Fieri Frames
Jimmy Eat World
No title available
No title available
Interview Vampire Daily
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
macklin celebrini has autism
Mike Driver
No title available
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
TMBGareOK. The Official They Might Be Giants tumblr
NASA
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
RMH
Not today Justin
No title available
tannertan36
No title available
occasionally subtle
Love Begins
seen from Türkiye
seen from Colombia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Benin
seen from T1
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Ukraine
seen from Brazil
seen from France
seen from Indonesia
seen from Colombia
seen from Indonesia
seen from Nigeria
seen from Pakistan
seen from Germany
seen from Ireland
seen from United States
@escape-to-ireland
Chapter list. This list will be updated as new chapters get posted, to make it easier to find chapters as the story progresses. There will be eventual depictions of sexual scenes, just as a warning. Please feel free to leave feedback on the story, would love to hear from you guys.
Escape to Ireland G. Pomegranate & U. Bloom
Chapter 1 Chapter 1
Chapter 2 Chapter 2
Chapter 3 Chapter 3
Chapter 4 Chapter 4
Chapter 5 Chapter 5
Chapter 6 Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
The Close Up Chapter 3:
Chapter 2
Aidan cleaned himself up mechanically, his hands still shaking slightly as he fastened his robe. The release had taken the physical edge off, but it had done nothing for the churning in his chest, the sick twist of guilt that was settling deeper with every passing second.
He'd never done that before.
Never fled a set. Never locked himself in his trailer to jerk off because he couldn't handle what had happened during a scene. Never lost control so completely that he'd had to physically remove himself before he did something truly unforgivable.
Twenty-five years in this industry. Dozens of intimate scenes. He knew how to handle this. He knew how to maintain boundaries, how to keep the performance separate from reality, how to protect his co-stars and himself from exactly this kind of situation.
And yet he'd just masturbated in his trailer, thinking about Elizabeth beneath him. Thinking about the heat of her pussy against his cock, the way she'd pulled him harder against her, the way she'd whispered his name.
His name. Not Thomas's.
Aidan sank onto the small couch, dropping his head into his hands.
He had feelings for her. Real feelings. It wasn't just attraction, though God knew there was plenty of that. It was the way she approached her music, the fierce intelligence in her eyes when she talked about composition. It was watching her transform from terrified novice to genuinely talented actor over the past two weeks. It was the trust she'd placed in him—the way she'd looked at him during that first table read and said she was nervous, the way she'd let him guide her through the choreography, the way she'd agreed to film that scene completely naked because he'd promised to take care of her.
Trust.
The word hit him like a physical blow.
She'd trusted him. Trusted him to be professional, to guide her through her first intimate scene, to protect her in a vulnerable situation. And what had he done? He'd gotten hard—so hard he could barely think. He'd lost control of his body, of his reactions. He'd let his cock drag against her pussy, had groaned like an animal, had bitten her shoulder and kissed her everywhere he could reach, going far beyond what the scene required.
He'd taken advantage.
She was new to this. This was her first time filming anything like that, her first time being that exposed and vulnerable on camera. She'd been nervous, uncertain, trusting him to make it okay. And he'd let his desire override every professional instinct he'd ever had.
Because he wanted her. Not Clara. Elizabeth.
He wanted to know what she sounded like when she came. Wanted to taste her, to feel her wrapped around him, to watch her face as he pushed inside her. Wanted to hear her play the piano afterward, wanted to talk about music and film and everything else until dawn. Wanted to wake up next to her and do it all over again.
The wanting was so intense it scared him.
And the guilt was worse.
He was the experienced one. The one who was supposed to know better, to maintain boundaries, to keep things professional. He was the one who'd promised to take care of her, and instead he'd—
A knock on the trailer door made him jerk upright, his heart suddenly hammering.
"Aidan?" A pause. "It's Elizabeth."
Oh God.
He stood frozen, staring at the door. Every instinct screamed at him to pretend he wasn't here, to wait until she left, to avoid this conversation for as long as humanly possible.
But he'd already run once today. Already failed her once.
He couldn't do it again.
Aidan crossed to the door and opened it.
Elizabeth had been standing outside Aidan's trailer for three minutes before she'd worked up the courage to knock.
Her hand was still raised, knuckles stinging slightly from the contact with the metal door, and she was already regretting this decision. What was she doing? He'd fled the set. Clearly he wanted space. Clearly he was mortified by what had happened and the last thing he needed was her showing up to make it worse.
But she couldn't just leave it. Couldn't go home and pretend everything was fine, that something fundamental hadn't shifted between them during that scene.
She needed to know if it had been real.
The door opened.
Aidan stood there still in the robe, his hair disheveled, his face flushed. He looked wrecked. Vulnerable in a way she'd never seen him, not even during their most intimate scenes.
"Elizabeth." His voice was rough. "I—"
"Can I come in?"
He hesitated, then stepped back, holding the door open.
The trailer was small, neat, impersonal except for a script on the table and a jacket thrown over a chair. Elizabeth stepped inside and heard the door close behind her, and suddenly the space felt impossibly tiny, the air thick with everything unsaid.
She turned to face him.
"I needed to talk to you," she said. "About what happened."
Aidan's jaw tightened. "Elizabeth, I'm so sorry. I was completely unprofessional. I never should have—"
"Was it real?"
The question hung between them. Aidan stared at her, and she watched him process it, watched the careful mask he was trying to construct crumble.
"What?"
"What I felt during that scene." Elizabeth's heart was pounding so hard she could barely hear her own voice. "What happened between us. Was it real, or was it just... physical response to an intimate situation?"
She'd been trying to figure it out since the moment Sam had called cut. Trying to separate performance from reality, trying to understand if the heat between them had been genuine or just her body responding to stimulation, to the choreography, to the intensity of the scene.
But she kept coming back to the same thing: she'd whispered his name. Not Thomas's. Aidan's.
And he'd heard her. She'd seen it in his face, in the way his whole body had tensed, in the desperate sound he'd made before the director had called cut.
"I don't know how to do this," she continued, the words tumbling out now. "I've never filmed anything like that before. I've never felt anything like that before. And I don't know if it's real or if I'm just confused because it was so intense and I'm inexperienced and I don't know how to separate—"
"It was real."
Aidan's voice cut through her rambling. He was looking at her with an expression she couldn't quite read—guilt and desire and something that looked almost like pain.
"For me, it was real," he said quietly. "And that's the problem."
Elizabeth's breath caught. "Why is that a problem?"
"Because you trusted me." He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture frustrated and helpless. "That was your first intimate scene. You were nervous and vulnerable and you trusted me to guide you through it, to keep it professional, to take care of you. And instead I—" He broke off, shaking his head. "I lost control. I let my feelings, my desire, override everything I know about maintaining boundaries. I took advantage of you."
"You didn't take advantage of me."
"Elizabeth—"
"You didn't." She took a step closer to him, her hands clenched at her sides. "I felt it too. The way you were looking at me, the way you were touching me—it wasn't just the scene. I knew that. And I..." She swallowed hard, forcing herself to be brave, to be honest. "I wanted it. I wanted you."
The confession hung in the air between them.
Aidan was staring at her like she'd just said something in a language he didn't understand. "You don't know what you're saying."
"Yes, I do." Elizabeth's voice was steadier now, more certain. "I'm not a child, Aidan. I'm not some naive girl who doesn't understand what happened. I know the difference between acting and reality. And what I felt during that scene—what I feel right now, standing here with you—that's real."
"You're inexperienced with this kind of intensity—"
"So what?" She took another step closer. "That doesn't make my feelings less valid. That doesn't mean I don't know my own mind."
Aidan looked at her for a long moment, and she could see the war happening behind his eyes. The guilt and the desire, the professional distance he was trying to maintain and the genuine feelings he couldn't quite hide.
"I have feelings for you," he said finally, the words quiet but steady. "Not just attraction. Real feelings. I think you're incredibly talented—as a composer, as a pianist, as an actor. I'm proud of you, of how brave you've been through all of this. And I..." He paused, his throat working. "I want you. Not Clara. You. Elizabeth."
Her heart was racing, her whole body thrumming with something that felt like fear and exhilaration mixed together.
"I want you too," she whispered.
For a moment, neither of them moved. They just stood there, two feet apart, the truth finally spoken aloud between them.
Then Aidan closed the distance.
His hand came up to cup her face, his thumb brushing her cheekbone, and Elizabeth's breath caught at the tenderness of the gesture. This wasn't the choreographed touch of the scene. This wasn't Thomas touching Clara. This was Aidan, looking at her like she was something precious and terrifying all at once.
"Are you sure?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Elizabeth nodded, not trusting her voice.
Aidan leaned in slowly, giving her every opportunity to pull away, to change her mind. But she didn't. She tilted her face up to meet him, and when his lips finally touched hers, it was nothing like the kisses they'd shared on camera.
This was real.
His mouth was soft against hers, tentative and questioning, and Elizabeth felt something in her chest crack open. She kissed him back, her hands coming up to grip his robe, pulling him closer. Aidan made a sound low in his throat and deepened the kiss, his other hand sliding into her hair, cradling the back of her head.
There was no camera. No director calling action. No crew watching. Just the two of them, finally honest, finally real.
When they broke apart, both breathing hard, Aidan rested his forehead against hers.
"This is going to complicate everything," he murmured.
Elizabeth laughed, the sound shaky but genuine. "I know."
"We still have weeks of filming left. More intimate scenes."
"I know."
"Everyone's going to notice."
"Probably."
Aidan pulled back just enough to look at her, and the expression on his face made her heart stutter. "I don't care," he said. "I don't care about any of it. I just want you."
Elizabeth smiled, feeling brave and terrified and more alive than she'd ever felt. "Then you have me."
He kissed her again, and this time there was nothing tentative about it. This time it was heat and hunger and the promise of everything they'd been holding back. Elizabeth melted into him, into the solid warmth of his body, into the reality of this moment.
They'd crossed a line. There was no going back.
But standing there in his arms, Elizabeth realized she didn't want to go back. She wanted to move forward—into whatever this was, whatever it could become.
Together.
Escape to Ireland Chapter 31: Supporting Acts
The media attention, as it turned out, had a remarkably short shelf life.
Three days after the invasive article about Gracie's estranged parents, a beloved British actor was photographed leaving a hotel with someone who was decidedly not his wife of twenty years. By the following morning, the tabloids had moved on entirely, their ravenous appetite for scandal satisfied by fresher meat.
Gracie learned about it from Al, who called with barely contained glee.
"You're old news, darling," he announced. "Marcus just showed me the Daily Mail—they've completely forgotten about you. It's all 'Beloved Star's Secret Affair' now. Poor bastard."
