and fresh bread. He found Siobhan at the stove, pushing rashers around a cast-iron pan with a wooden spoon. She'd pinned her hair up, smooth and neat, and she wore a clean jumper—dark green wool that made her eyes look like the sea after a storm.
The table was set. Two plates. Two cups. A pot of tea steaming in the center.
She didn't turn when he came in. "Tea's ready. There's sugar in the cupboard."
He poured himself a cup, black, no sugar, and sat at the table. She brought the pan over and slid rashers onto his plate, then onto hers, then set the pan in the sink and sat across from him.
Neither of them touched the food.
"What time does your father expect to hear from his man?" he asked.
"Dusk. Maybe later. He didn't say exactly." She picked up a piece of bacon, examined it, put it back down. "He said he'd take care of it. He didn't want me to know details."
"You're his daughter."
"And he's trying to protect me." She looked at him, her eyes hard and bright. "But I'm done being protected. I want to know what's coming."
"Then we'll find out." He reached across the table, his hand open, palm up. She looked at it for a long moment, then placed her hand in his. "Together."
"Together," she repeated, and the word was a prayer.
They ate in silence, the bacon and bread and strong tea, and the sun moved across the floor, morning light spilling through the window. The clock on the wall ticked. A dog barked somewhere. A motorcar coughed to life and rattled away.
Ordinary sounds. The world going about its business while they sat in the quiet kitchen, waiting for the hour to arrive.
Declan finished his tea, set the cup down. "I should go home. Change. Let my mother know I'm alive."
Siobhan nodded. "You'll come back?"
"Before sundown."
"Promise me."
He stood, walked around the table, and pulled her to her feet. He cupped her face in his hands, tilted her head back, and kissed her forehead, her eyelids, the tip of her nose, her lips—soft, reverent, a benediction.
"I promise," he said against her mouth. "I'll be here."
She held onto his shirt, her fingers twisting in the fabric. "I'll be waiting."
He kissed her again, deeper, and then he stepped back. He picked up his jacket from the back of the chair, shrugged it on, and walked to the door.
He turned at the threshold. She stood in the kitchen doorway, the morning light haloing her red hair, her hand pressed to her chest like she was holding something in.
"You're beautiful," he said.
She laughed, quick and surprised. "You're soft."
"Only for you."
He stepped out into the grey Belfast morning and pulled the door closed behind him. The street was empty. A cat sat on a low wall, watching him with yellow eyes. The air smelled of coal smoke and damp stone.
He walked. One foot in front of the other. Thinking of her. Thinking of the hours ahead. Thinking of the reckoning that waited like a held breath, like a blade still sheathed.
He crossed the peace wall at the gap he knew, his hands finding the familiar holds, the stones rough and cold against his palms. On the other side, he stopped. Looked back.
Her street was quiet. The houses grey and still. Somewhere inside one of them, she was doing the dishes, or making the bed, or sitting in the chair by the fire, counting the minutes.
He turned and kept walking.
The Shankill was waking up. A milk cart clattered past. A woman with a scarf tied over her hair swept her doorstep. Two old men stood outside a pub, smoking, watching him pass with eyes that knew too much.
He reached his mother's house and let himself in. The stairs creaked under his weight. The attic room smelled of dust and old wood and the faint, sweet scent of her that still clung to his clothes.
He lay down on the narrow bed and stared at the ceiling. His hand found the rosary beads she'd given him, still under the pillow. The cross was warm in his palm.
He closed his eyes. Through the window, the morning light shifted, the sun climbing, the shadows shortening.
The hours passed. Slow. Steady. Relentless.
He waited.