"That's terrible," Gracie said, though she couldn't deny the relief flooding through her.
"Terrible for him, fantastic for you," Al corrected. "The internet has the attention span of a goldfish. You just have to wait them out."
He was right. Within a week, the comments on Máire's Instagram had slowed to a trickle. The articles about "Aidan Gillen's mysterious girlfriend" had been buried under dozens of newer stories. The world had moved on.
"It helps that neither of us are on social media," Aidan said one evening as they sat on Gracie's couch, her feet in his lap. "We didn't engage, didn't respond, didn't give them anything to feed on. They got bored."
"I never thought I'd be grateful for being a technophobe," Gracie admitted.
"You're not a technophobe. You're just selective about where you put your energy." He squeezed her foot gently. "And thank Christ for that. Can you imagine if you'd been reading every comment, every article, in real time?"
Gracie shuddered. "I'd have lost my mind."
"Exactly. We waited it out. And now it's over."
It wasn't entirely over—there were still occasional mentions, still photos from the premiere circulating—but the frenzy had died down. Life was returning to something resembling normal.
Except for one thing.
The London gallery opening. April 15th. The same night as the IFTA Awards.
Gracie still hadn't told him.
She'd decided, in the days after receiving the invitation, that she was going to do it. This was her career. This was an opportunity she couldn't pass up—a prestigious London gallery, a curated spring exhibition, her work alongside established artists. It was exactly the kind of break she'd been working toward for years.
But every time she tried to bring it up, the words stuck in her throat.
She kept waiting for the right moment. When he wasn't tired from a day of meetings with his agent. When she wasn't still raw from the media attention. When they were both relaxed and happy and the conversation wouldn't feel like she was dropping a bomb into their peaceful evening.
But there was no right moment. There was only the truth, and she was avoiding it.
She was being a coward again.
It was a Tuesday evening, nearly two weeks after the premiere, when Gracie finally forced herself to say something.
They were at Aidan's townhouse in Dingle, cooking dinner together—or rather, Aidan was cooking while Gracie sat at the kitchen island, supposedly chopping vegetables but mostly just watching him move around the kitchen with easy confidence.
The kitchen smelled incredible—garlic and butter and fresh herbs, something Italian that Aidan was making from memory, no recipe needed. The evening light slanted through the tall windows, turning everything golden and warm. Outside, she could hear the distant sounds of Dublin—traffic, voices, the city settling into evening. But in here, it was just the two of them, the sizzle of the pan, the quiet music playing from his phone on the counter.
It should have been peaceful. It should have been perfect.
Instead, Gracie's stomach was in knots.
She'd been trying to tell him for days. A week, actually. Every time she opened her mouth, the words died before they could form. At breakfast on Sunday, when he'd mentioned the IFTAs in passing. Yesterday afternoon, when they'd been walking along Dingle Beach and he'd been so relaxed, so happy. This morning, when he'd kissed her goodbye before heading to a meeting with his agent.
But she'd chickened out every single time.
Because what if he was disappointed? What if he thought she was choosing her career over him, over them? What if this was the thing that proved she wasn't cut out for his world, that she couldn't balance her own ambitions with being supportive of his?
The knife felt heavy in her hand. She'd been holding the same carrot for five minutes, making the slowest, most deliberate cuts of her life.
"You're not chopping," Aidan observed without looking up from the pan he was stirring. "You're... performing surgery on that carrot."
"I'm being thorough."
"You're being something." He glanced over his shoulder, and his expression shifted when he saw her face. The easy smile faded into something more concerned. He turned down the heat on the stove and wiped his hands on a towel. "What's on your mind? You've been quiet tonight. Actually, you've been quiet for days."
Gracie's stomach clenched. This was it. She couldn't keep putting it off.
She set down the knife carefully, her hands trembling slightly. "I need to tell you something."
Aidan turned fully to face her now, leaning back against the counter. His grey-blue eyes were steady on hers, patient but alert. "Okay. What is it?"
"That email I got last week. From the gallery."
"The one in London?" He straightened slightly, interest sparking in his expression. "You said it was just an inquiry."
"I... I didn't want to get into it until I knew more." The lie tasted bitter. She'd known everything. She'd just been too afraid to say it. "They want me to be part of a spring exhibition. It's... it's a really big deal, actually. The Serpentine Gallery. Very prestigious."
For a moment, Aidan just stared at her. Then his face lit up like she'd just told him she'd won the lottery. "Gracie, that's incredible! Why didn't you tell me sooner? The Serpentine—Christ, that's—" He crossed to her, reaching for her hands, but she pulled back slightly.
"Because..." She took a breath, forcing herself to meet his eyes. "Because the opening is April 15th."
He blinked, not understanding at first. His brow furrowed slightly, like he was trying to place the date. Then she watched as the realization dawned—his expression shifting from confusion to understanding, his body going still.
"The IFTAs," he said quietly.
"Yeah." Gracie twisted her hands together in her lap, unable to look at him. "I know you're nominated, and I know it's important, but this is... this is my career, Aidan. This is the kind of opportunity I've been working toward for years, and I can't—I can't pass it up." The words came faster now, tumbling out in a rush. "I've decided I'm going to do it. I'm going to the gallery opening. I know that means I won't be there for you, and I'm so sorry, but I have to—"
"Gracie." His voice was gentle, cutting through her spiral. "Stop."
She finally looked up at him, braced for disappointment, for hurt, for some sign that she'd let him down.
Instead, Aidan's expression was warm. Soft. He crossed to her and took her hands in his, his thumbs brushing over her knuckles. "Of course you're going to do it."
Gracie stared at him. "What?"
"Gracie." He squeezed her hands. "This is the Serpentine Gallery. Do you have any idea how massive that is?"
"I... yes, but—"
"But nothing. You're going. Absolutely, you're going." His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. "Tell me about it. What's the exhibition?"
She blinked, thrown completely off balance by his enthusiasm. This wasn't how she'd imagined this conversation going. "It's called 'Contemporary Landscapes: New Voices.' They're featuring emerging artists from across Europe. My Croatia series—they want to include three pieces."
"Three pieces in the Serpentine," Aidan said, shaking his head in amazement. His eyes were bright, proud. "Christ, Gracie. That's extraordinary. That's—do you understand what this means for your career?"
"But the IFTAs—"
"Are boring as hell," he interrupted, his tone dry. "Have you ever been to an awards show?"
"No."
"Lucky you. They're three hours of sitting in uncomfortable chairs, watching people you barely know win awards, making small talk during commercial breaks, and pretending to be gracious when you lose." He released her hands to return to the stove, stirring the sauce that had started to bubble. "I'll probably spend the entire night getting quietly drunk just to survive it."
Despite her anxiety, despite the knot in her stomach, Gracie felt a smile tugging at her lips. "You're nominated, though. You might win."
"I won't." He said it with such casual certainty that she almost laughed. "These things are political. Michael Fassbender's been campaigning for months, and his performance was brilliant. And even if I did win, it's just an IFTA. It's not exactly the Oscars."
"Still—"
"Gracie." He turned to face her fully, setting down the spoon. His expression was serious now, intent. "I want you to take every opportunity that comes your way. Every single one. Your art matters. Your career matters. And I will never—never—ask you to sacrifice that for me."
Her throat tightened. "I just... I didn't want you to think I wasn't supporting you."
"You support me every day," Aidan said quietly. He crossed back to her, cupping her face in his hands. His palms were warm, slightly rough, grounding. "You came to Croatia when I asked, even though it meant leaving your work. You came to the premiere even though you hated every second of that red carpet—and don't tell me you didn't, I could feel you shaking the entire time." His thumb brushed her cheekbone. "You've dealt with invasive articles and public scrutiny and photographers following us and all the bullshit that comes with being with me. The least I can do is support you when an incredible opportunity comes along."
"Even if it means I'm not there?"
"Especially then." His voice was fierce now. "I don't need you at an awards show to know you love me. I need you to pursue your dreams. That's what I need. I need you to be the artist you're meant to be, to take these opportunities, to build the career you deserve." He leaned his forehead against hers. "Do you remember what you told me in Croatia? When I was spiraling about the film?"
Gracie's breath caught. "I told you that you were allowed to want things for yourself."
"Exactly. And you're allowed to want things for yourself too. You're allowed to choose your career. You're allowed to prioritize your art." He pulled back to look at her. "And I'm allowed to be fucking thrilled about it."
Gracie felt tears prickling at her eyes. The relief was so overwhelming it made her dizzy. "How are you so perfect?"
"I'm really not," he said, smiling. "I'm just madly in love with you and want you to be happy. Which, as it turns out, includes you showing your work at one of London's most prestigious galleries." He kissed her forehead, soft and lingering. "I'm so proud of you, Gracie. So fucking proud."
She pulled him down for a proper kiss, pouring all her relief and gratitude and love into it. He made a soft sound against her mouth, his hands sliding into her hair, and for a moment the world narrowed to just this—his lips on hers, his warmth, the way he held her like she was precious.
When they broke apart, Aidan was grinning. "So. April 15th. We should go to London together."
"What?"
"We'll go a few days early—maybe the 12th or 13th. I'll help you get settled, we'll explore the city, have some proper time together before we both have our separate commitments." He was already planning it out, she could see it in his eyes. "Then on the 15th, you'll go to your opening in the evening. I'll catch a flight back to Dublin that afternoon for the IFTAs—they don't start until eight, so I'll have plenty of time. And then after both events, we'll meet back up in London and celebrate properly."
"You'd do that?" Gracie asked. "Fly back and forth just so we can have a few days together first?"
"Of course I'd do that. I want to be there for the lead-up, even if I can't be there for the actual event." He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch gentle. "Besides, I've been meaning to visit the Tate Modern. And you know how I feel about Borough Market."
Gracie laughed, the last of her anxiety finally dissolving. "You just want the cheese."
"I really want the cheese," he admitted. "But mostly I want to support my brilliant girlfriend as she takes the art world by storm." He kissed her nose. "We'll make it work, Gracie. We'll make it an adventure. Both of us pursuing our careers, both of us celebrating each other. That's what this is supposed to be."
"I don't know about 'by storm,'" Gracie said, but she was smiling now, really smiling.
"I do." He kissed her forehead. "You're extraordinary, Gracie Sullivan. And the world is finally starting to notice."
She wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her face into his chest. He smelled like garlic and cologne and home. "Thank you," she whispered. "For understanding. For being excited for me."
"Always," he murmured into her hair. "Always, love."
They stood like that for a long moment, wrapped around each other in the golden kitchen light, the sauce bubbling forgotten on the stove. Outside, Dingle carried on. Inside, everything felt exactly right.
That she hadn't had to choose.
She needed another moment of this—his arms around her, the relief still washing through her, the knowledge that he was proud of her, that he wanted this for her.
"Gracie?"
"Yeah?"
"Next time you have something important to tell me, don't wait a week." His voice was gentle, but there was a hint of reproach in it. "I could see you were anxious. I knew something was wrong."
"I'm sorry. I just—I was scared."
"I know." He kissed the top of her head. "But you don't have to be. Not with me. Not ever."
Later, after dinner, they lay tangled together on Aidan's couch—the old leather one that had molded itself to the shape of his body over years, soft and worn in all the right places. Gracie's head rested on his chest, rising and falling with his steady breathing, while his arm curved around her shoulders, his fingers tracing absent patterns on her upper arm. Their legs were intertwined beneath the throw blanket she'd pulled over them, her bare feet tucked between his calves for warmth.
She nodded against his chest, blinking back tears. "Okay."
The living room was dim, lit only by the lamp in the corner and the glow of Dingle filtering through the tall windows—streetlights and passing headlights, the warm illumination from neighboring houses. The television played something neither of them was watching, just background noise that made the silence between them comfortable rather than empty.
The house still smelled faintly of dinner—garlic and butter and the herbs Aidan had used in the pasta sauce. Gracie could smell it on him too, mixed with his cologne and the scent of his skin that she'd come to know so well. Outside, she could hear the sounds of the city settling into evening: distant traffic, voices from the street, someone's dog barking, the low rumble of a bus passing by.
It was perfect. All of it.
"Thank you," Gracie said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "For understanding. For being excited for me."
"Always," Aidan murmured into her hair. His chest vibrated with the word. "We're a team, remember? We support each other. Both of us get to have careers. Both of us get to pursue our passions."
"Even when they conflict?"
"Especially then. That's when it matters most." He shifted slightly to look down at her, his grey-blue eyes serious in the lamplight. "I never want you to feel like you have to choose between your art and me. If it ever comes to that, we've done something wrong."
Gracie traced patterns on his chest through his soft cotton shirt, her fingers following the lines of muscle beneath. She was thinking about how terrified she'd been to tell him. How she'd built it up in her mind as this impossible choice, this betrayal. How she'd rehearsed different ways to say it, imagined his disappointment, convinced herself that this would be the thing that proved she wasn't cut out for his world.
But it wasn't. It was just two people with careers, navigating schedules, supporting each other.
It was what relationships were supposed to be.
The relief was still washing through her in waves, making her feel lighter than she had in days. She'd catastrophized this moment, turned it into something enormous and terrible in her mind. And all along, the answer had been so simple: he loved her. He wanted her to succeed. He was proud of her.
"I love you," she said, the words thick with emotion.
"I love you too." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, lingering there. "Now tell me more about this exhibition. I want to know everything. Which pieces from Croatia are you showing?"
Gracie smiled against his chest. "Three pieces. The one of the harbor at dawn—the one with all the fishing boats and that pink light on the water. Remember that morning?"
"How could I forget? You dragged me out of bed at five a.m."
"You loved it."
"I loved watching you work," he corrected. "The hour was debatable."
She laughed softly. "The second piece is the one of the old stone house with the fig tree growing through the courtyard. And the third is the cliff view—the one looking out over the Adriatic with all those layers of blue."
"The one where you can't tell where the sea ends and the sky begins," Aidan said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. "That one's extraordinary, Gracie. Truly."
"You think so?"
"I know so. I've stared at it for hours." His fingers stilled on her arm. "What inspired that one? You never told me."
Gracie was quiet for a moment, remembering. "It was the day after we'd had that conversation on the beach. About your marriage ending, about starting over. I was thinking about how sometimes you can't see the boundaries between things—between one part of your life and the next, between grief and hope, between who you were and who you're becoming. It all just... blends together."
She felt him take a deep breath, his chest expanding beneath her cheek. "Christ, Gracie. That's—" His voice was rough. "That's beautiful."
"The curator said it was the strongest piece in the series."
"She's right." He resumed the gentle stroking of her arm. "What are you wearing to the opening?"
"I found this dress in a vintage shop in Dublin last week. It's sapphire blue silk, very simple, sleeveless. Falls just below the knee. Al said it makes me look like I belong in a gallery."
"Al's right. Though you'd look like you belong in a gallery wearing a bin bag."
"That's not true."
"It absolutely is. You have this way of carrying yourself when you talk about your work—this confidence, this certainty. It's magnetic." He paused. "I wish I could be there to see it."
"I know. But you'll see photos. And I'll tell you everything."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
"Tell me about the other artists in the exhibition," Aidan said. "Who else is showing?"
They were quiet for a moment, just breathing together, the comfort of it settling around them like the blanket over their legs.
"There's a photographer from Barcelona—her work is incredible, all these intimate portraits of her grandmother's village. A sculptor from Berlin who works with reclaimed materials. A painter from Oslo who does these massive abstract pieces about climate change." She paused. "I'm the only Irish artist. The only one from Ireland, I mean."
"That's huge, Gracie. Do you understand how huge that is?"
"I'm starting to."
"Good. Because you should be proud. You should be so fucking proud." His voice was fierce now. "Your work is extraordinary. It deserves to be seen. And this is just the beginning—I know it is."
Gracie pressed her face into his chest, overwhelmed by the certainty in his voice, by how much he believed in her. "How did I get so lucky?" she whispered.
"I ask myself the same thing every day." He kissed the top of her head again. "Though I think we both know I'm the lucky one."
"We can both be lucky."
"Deal."
They lay there for a long time after that, wrapped around each other, the television casting flickering light across the room. Through the windows, Gracie could see the lights of Dingle—golden and white and amber, stretching out into the darkness. She could hear the town breathing: the distant wail of a siren, laughter from somewhere down the street, the gentle rhythm of the Atlantic waves beyond the houses.
This was her life now. This house, this man, this town. This partnership where both of them got to pursue their dreams, where both of them got to be whole people with separate ambitions and shared love.
It wasn't always easy. But it was right.
And that, Gracie thought as Aidan's fingers traced lazy patterns on her arm and Dingle sparkled in the darkness beyond the windows, was enough.
That was everything.
Outside, Dingle carried on—alive and full of promise, full of possibility, full of all the futures they were building together. Inside, wrapped in lamplight and each other, they made plans for London, for April, for a life where both of them could shine.
Together, but not at the expense of themselves.
It was the simplest thing in the world.
It was the most extraordinary thing in the world.
It was theirs.
The Close Up Chapter 2:
Chapter 1
Two weeks into filming, and Elizabeth had almost convinced herself she could handle this.
Almost.
She sat in her trailer, staring at her reflection in the mirror surrounded by warm bulbs, and tried to steady her breathing. The robe she wore was soft against her skin, but beneath it she was naked save for the flesh-colored underwear wardrobe had provided—minimal coverage that would be invisible on camera. In twenty minutes, she would walk onto a closed set and film her first intimate scene. Her first sex scene. With Aidan.
Clara and Thomas's first time making love. The script described it as passionate, tender, the moment when Clara fully surrenders to her feelings for the man who will eventually destroy her. Elizabeth had composed music for this scene days ago, a piece that swelled with longing and hope and the terrible innocence of not knowing what's coming. She understood the emotional landscape perfectly.
But understanding it intellectually and embodying it physically were entirely different things.
Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for the water bottle on her vanity. She'd spent twenty years on film sets, but always behind the scenes, always clothed, always in control. This was something else entirely. This was vulnerability in its most literal form.
A knock on the trailer door made her jump.
"Come in," she called, her voice steadier than she felt.
The door opened, and Aidan stepped inside, already in costume—or rather, in the simple slacks that Thomas would remove within the first minute of the scene. His chest was bare, and Elizabeth found herself looking away quickly, heat rising to her cheeks.
"Hey," he said gently, closing the door behind him. "I wanted to check in before we head to set. How are you feeling?"
"Terrified," she admitted, because there was no point in lying to him. Not after two weeks of working together, of him patiently guiding her through scenes, of late nights discussing character motivation over coffee in her trailer.
He pulled up the chair across from her, sitting so they were at eye level. "That's completely normal. Intimate scenes are challenging even for experienced actors." He paused, his expression thoughtful. "I wanted to offer—we can bring in an intimacy coordinator. They're professionals who help choreograph these scenes, establish boundaries, tell us where to place our hands, how to move. It might make you feel more comfortable having someone there specifically to—"
"No." The word came out more forcefully than she intended, and she saw surprise flicker across his face. She took a breath, trying to articulate the knot of anxiety in her chest. "I'm sorry, I just—I'm already overwhelmed. The crew, the cameras, the director, the producers watching the monitors. The thought of another person telling me where to put my hands, how to move my body..." She shook her head. "I can't. It's too much."
Aidan studied her face, and she watched understanding dawn in his eyes. He didn't make her explain further, didn't push or question. He simply nodded.
"Then we don't use one," he said simply. "I've done intimate scenes before, Elizabeth. Many times. I can guide you through it." He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to something softer, more intimate. "You just have to trust me. Can you do that?"
She met his eyes—those blue eyes that had become so familiar over the past two weeks, that crinkled at the corners when he smiled, that watched her with such patience when she stumbled over a line or forgot her blocking. How many times had he gently redirected her when she'd walked to the wrong mark, his hand light on her elbow, his voice never condescending? "Just here, love. You're doing grand." How many takes had he carried when she'd fumbled, seamlessly adjusting his performance to give her space to find her footing, never making her feel like the inexperienced actor she was?
There had been laughter too. Real laughter, the kind that made her ribs ache. The day she'd accidentally called him "Thomas" between takes and he'd responded in character, sweeping into an exaggerated bow that had the entire crew in stitches. The afternoon they'd spent in her trailer running lines and he'd done a pitch-perfect impression of their director's nervous hand-wringing that had made Elizabeth laugh so hard she'd cried. And the quieter moments—late evenings when filming ran long and they'd found themselves alone, talking about more than just the script. She'd learned he had two kids, that he played guitar badly but enthusiastically. He'd asked about her music with genuine curiosity, not the performative interest she was used to from people trying to impress her. He'd wanted to know what it felt like to compose, how she heard the music in her head, whether she ever got scared that the ideas would stop coming.
Somewhere in those two weeks, between the patient redirections and shared laughter and late-night conversations, something had shifted. The careful professional distance had given way to something warmer, something that felt like friendship but carried an undercurrent she wasn't quite ready to examine. She'd started looking for him when she arrived on set each morning. Started noticing the way his face lit up when he saw her, the way he always seemed to know when she needed encouragement or space or just someone to sit with in comfortable silence.
Yes, she realized. She could trust him. She did trust him.
"Yes," she whispered.
"Good." He reached out and squeezed her hand briefly. "Here's what's going to happen. We'll start with the kiss, just like we rehearsed. I'll guide you—where to move, where to touch. If at any point you're uncomfortable, you say so. We stop. No questions asked." His thumb brushed across her knuckles. "And remember, it's just us telling a story. Clara and Thomas. Not Elizabeth and Aidan."
But that was the problem, wasn't it? The line between Clara and Elizabeth had been blurring for two weeks now. Every scene they filmed, every moment she inhabited this character, she felt herself slipping deeper into Clara's skin. And Clara was falling in love with Thomas.
"Okay," she said, because what else could she say?
"You're going to be brilliant," Aidan said, echoing his words from the table read. "I promise."
---
The walk to the soundstage felt both too long and too short. Elizabeth was acutely aware of the robe against her skin, of Aidan walking beside her, of the crew members they passed who carefully didn't stare. By the time they reached Stage 7, her heart was hammering against her ribs.
The set was closed—only essential personnel allowed. The bedroom they'd built was beautiful in its period accuracy: wallpaper with delicate floral patterns, a four-poster bed with crisp white linens, warm lamplight that would photograph like candlelight. Intimate. Romantic. Terrifying.
Director Sam Chen approached them, his expression kind but professional. "We're going to take this slowly," he said. "Multiple takes, different angles. Remember, we can stop at any time. This is a closed set—just me, DP, camera operator, script supervisor, and sound. That's it."
Elizabeth nodded, not trusting her voice.
"Whenever you're ready," Sam said, "we'll start with you both already in bed, post-kiss. Aidan, you'll be on top, Elizabeth underneath. The sheet will cover you from the waist down. We'll begin with the wide shot, then move to close-ups."
The next few minutes were a blur of final adjustments—the sheet positioned just so, Elizabeth's hair arranged across the pillow, Aidan settling his weight carefully above her. And then everyone stepped back, the lights dimmed to that warm amber glow, and suddenly it was just the two of them in this bed, his body hovering over hers, his face inches away.
"Ready?" Sam called from behind the camera.
"Ready," Aidan answered for both of them.
"And... action."
For a moment, Elizabeth forgot to breathe. Then Aidan's hand came up to cup her face, his thumb brushing her cheekbone, and he whispered, so quietly only she could hear, "Just follow me. You're doing perfectly."
He kissed her.
It wasn't their first kiss—they'd filmed the scene leading up to this yesterday, Thomas and Clara finally giving in to the attraction that had been building between them. But this was different. This was slow, deep, intimate in a way that made her forget about the cameras. His lips moved against hers with a tenderness that felt achingly real, and when he pulled back to kiss along her jaw, she heard herself make a small sound that wasn't entirely acting.
"Touch me," he whispered against her ear, so the camera wouldn't pick it up, his voice still Aidan's but with Thomas's desperate need threaded through it. "My shoulders. Yes, like that."
Her hands found his shoulders, felt the warmth of his skin, the solid muscle beneath. He kissed down her neck, and she tilted her head back against the pillow, her fingers sliding into his hair. The sheet had slipped lower, and she was suddenly very aware of how little separated them—just the thin fabric of her flesh-colored underwear and his. Nothing else. Nothing at all.
"Breathe," he murmured against her collarbone, and she realized she'd been holding her breath. She exhaled shakily as his lips traced lower, kissing the hollow of her throat, the curve of her shoulder. His hand moved down her side, over the sheet, fingers trailing along her ribs, her waist, the curve of her hip.
And then his hips shifted, pressing against hers, and Elizabeth felt everything go still inside her. Through the thin barrier of their underwear, she could feel him—feel him hardening against her, the unmistakable pressure and heat of his arousal. He was big. God, he was big, and the realization sent a shock of heat through her entire body.
This was supposed to be acting. This was supposed to be choreographed, controlled, professional.
But it didn't feel like acting.
"Touch my chest," he whispered, his voice rougher now. "Let yourself feel."
She did. Her palms flattened against his chest, feeling the hair there, the steady thrum of his heartbeat—faster now, she noticed. He was warm and solid and real, and when he kissed her again, deeper this time, his tongue sliding against hers, she found herself responding with an intensity that had nothing to do with Clara and everything to do with the man above her.
His hips moved again, a slow roll against hers that made her gasp into his mouth. The friction was exquisite, maddening, and she felt her body respond in a way that made heat flood her cheeks. She was getting wet. Actually wet. The realization made her blush furiously even as her body arched up into him, seeking more of that delicious pressure.
His hand slid up her thigh beneath the sheet, fingers splaying across her soft skin, and she let her own hands explore—his shoulders, his back, feeling the flex of muscle as he moved above her. He made a sound low in his throat that she didn't think was acting either. The sheet had slipped even lower, barely covering them, and she could feel every point where their bodies touched. His leg between hers. His chest against her breasts. His breath hot against her neck as he kissed along her collarbone, her shoulder, the sensitive spot just below her ear.
His hips rolled against hers again, more deliberately this time, and she couldn't stop the small moan that escaped her lips. She could feel all of him now—the hard length of him pressing against her through those impossibly thin barriers, the heat of his skin, the way his breathing had gone ragged.
This was supposed to be acting. But God, it felt real. It felt so real.
"Elizabeth," he whispered, so quietly she almost didn't hear it. Not Clara. Elizabeth.
Her eyes flew open, meeting his, and for a moment they simply stared at each other. His pupils were dilated, his breathing uneven, and she knew—knew—that he was feeling this too. This wasn't just acting anymore.
His hand cupped her face again, tender, and he kissed her with a gentleness that made her chest ache even as his hips pressed more insistently against hers. She arched up into him, her hands sliding down his back, lower, lower, feeling the curve of his spine, the small of his back—
The sheet fell away completely.
"Cut!"
Reality crashed back in like cold water. Aidan stilled immediately, his body going motionless on top of her, the weight of him suddenly more present, more real. For a moment neither of them moved. Then, slowly—so slowly—he shifted off her, rolling to lay beside her on the bed. They were both breathing hard, chests rising and falling in uneven rhythm, and Elizabeth couldn't tell if it was from the movements of the scene or because of his obvious arousal, the evidence of which she'd felt pressed against her only moments ago.
Aidan reached for the sheet, pulling it up to cover them both. The gesture felt protective, intimate in a way that had nothing to do with the scene they'd just filmed.
Elizabeth lay there, acutely aware of everything. Her near-nakedness. The crew members suddenly moving around them again. The cameras that had captured every moment. And—God—the thin underwear she was wearing, now unmistakably wet from her reaction to him. The realization made heat flood her face, made her want to disappear into the mattress.
She couldn't look at him. Couldn't turn her head to meet his eyes. She couldn't process what had just happened, what she'd felt, what she'd seen in his eyes when he'd whispered her name.
"That was great, you two," Sam said, approaching the bed with his characteristic enthusiasm. "Really great. The scene looks beautiful—the chemistry is perfect." He paused, glancing between them. "But I think... I think there could be more. More vulnerability, more rawness."
Elizabeth's heart hammered in her chest. More?
Sam cleared his throat. "I know this is a big ask, but would you both be comfortable removing the underwear for the next take? I'd like to lose the sheet entirely. Make it more sensual, more passionate. Really capture that moment when Clara and Thomas cross that line."
The silence stretched out. Elizabeth felt the question hang in the air, felt the weight of it pressing down on her already overwhelmed nervous system. She should say no. She should ask for a break, ask for time to think, ask for—
But she found herself nodding. A small movement, barely perceptible, but a nod nonetheless.
Beside her, Aidan nodded too.
"Excellent," Sam said, relief evident in his voice. "Take a few minutes. We'll reset."
The crew moved into action around them—adjusting lights, repositioning cameras, checking angles. The familiar choreography of a film set, but Elizabeth felt like she was watching it from underwater, everything muffled and distant.
Then she felt it—Aidan's hand on her shoulder, a gentle squeeze. The same gesture of reassurance he'd given her before, but now it felt like an anchor, the only solid thing in a world that had tilted sideways.
He leaned over, close enough that his breath tickled her ear, and whispered, "You were perfect." A pause, and then, even softer: "If you want to take a moment, take a break, that would be okay. We can ask for more time."
Elizabeth turned her head to look at him then, finally meeting his eyes. They were still dark, still dilated, but there was concern there too. Genuine concern. He was giving her an out, offering her a lifeline if she needed it.
She shook her head. "We can continue."
Something flickered across his face—respect, maybe, or understanding, or something else she couldn't quite name. He nodded once, then pulled back as makeup and hair descended on them, touching up foundation, adjusting stray locks, preparing them for the next take.
Elizabeth lay there, the sheet still clutched around her, and tried to remember how to breathe. She'd just agreed to film a sex scene completely naked. With Aidan. With a man who'd just whispered her name in the middle of a take, who'd looked at her like she was the only person in the room, who'd made her body respond in ways that had nothing to do with acting.
She'd trusted him to guide her through this, and he had. Perfectly. Professionally.
So why did it feel like everything had just changed? And why, despite the fear and vulnerability and overwhelming uncertainty, did some part of her want to see where this would go?
The makeup artist stepped back. Hair gave Aidan's temple one final touch. Then they were alone again—or as alone as two people could be on a film set with thirty crew members watching.
"Alright, let's reset," Sam called. "Underwear off, please. We'll start from the same position."
Elizabeth's hands trembled as she reached for the waistband of her underwear beneath the sheet. She slid them down her legs, acutely aware of how wet the fabric was, how it clung to her skin. She handed them off to the wardrobe assistant without making eye contact, her face burning.
Beside her, Aidan did the same, his movements efficient and practiced. He'd done this before. Many times, probably. The thought should have been reassuring—he knew what he was doing, he'd guide her through it—but instead it made her feel even more exposed, more inexperienced.
The sheet was pulled away.
Elizabeth's breath caught. She was completely naked now, lying on the bed in front of cameras and lights and dozens of watching eyes. Every instinct screamed at her to cover herself, to curl inward, to hide. But she forced herself to stay still, to breathe, to remember this was her job. This was the scene. This was Clara and Thomas.
Except when she glanced at Aidan—just a quick, involuntary glance—all thoughts of Clara and Thomas evaporated.
He was naked too. Completely naked. And she could see everything.
His cock was hard, thick and long, standing proud against his stomach. Bigger than she'd imagined. Bigger than she'd felt pressed against her during the last take, though she'd known, she'd felt the size of him. But seeing it was different. Seeing it made everything more real, more immediate, more terrifying.
She tore her gaze away, her heart hammering so hard she was certain everyone could hear it.
"Positions, please," Sam said.
Aidan moved over her again, settling between her thighs, and this time there was nothing between them. No underwear. No sheet. Just skin against skin, heat against heat. Elizabeth wrapped her legs around his waist as they'd choreographed, and the position opened her completely, made her devastatingly aware of how wet she was, how exposed.
She could feel him. The hard length of his cock pressed against her lower belly, hot and insistent. Could feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles coiled as he held himself above her.
"And... action!"
Aidan began to move.
The first thrust of his hips sent a jolt through Elizabeth's entire body. He wasn't inside her—the angle was wrong, his cock sliding against her stomach instead—but God, the friction, the pressure, the heat of him. She gasped, her hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.
He moved again, his hips rolling in a rhythm that was both practiced and desperate. Each thrust pressed his body against hers, his cock sliding against her slick skin, and Elizabeth couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but feel.
This wasn't acting anymore. This was something else entirely.
---
Aidan had filmed sex scenes before. Dozens of them. He knew how to make it look real while keeping it professional, how to angle his body to protect his co-star's modesty, how to maintain the illusion of intimacy without crossing any lines.
But this—this was different.
Elizabeth was beneath him, completely naked, her legs wrapped around his waist, and he could feel everything. The warmth radiating from her pussy, so close to his cock he could barely think straight. The wetness he'd felt through her underwear before was nothing compared to this—he could feel it now, slick and hot against his skin every time he moved.
His cock was so hard it hurt, straining toward her with every thrust, and he had to concentrate on keeping the angle wrong, on making sure he didn't—
His hip tilted.
Just slightly. Just a fraction of an inch.
But it was enough.
The head of his cock dragged directly against her wet lips, parting them slightly, and the sensation was so intense, so overwhelming, that a sound tore from his throat—half groan, half growl, completely involuntary.
Fuck.
He dropped his head to her shoulder, his teeth finding her skin, biting down to ground himself, to maintain some semblance of control. The pain helped. Barely. He could taste salt and perfume and something uniquely her, and his hips kept moving because they had to, because the scene required it, because stopping would be worse than continuing.
But he was losing it. Losing the careful professional distance he'd maintained through every other intimate scene he'd ever filmed. His cock was rock hard and pressed against her pussy, and every thrust made him want to adjust his angle, to push inside her, to feel her heat surrounding him completely.
This was her first time filming a scene like this. Her first time being this vulnerable on camera. And here he was, hard as stone, barely maintaining control, his body betraying every professional instinct he'd ever had.
He should pull back. Should ask for a break. Should—
Elizabeth's hands slid down his back, over his sides, finding his ass. Her nails dug into his skin—sharp, insistent—and she pulled him harder against her, forcing his next thrust to be deeper, rougher.
The pain mixed with pleasure, and Aidan groaned again, his hips snapping forward with more force than he'd intended. His cock dragged against her again, and this time he felt her wetness coating him, felt how ready she was, how much her body wanted this even if her mind might not.
He kissed her neck, her collarbone, her shoulder—anywhere he could reach. Licked the salt from her skin, tasted her, wanted more. This wasn't in the choreography. This was him, losing himself in her, in the feel of her body beneath his, in the small sounds she was making that he didn't think were entirely for the camera.
His hips kept moving, kept thrusting, and he was kissing her everywhere now, his mouth hungry and desperate. He wanted to taste every inch of her, wanted to memorize the flavor of her skin, wanted—
He heard it. Barely. So quiet he almost missed it beneath their ragged breathing and the ambient noise of the set.
"Please." A whisper. Then: "Aidan."
His name. Not Thomas. Aidan.
His cock jerked against her, and he had to bite down on her shoulder again to keep from making another sound, from doing something he absolutely could not do on a film set with cameras rolling and thirty people watching.
He wasn't sure if he'd really heard it. They were both breathing so hard, both so lost in whatever this was. Maybe he'd imagined it. Maybe it was wishful thinking. Maybe—
"Cut!"
Sam's voice cut through the haze, and reality crashed back in with brutal force.
Aidan froze. For one terrible, perfect moment, he stayed exactly where he was—pressed against Elizabeth, his cock hard and wet with her arousal, his mouth still on her skin.
Then he moved.
He rolled off her quickly, reaching for the robe someone thrust at him, wrapping it around himself before anyone could see just how hard he still was, how close he'd come to completely losing control.
"That was incredible," Sam was saying, his voice enthusiastic and distant. "Absolutely incredible. The chemistry, the passion—exactly what we needed."
Aidan wasn't listening. He couldn't look at Elizabeth, couldn't meet her eyes, couldn't face what had just happened between them.
"Take thirty," he said, his voice rough. "I need—I need a minute."
He didn't wait for a response. He walked off the set, his stride quick and purposeful, the robe clutched tight around him. He could feel eyes on him—crew members, other actors, Sam—but he didn't care. He needed to get to his trailer. Needed privacy. Needed to deal with the throbbing, desperate ache between his legs before he lost his mind entirely.
The trailer door slammed shut behind him.
Aidan leaned against it, breathing hard, his cock still painfully hard beneath the robe. He could still feel her—the heat of her pussy, the wetness coating his skin, the way her nails had dug into his ass. Could still hear that whispered "please," whether it had been real or imagined.
His hand was already moving, shoving the robe aside, wrapping around his cock. He was so hard it was almost painful, and the first stroke sent pleasure shooting up his spine.
He thought of Elizabeth beneath him. The way she'd looked at him, the way she'd felt, the way she'd pulled him harder against her. The way her body had responded to his, wet and ready and wanting.
His hand moved faster, his grip tight, and he let himself imagine what it would have felt like to adjust his angle just slightly, to push inside her, to feel her tight heat surrounding him.
It took less than a minute.
He came with a groan, his cock pulsing in his hand, release finally taking the edge off the desperate need that had been building since the moment they'd removed their underwear.
Aidan slumped against the door, breathing hard, his hand still wrapped around his softening cock.
What the hell had just happened?
He'd filmed intimate scenes before. Had worked with beautiful, talented actresses. Had maintained his professionalism through it all.
But Elizabeth—God, Elizabeth had completely undone him. And the worst part was, he wasn't sure he wanted to put himself back together.
The Close Up Chapter 1:
The email arrived at 4:47 PM on a Tuesday, and Elizabeth Hargrove read it three times, each reading stoking a deeper frustration.
We are pleased to offer you the role of Clara Whitfield in "The Ivory Keys."
Offer. As if she had a choice. As if the last six months of relentless pressure hadn't made it abundantly clear that this wasn't a request.
Her hands trembled—not with excitement, but with exhaustion—as she set her phone down on the piano in her Upper West Side apartment. The late afternoon sun slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching dust motes in its golden light, and for a moment everything felt suspended—the distant hum of traffic from Central Park West, the ticking of the antique clock on the mantle, her own breathing.
She'd said no four times. Four times the studio executives had called, emailed, flown out to meet with her. Four times she'd explained that she was a composer, not an actress. That she'd spent twenty years—since she was ten years old—writing music for films, not performing in them. That standing in front of a camera was entirely different from sitting at a piano, translating emotion into notes and measures.
But they'd been persistent. Relentless, really. We want you, Elizabeth. We believe in you. You understand Clara in a way no one else could. You are Clara—a pianist, a prodigy, someone who's lived their entire life in service to music.
The Ivory Keys was set in 1950s New York, a period drama that followed Clara Whitfield, a gifted pianist, as she fell in love with Thomas Hale, her ambitious and charming manager. What began as a passionate romance, slowly twisted into something suffocating. Thomas's love became possession. His support became control. He isolated her from her music, from her friends, from the very parts of herself that made her who she was, all while convincing her it was for her own good, that he was protecting her, that no one else could love her the way he did.
What they meant was: We own you. We've made you who you are, and you owe us this.
Twenty years. Twenty years of giving them everything—her time, her talent, her soul poured into scores that made their films soar. Twenty years of late nights and impossible deadlines, of pouring her heart into other people's stories. She'd thought that by now, after two decades in this business, after the awards and the acclaim, she'd have earned the right to say no. To have boundaries. To choose her own path.
But the studio always took. That was the nature of it. They took and took, and when you tried to hold something back for yourself, they took that too. They wouldn't accept anyone else for this role. It had to be her. And when the studio decided something had to be, it became inevitable, grinding down resistance through sheer, exhausting persistence until saying yes felt like the only way to make it stop.
And yet, beneath the frustration and exhaustion, there was something else. Something she was almost embarrassed to admit: part of her wanted this. Wanted the challenge of it. Wanted to feel like a beginner again, fumbling and uncertain and alive with the terror of not knowing if she could pull it off.
She'd never really acted before—not professionally, anyway. But she'd spent twenty years on film and television sets, watching, absorbing. She'd helped actors run lines during downtime, reading opposite them when they needed a second voice, feeling the rhythm of dialogue, the push and pull of a scene. She'd always been curious about it, the way a composer is curious about every instrument in the orchestra, even the ones they don't play.
And maybe—though it galled her to admit it—part of her liked that the studio had fought so hard for her. That they'd refused to take no for an answer. Not because she enjoyed being bulldozed, but because it meant they truly believed she could do this. That it wasn't just a gimmick or a publicity stunt. They wanted her, specifically her, and they'd been willing to wage a six-month campaign to get her.
So perhaps that was what had finally convinced her. Not the paycheck—at this point in her career, she didn't need the money. Not the flattery—she'd never done well with people kissing her ass, all those industry parties where everyone told her she was a genius until the word lost all meaning. And not even the promise that she would also compose the film's score, though that had certainly sweetened the deal.
It was the challenge. The chance to do something completely new, to step outside the safe boundaries of what she knew and risk failing spectacularly.
Even if the thought terrified her.
Elizabeth stood and walked to the window, looking out over the city. At thirty, she'd accomplished more than most composers did in a lifetime. Five Academy Awards sat in a drawer in her study because displaying them felt too much like boasting. Another drawer of Grammys. A BAFTA. Critics called her a genius, a master of emotional storytelling through music. She'd been a child prodigy at the piano, performing at Carnegie Hall at age eight, and had transitioned seamlessly into composition when she realized she preferred creating music to performing it.
But acting? She had no idea what she was doing.
Her phone buzzed with a text from her agent: Congratulations! This is going to be incredible. First table read is Monday. I'll send details.
Elizabeth closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She'd committed now. No backing out.
The days leading up to the first table read were a blur of preparation. Elizabeth worked with an acting coach who tried to help her understand the basics—hitting marks, finding the camera, emotional authenticity versus musical authenticity. She read the script obsessively, making notes in the margins the way she would on a musical score, trying to find the rhythm and tempo of Clara's journey.
At night, she sat at her piano and began sketching themes for the film. Clara's theme came easily—delicate, hopeful, with an underlying melancholy that would deepen as the story progressed. Thomas's theme was harder. It needed to be seductive and dangerous, charming on the surface but with something discordant lurking beneath.
She thought about Aidan Gillen, who would be playing Thomas. She'd seen his work, of course—everyone had. He was extraordinary, capable of playing charm and menace in the same breath. The thought of acting opposite him made her stomach knot with anxiety. He was a professional, seasoned, confident. She was a composer pretending to be an actress.
Monday morning arrived too quickly.
Elizabeth took a car service to the studio in Queens, her hands gripping the script in her lap. She'd dressed simply—jeans, a silk blouse, minimal jewelry—trying to look like she belonged on a film set even though she felt like an imposter.
The soundstage was enormous, transformed into a meticulous recreation of 1950s Manhattan. There was Clara's apartment with its upright piano by the window. The jazz club. Thomas's office. Elizabeth paused by the piano on set, running her fingers over the keys without pressing down. At least this part was familiar.
"Ms. Hargrove?" A production assistant appeared at her elbow. "We've got you in hair and makeup, then the table read starts at ten."
"Thank you." Elizabeth followed her through the maze of equipment, trying to calm her racing heart.
Hair and makeup was surreal. They pinned her dark hair into soft 1950s waves, applied period-accurate makeup. When Elizabeth looked in the mirror, she saw someone who could be Clara looking back. It helped, somehow. Made the character feel more real and less like an impossible task.
The table read was held in a room off the main soundstage. Elizabeth arrived early and took a seat, script open in front of her. Other cast members filtered in, and she recognized a few faces from other films she'd scored. They greeted her warmly, clearly aware of who she was, which somehow made her feel more out of place rather than less.
Then Aidan Gillen walked in.
He wasn't overtly tall, but he had a presence that filled the space. Salt-and-pepper hair, sharp features, those distinctive blue eyes. He wore jeans and a dark sweater, casual but elegant. He greeted the director, exchanged words with a few crew members, and then his gaze landed on her.
His face lit up with genuine delight, and he crossed directly to where she sat.
"Elizabeth Hargrove," he said, and there was something almost reverent in his tone. He extended his hand. "This is a genuine honor. I'm Aidan."
She stood, shaking his hand, caught off guard by the warmth in his voice. "It's wonderful to meet you. I'm a great admirer of your work."
"And I of yours." He settled into the chair beside her, his eyes brightening with unmistakable enthusiasm. "I have to tell you, I've been listening to your scores for years. The work you did on Autumn in Vienna—that main theme, the way it builds from that single piano line into the full orchestral swell? It still gives me chills every time." He leaned in slightly, animated now. "And The Long Winter? God, that cello motif that follows the protagonist through his grief—devastating. Absolutely devastating in the best possible way."
Elizabeth felt heat rise to her cheeks, spreading down her neck. She dropped her gaze to the script in front of her, fingers fidgeting with the corner of a page. "That's very kind of you to say."
When she glanced up, she caught the smirk playing at the corner of his mouth—he'd noticed her blush, and there was something almost playful in the way he watched her squirm under the praise.
"It's not kindness, it's truth." Aidan's eyes were bright with enthusiasm. "When I heard you were not only starring in this but also composing the score, I nearly called my agent to make sure I was still attached to the project. The chance to work with you—as an actor and to have you score our scenes—it's extraordinary."
"I'm terrified," Elizabeth admitted before she could stop herself. "I've never acted before. I have no idea what I'm doing."
Aidan's expression softened into something understanding. "But you know Clara. You know what it's like to be a musician, to have that relationship with your instrument. That's more important than technique. Technique we can work on. But that understanding, that authenticity—you already have it."
"I hope you're right."
"I am." He smiled, and there was something reassuring in it. "And I'm excited to work with you. Truly. If you need anything—want to run lines, talk through a scene, discuss the music—I'm here."
"Thank you," Elizabeth said softly, and she meant it. His genuine enthusiasm, his respect for her work, made her feel slightly less like she was drowning.
The director called them to attention, and the table read began.
Hearing the script read aloud was different from reading it silently. The story came alive in the room—Clara's initial meeting with Thomas, his charm and attentiveness, the way he recognized her talent and promised to make her a star. The other actors were good, but when Aidan read Thomas's lines, Elizabeth felt something shift.
His voice carried layers—warmth and manipulation, genuine admiration and possessive control, all woven together so seamlessly that you couldn't quite separate them. It was exactly what the character needed, that dangerous ambiguity that would make Clara's entrapment believable.
When they reached a scene almost a quarter of the way through the script—Clara and Thomas in his office after her first major performance—Elizabeth found herself leaning into the read in a way she hadn't expected.
"You were magnificent tonight," Aidan read, his voice low and intimate. "Every eye in that room was on you. Do you know what that means?"
"That people enjoyed the music?" Elizabeth responded, finding Clara's voice—hopeful, still naive.
"That you're mine to shape. Mine to present to the world." There was something possessive in how Aidan delivered the line, but also something almost tender, and it sent a small shiver down Elizabeth's spine. "Without me, you're just another pianist in a city full of them. With me, you're extraordinary."
"I am extraordinary," Elizabeth said, and she could feel Clara's defiance, the spark that hadn't been extinguished yet. "With or without you."
Aidan's eyes met hers across the table, and for a moment they weren't reading—they were acting, really acting, and the air between them felt charged. Then he smiled, just slightly, and continued with the next line.
When the read finished two hours later, the director looked pleased. "Excellent work, everyone. That's exactly the energy we need. Elizabeth, Aidan—the chemistry is there. We're going to do great things with this."
As people began to disperse, gathering their things and chatting, Aidan touched Elizabeth's elbow lightly. "Walk with me for a moment?"
They stepped out onto the soundstage, weaving between equipment until they reached Clara's apartment set. Aidan paused beside the piano, and when he spoke, there was something almost shy in his voice. "Would you... would you play for me? I've always wondered what it's like to hear a composer at their instrument."
Elizabeth's hand went to the piano's edge, fingers tracing the wood. "It's not finished yet," she said quietly. "The score—it's still in bits and pieces. I don't usually share things when they're this incomplete."
"I understand if you'd rather not—"
"No, it's..." She sat at the bench, her fingers hovering over the keys. "It's just vulnerable, that's all. Sharing something that's not ready yet."
She let her fingers find the keys, muscle memory from decades of practice guiding her through the opening bars of Clara's theme. The melody was delicate and yearning, with an undercurrent of something darker threading through it.
Aidan sat beside her on the small bench, and the space was intimate—his thigh pressed against hers, his arm brushing her shoulder each time she moved up or down the octaves. He sat perfectly still, mesmerized, watching her hands dance across the keys and the way her whole body seemed to lean into the music. This was where she lived, he realized. This was her truest language.
He'd always loved film scores, had spent years paying attention to how they shaped a scene, how they could make you feel things you didn't even know you were capable of feeling. Music wasn't background to him—it was essential, the emotional architecture that held everything else together. And watching Elizabeth create it, seeing her passion and talent up close like this, he felt something shift in his chest. She wasn't just good. She was extraordinary.
When the last notes faded, Elizabeth's hands stilled on the keys. "That's Clara's theme," she said softly. "It evolves as the story progresses. Gets more fragmented, more dissonant."
"Like her life," Aidan said, and he could see it so clearly—the way the melody had started with that light, hopeful quality, almost innocent, before turning toward something broken and desperate. "That's... God, Elizabeth, that fits her perfectly. The hope at the beginning, and then that turn into fragmented despair."
He was quiet for a moment, still processing what he'd heard. "What about Thomas? Does he have a theme, or..."
"I'm still working that out," she admitted. "I'm not sure if he gets his own theme or if he's just the force that distorts hers."
"That would make sense." He found himself genuinely curious about her process, about all the pieces she was putting together. "What else do you have planned for the score?"
She started to answer, then stopped, her shoulders dropping slightly. "I can do this part—the music. It's the acting I'm worried about."
Aidan shifted on the bench, turning toward her. They were so close now that their knees touched, that he could see the uncertainty in her eyes. "Listen to me," he said gently. "The thing about acting is that it's all about truth. Finding the emotional truth of a moment and letting it live through you. You do that with music already. Every score you write tells an emotional story. This is just another language for the same thing."
He held her gaze, wanting her to really hear him. "And I promise you—I'll be there every step of the way. You're not doing this alone."
She looked at him, and something passed between them in the closeness of that small bench, in the warmth where their bodies touched. He turned to look at her fully, and they were close enough that she could see the flecks of grey in his blue eyes, the fine lines at their corners.
"Are you a musician?" she asked, the question slipping out before she could stop it. There was something in the way he spoke about music, the way he understood it not as notes on a page but as a living, breathing thing. Most people didn't grasp that distinction.
Aidan looked almost embarrassed. "A bit of guitar, nothing serious. I've been playing since I was in my 20s, but..." He shrugged, a self-deprecating smile crossing his face. "I'm mainly just a listener. I've spent most of my life paying attention to how music makes people feel, how it shapes a scene. But that's hardly the same as what you do."
"It's not about the level," Elizabeth said, surprising herself with the certainty in her voice. "It's about understanding that music is a language. Most people hear it and feel it, but they don't really listen. They don't understand that every choice—every note, every silence—means something." She paused, meeting his eyes. "You listen."
Something shifted between them in that moment, a recognition that went beyond professional respect. He wasn't trying to impress her or diminish himself out of false modesty. He simply understood, in the quiet way of someone who had spent years paying attention to the world around him. It was rare, and it mattered more than she wanted to admit.
"I want you to know you can trust me," he said quietly. "I know Thomas is a difficult character—controlling, manipulative, abusive. Some of the scenes are intense. But that's him, not me. On this set, I'm just Aidan, and I'm here to support you in any way I can. We're partners in this."
Elizabeth felt something warm unfold in her chest. "That means a lot. I was worried about whether I could handle the darker scenes. Whether I'd be able to separate the character from the person."
"You will," Aidan assured her. "And if it ever gets too heavy, we stop. We talk. We make sure you're okay. That's the job—taking care of each other so we can do our best work." He paused, then added with a slight smile, "Besides, I have a feeling you're going to surprise yourself. That read was exceptional for someone who's never acted before."
"You're being kind."
"I'm being honest. There's a difference." He stood and offered her his hand to help her up. "And I meant what I said—if you need anything, call me. Even if it's just to talk through nerves before a big scene. Or if you want a second opinion on a musical cue."
His hand was warm, his grip steady, and when Elizabeth stood, she was acutely aware of how close they were, how the stage lights caught in his hair. There was something in the moment—not quite attraction, not yet, but an awareness. A recognition that this partnership, this connection they were building, was going to be important. Significant.
"I will," she promised. "And thank you, Aidan. For being so welcoming. It makes this less terrifying."
"It's going to be brilliant," he said with quiet confidence. "Trust me on that."
As she left the studio that evening, taking a car back to her Manhattan apartment with the script in her bag and the memory of Aidan's encouragement in her mind, Elizabeth felt the fear begin to transform into something else. Excitement. Anticipation. The sense that she was standing at the beginning of something that would change her life—though in what ways, she couldn't yet imagine.
She sat at her piano that night and played Clara's theme again, letting it evolve, deepen. And for the first time since accepting the role, she felt like maybe—just maybe—she could do this.
Chapter 2
The Close Up
Another Aidan Gillen story coming soon !!!
Elizabeth Hargrove, a successful and reclusive film composer, steps out of her comfort zone to star in The Ivory Keys, a 1950s period drama. During production, she develops a deep and authentic romantic relationship with her co-star, Aidan Gillen, who helps her navigate the vulnerabilities of acting. However, their private romance is leaked to the public, and the studio decides to weaponize their genuine connection as a marketing tool to drive box office sales. Elizabeth and Aidan are forced to perform their intimacy for the cameras, leading them to struggle with whether their love can survive being transformed into a commercial product.
Yes I will finish Escape to Ireland, but I needed to take a break from it as editing the rest of that story has been difficult. And Aidan Gillen is too sexy not to be written about.
Chapter 30: Exposure
Gracie woke to the insistent ringing of her phone on the nightstand. She reached for it groggily, Aidan's arm still draped across her waist, his breathing deep and even beside her.
Al's name flashed on the screen.
She frowned. Al never called this early—it was barely eight in the morning. She slipped out of bed carefully, trying not to wake Aidan, and padded into the bathroom before answering.
"Al? What's wrong?"
"Oh honey," Al said, his voice a mixture of excitement and concern. "Have you seen the internet this morning?"
"I don't—you know I don't have social media accounts." Gracie was an old soul that way, had never seen the appeal of Instagram or Twitter or any of it. She had her website for her art, and that was enough.
"Right, right, I forgot. Well, brace yourself, because social media is absolutely exploding about you and Aidan right now."
Gracie's stomach dropped. "What do you mean exploding?"
"I mean you two are everywhere. The red carpet photos, the kiss, everything. Máire posted one of your Croatia paintings on the gallery Instagram last week, and now that post has hundreds of comments." She heard him scrolling. "Okay, let me read you some of these. 'Is this Aidan Gillen's girlfriend???' Three question marks. 'She's so pretty! They look perfect together!' Heart emoji, heart emoji. Oh, here's a fun one: 'Gold digger vibes tbh.'"
"Al—"
"Wait, there's more. 'Her art is actually really good'—well, at least they got that right. 'Of course she's an artist lol how convenient.' And my personal favorite: 'I ship them so hard!!!' with about fifteen exclamation points."
Gracie sank down onto the closed toilet seat, her legs suddenly unsteady. "This can't be happening."
"Oh, it's happening. And that's just one post on Máire's page. There are articles, Gracie. Like, actual news articles about you. I'm going to send you some links right now."
Her phone buzzed with incoming texts as Al continued talking.
"Entertainment sites, tabloids, fan pages—everyone wants to know who Aidan Gillen's mystery woman is. Well, not so mysterious anymore. They've got your name, your age, where you're from—"
"How do they have all that?"
"The internet is a terrifying place, my love. Hold on, I'm sending you a few more. There's one from the Irish Independent that's actually pretty respectful, and then there's this absolute trash piece from some tabloid that—well, you'll see."
Gracie's phone kept buzzing. Text after text from Al, each one a link.
"I have to go," she said weakly. "I need to—I need to look at these."
"Call me after, okay? I'm here if you need me. And Gracie? For what it's worth, you looked absolutely stunning on that red carpet. Don't let the trolls get to you."
After they hung up, Gracie sat in the bathroom for a long moment, staring at the string of links Al had sent. Finally, with trembling fingers, she clicked on the first one.
She switched to Google, typed in her own name with trembling fingers.
"Aidan Gillen's New Girlfriend: Who Is Gracie?"
Her face stared back at her from the screen. That moment on the red carpet when Aidan had kissed her, captured in perfect clarity.
She clicked another link.
"Game of Thrones Star Steps Out With Mystery Woman"
Another.
"Aidan Gillen Confirms Relationship With Artist Gracie Sullivan"
They'd found everything. Her age. Her hometown in the States. The fact that she'd moved to Ireland a year ago. One article mentioned her estrangement from her parents—how had they found that?—describing her as having "relocated to Ireland to start fresh after a difficult period with her family."
She clicked through article after article, each one showing her face from different angles, analyzing her dress, her body language, speculating about how long they'd been together.
"Gracie?" Aidan's voice came from the bedroom, rough with sleep. "You alright?"
She couldn't answer. She just opened the bathroom door and handed him her phone, the screen still showing her own face staring back.
She couldn't answer. She just handed him her phone.
"Al called," Gracie whispered. "He said social media is blowing up. There are hundreds of comments on Máire's gallery page. They know about my parents, Aidan. They know about—everything."
"There are so many," Gracie whispered. "Aidan, there are so many."
"They know things about me I never told anyone. How do they know these things?"
"Public records, probably. And people talk. Old acquaintances, former neighbors—someone always talks.it's all accessible if someone looks hard enough." He set the phone down and reached for her. "Gracie, I'm so sorry. This is exactly what I was worried about."
She let him hold her, but she felt numb. Exposed. Like she'd walked out of her cottage naked and found the entire world watching.
"I need some air," she said, pulling away. "I just—I need a minute."
She grabbed her robe and went out onto the small balcony of Aidan's London hotel room. The city stretched out below, indifferent to her crisis. Somewhere down there, people were reading about her. Forming opinions. Deciding who she was based on a few photos and hastily written articles.
She'd known this would happen. Aidan had warned her. But knowing and experiencing were entirely different things.
On Thursday, Máire texted her.
Gracie, you need to see this. Check the Máire Gallery Instagram. The engagement on your posts is absolutely mental.
Gracie pulled up the gallery's Instagram account and scrolled through the recent posts. There, beneath photos of her Dubrovnik series and the island paintings, were hundreds of comments.
Didn't know Aidan Gillen's girlfriend was an artist but WOW
Found her through Aidan but her work is actually incredible. The color work is stunning.
His girlfriend paints?? These pieces are genuinely beautiful though
Anyone know if she's painted Aidan? Would absolutely buy a portrait of him
Came for the celebrity connection, stayed for the actual talent. This woman is seriously gifted.
The emotion in these pieces is unreal. So glad I found her work through the premiere coverage
"The inquiries have been pouring in all morning," Máire said, her voice bright with excitement. "Three people want to buy from the Dubrovnik series. Two galleries in Cork and Galway have asked about your availability for shows. And I've had at least a dozen messages asking if you're taking commissions."
"Have they..." Gracie's voice felt small. "Have they seen my work before? Or did they just see the photos from the premiere?"
There was a pause. "Does it matter? Exposure is exposure. This is good for you, Gracie. This is what you've been working toward."
"Is it? Or am I just becoming 'Aidan Gillen's girlfriend who paints'?"
"You're overthinking this—"
"Am I?" Gracie's voice cracked. "Because every message I see mentions him. How am I supposed to know if anyone actually cares about my art?"
Máire sighed. "I understand this is overwhelming. But you can't control how people discover your work. What matters is that they're discovering it. What you do with this opportunity—that's up to you."
Gracie ended the call shortly after, her stomach churning. She knew Máire was right. She knew this was an opportunity. But as she scrolled through the comments again, she couldn't shake the feeling that gnawed at her: they didn't want her work because it was good. They wanted it because she was Aidan Gillen's girlfriend, because people were curious, because her name would draw a crowd.
Later that day, another email arrived—from a gallery in Dublin, larger and more prestigious than Máire's.
Dear Ms. Sullivan,
We've recently become aware of your work and are very impressed by your unique style and use of color. We're currently planning our spring exhibition schedule and would love to discuss the possibility of featuring your work. Given the recent media attention, we believe this could be an excellent opportunity for both parties...
Gracie read it three times, her stomach churning.
Given the recent media attention.
There it was. The thing she'd been dreading. They didn't want her work because it was good. They wanted it because she was Aidan Gillen's girlfriend.
She closed her laptop without responding.
---
The article appeared on Tuesday morning.
Al called first, his voice tight with anger. "Don't read it. I'm serious, Gracie. Don't fucking read it."
The headline made her stomach drop: "Aidan Gillen's New Love: The Family She Left Behind"
They'd found her parents. Somehow, impossibly, they'd tracked down information about her family and the estrangement she'd worked so hard to keep private.
"Gracie has always been headstrong," says a family friend who wished to remain anonymous. "Her relationship with her parents became strained several years ago over lifestyle choices and expectations. The move to Ireland was partly about distance—not just physical, but emotional. Her mother was devastated when she left. They haven't spoken in over two years."
The article went on to detail her "troubled family history," mentioning her parents by name—Margaret and Robert Sullivan of Georgia—and describing the estrangement as stemming from "fundamental disagreements about life direction and values." It mentioned her move to Ireland, describing it as "running away from family obligations and expectations." There were photos of her cottage—not inside, thank God, but exterior shots that made her location in Dingle painfully obvious.
The piece speculated about whether someone who "couldn't maintain a relationship with her own family" was truly ready for a serious relationship. It questioned whether her "pattern of cutting ties and seeking isolation" was compatible with "one of Ireland's most recognizable actors."
Friends of the couple say Gillen is "smitten" with Sullivan, but questions remain about whether this relationship can survive the pressures of his high-profile career. Sullivan, who has been estranged from her family for years and sought solitude in a small Irish village, may find the spotlight more challenging than she anticipated. Only time will tell if this romance is built to last, or if Sullivan's tendency to retreat when relationships become difficult will resurface.
Gracie read it twice, then a third time, each pass making her feel more violated. They'd taken the most painful, private wound of her life and turned it into entertainment. They'd spoken to someone who claimed to know her family—or worse, maybe they'd actually contacted her parents—and let strangers characterize her pain, her choices, her life.
She felt sick. Exposed. Like every private thing about her had been stripped away and put on display.
Her phone rang. Aidan.
"They talked to someone who knows my family." Her voice sounded strange, distant. "Someone from Georgia. How did they even find people who knew my parents?"
"Social media. These people are relentless when they want a story." He paused. "I'm coming to Dingle. I can be there by tonight—"
"No." The word came out sharper than she intended. "No, I need—I need some time to think."
"Gracie—"
"Please. I just need some space to process this."
After a long moment, he said quietly, "Okay. But I'm here when you're ready to talk. And Gracie? We're going to fix this. We'll figure out how to protect you."
But as she hung up, she wondered if that was even possible. How do you protect someone from the entire internet? From tabloids that would pay family for quotes? From strangers who now knew where she lived?
She went for a walk along the cliffs, needing the wind and the sea and the vast emptiness of the landscape. The same walk she'd taken countless times since moving here, when she needed to clear her head or work through a problem with a painting.
But this problem couldn't be solved with a walk. This problem was her life now. This was what it meant to be with Aidan.
She loved him. God, she loved him so much it terrified her. These past months—the distance, the reunion, Croatia, meeting his children—had shown her that what they had was real and deep and worth fighting for.
But was it worth this?
She thought about the article. About strangers dissecting her family relations. About her cottage being photographed. About every gallery inquiry being tainted with the question of whether they wanted her or wanted Aidan's girlfriend.
She thought about the premiere, the cameras, the constant awareness of being watched. About Natalie's kind warning: It's not an easy life, being with someone in this industry.
Could she do this long-term? Could she live like this, always slightly on display, always wondering if her success was really hers?
She sat on a bench overlooking the water, the wind whipping her hair around her face, and let herself cry. For her privacy. For the simple life she'd built here. For the version of herself that had moved to Ireland to escape and heal and start over.
That version of herself hadn't included falling in love with a famous actor. Hadn't included red carpets and tabloids and thousands of strangers forming opinions about her life.
But that version of herself also hadn't included the joy of waking up next to Aidan. The way he looked at her like she was the most fascinating person in the world. The sound of Finn playing guitar in the living room while Maeve rolled her eyes affectionately. The feeling of being truly, deeply loved.
Could she walk away from that? Could she choose her privacy, her anonymity, her uncomplicated life over him?
She didn't know. And that uncertainty terrified her more than anything.
Aidan showed up anyway.
She heard his car in the drive just after sunset and felt a complicated mix of relief and frustration. She'd asked for space, but part of her had been hoping he'd come anyway.
He knocked softly, then let himself in with the key she'd given him months ago. "I know you said you needed time," he said, standing in her doorway looking exhausted and worried. "But I couldn't stay away. Not after that article."
Gracie was curled up on her couch, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders despite the warmth of the room. She'd been sitting there for hours, her phone face-down on the coffee table, trying to decide what she wanted.
"I'm so angry," Aidan said, crossing the room to sit beside her. "I'm so fucking angry that they did this to you. That they talked to your friends of your family, that they published photos of your home. It's invasive and cruel and—" He stopped, his jaw working. "I want to sue them. My lawyer says we might have a case for invasion of privacy."
"Will that make it better or worse?" Gracie asked quietly. "If we sue, won't that just create more stories? More attention?"
"I don't know. Maybe. But I can't just let them do this to you."
"They already did it, Aidan. It's done. It's out there. Everyone's read it by now."
He reached for her hand, and she let him take it. His thumb traced circles on her palm, a gesture that had become familiar, comforting. "Tell me what you're thinking," he said. "Please. Because you're scaring me right now."
Gracie took a shaky breath. "I'm thinking that I don't know if I can do this. I'm thinking that I love you more than I've ever loved anyone, but I don't know if that's enough. I'm thinking that every time someone wants to show my art, I'll wonder if it's because they actually like it or because I'm your girlfriend. I'm thinking that I moved here to escape and heal and find myself, and now I'm more exposed than I've ever been."
"I know." His voice was rough. "I know, and I'm so sorry. If I could change it—"
"But you can't. This is your life. This is what comes with being with you, and I knew that, but knowing and living it are different things." She turned to face him fully. "I saw the comments, Aidan. People saying I'm a gold digger. People saying I'm not pretty enough for you. People digging into my life like it's their business. And the worst part is, some of them are probably right. Maybe I'm not cut out for this. Maybe I'm too private, too sensitive, too—"
"Stop." He cupped her face, forcing her to meet his eyes. "Don't let them make you doubt yourself. Don't let them tell you who you are or what you can handle."
"But what if they're right? What if I can't handle this?"
"Then we figure it out. Together." He leaned his forehead against hers. "Gracie, I love you. I love you more than I've loved anyone in a very long time. And I know this is hard—I know I'm asking you to give up things that matter to you. Your privacy. Your anonymity. The simple life you built here. But I'm not asking you to give up yourself."
"It feels like I am, though. It feels like I'm becoming an extension of you instead of my own person."
"Then we set boundaries. We figure out what we can control and we protect it fiercely." He pulled back slightly, his expression intense. "No more photos of your cottage—we can send a cease and desist to any publication that uses them. You don't have to come to every event. We keep certain things private, just for us. We don't talk about our relationship in interviews unless we both agree. And if a gallery or buyer only wants you because of me, you tell them to fuck off."
Despite everything, Gracie felt a small smile tug at her lips. "That's not very professional."
"I don't care. Your art stands on its own. Anyone who can't see that doesn't deserve to show it." He squeezed her hand. "And we can sue that tabloid. Make an example of them. Show them there are consequences for this kind of invasive journalism."
"Will it help?"
"I don't know. Maybe not. But at least we'll be doing something instead of just taking it."
Gracie closed her eyes, feeling the weight of the decision pressing down on her. Stay and fight, or walk away and reclaim her peace.
"I need you to understand something," she said quietly. "I need you to understand that this is really hard for me. That I'm not sure I'm strong enough for this life. That there might come a day when I can't do it anymore."
"I understand. And if that day comes, we'll deal with it. But don't make that decision now, when you're hurt and angry and overwhelmed. Don't let them win by pushing you away from something real."
She opened her eyes and found him watching her with such tenderness, such understanding, that her chest ached. "I don't want to lose you," she whispered.
"You won't. I'm not going anywhere." He kissed her softly. "We'll figure this out. We'll set boundaries. We'll protect what matters. And we'll do it together."
She wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that love could be enough, that they could navigate this impossible situation and come out intact on the other side.
But she was scared. More scared than she'd been in a long time.
"Okay," she said finally. "Okay. We'll try. But Aidan, if it gets to be too much—"
"Then you tell me. And we reassess. But we do it together. Deal?"
"Deal."
He pulled her into his arms, and she let herself sink into his warmth, his solidity. They sat like that for a long time, the cottage quiet around them, the sea a distant murmur beyond the windows.
Eventually, Aidan said, "Have you eaten today?"
"No."
"Right. I'm making you dinner. And then we're going to make a list of every boundary we want to set, and tomorrow we're calling my lawyer about that article."
It was so practical, so Aidan, that Gracie felt some of the tension ease from her shoulders. He was right. They couldn't control everything, but they could control some things. They could fight back. They could protect what mattered.
As he moved around her kitchen, pulling out ingredients and humming softly to himself, Gracie felt her phone buzz. She picked it up reluctantly, expecting more notifications, more invasive comments.
But it was an email. From a gallery in London.
Dear Ms. Sullivan,
We are curating a spring exhibition featuring emerging contemporary artists working in abstract expressionism. Your work came to our attention through your recent show in Dingle, and we were particularly struck by your use of color and emotional depth. We would be honored to include three to five pieces in our April exhibition.
Please note that our exhibition dates are April 15-May 15, with the opening reception on April 15th. We understand you may have other commitments, but we hope you'll consider this opportunity.
We've admired your work for some time and believe it would be a strong addition to our program.
Gracie read it twice, her heart starting to race. A London gallery. A real opportunity, based on her work from the Dingle show—before the premiere, before the media attention.
This was legitimate. This was real.
Then she saw the date. April 15th.
Her stomach dropped.
April 15th was the night of the IFTA Awards. The Irish Film and Television Awards, where Aidan was nominated for his work on a recent Irish production. He'd mentioned it weeks ago, asked if she'd come with him.
It was a big deal. Important for his career. And he'd want her there, by his side.
But this gallery opportunity—this was important for her career. This was the kind of show that could establish her as a serious artist, separate from any connection to Aidan.
She stared at the email, her chest tight.
"What is it?" Aidan asked, noticing her expression.
"Nothing. Just—an email from a gallery."
"That's good, right?"
"Yeah. It's good."
But she didn't tell him about the date. Didn't tell him about the conflict.
Because she didn't know what to say. Didn't know how to choose between supporting him and pursuing her own dreams.
Didn't know if there was a right answer.
As Aidan plated their dinner and brought it to the couch, chatting about his conversation with his lawyer, Gracie smiled and nodded and tried to focus.
But her mind was spinning.
April 15th. The IFTA Awards. The London gallery opening.
His career or hers.
Being the supportive girlfriend or being the artist she'd always wanted to be.
She'd told him she'd try. That they'd figure this out together.
But how were they supposed to figure this out when every choice felt like choosing between him and herself?
She took a bite of the pasta he'd made, barely tasting it, and wondered if this was what the rest of her life would look like. Constant negotiations. Constant compromises. Constant questions about whether she was losing herself in the process of loving him.
She didn't have an answer.
And that terrified her more than any tabloid article ever could.
AN: I know it has been forever since I have updated this fic, I am terribly sorry. I do promise I will one day finish this story (and with a happy ending), if it makes any of you feel more hopeful, I have outline at least 4 more chapters, but need some serious editing. Here is to hoping that it won't be another 2 months till I update again
Chapter 29: Domestication
Looking back, Gracie could still remember the anxiety that had consumed her before meeting Aidan's children. It had been a few months after she'd moved in with him, and the prospect had loomed over her for days—a weight she'd carried through multiple outfit changes, through Al's well-meaning enthusiasm, through the very real temptation to fabricate an illness and escape entirely.
Aidan had found her straightening pillows that didn't need straightening, moving through the living room with nervous energy, and his calm reassurance had done little to settle her racing thoughts. It wasn't just the children she'd feared. It was Sarah—Aidan's ex-wife, the mother of his children, someone who'd known him in ways Gracie never would. The thought of meeting her had made Gracie's hands shake.
But when Sarah arrived that Saturday morning, tall and slender with strawberry blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing jeans and a cream-colored sweater, Gracie's anxiety had begun to dissolve almost immediately. Sarah's warmth was genuine and immediate, her smile reaching her kind eyes as she extended her hand. There was no edge to her, no territorial claim or resentment. Instead, there was only kindness—and before she left to head to Cork with her fiancé David, she'd paused at the door and thanked Gracie with such sincerity that Gracie's throat had tightened with unexpected emotion. Sarah's gratitude wasn't performative; it came from a place of genuine care for Aidan's happiness, a testament to the kind of person she was.
Then came Maeve and Finn.
Maeve, eleven years old with light strawberry blonde hair and sharp features, had studied Gracie with an expression that was pure Aidan—assessing, intelligent, giving nothing away. She'd come down the stairs slowly, taking her time, and Gracie had braced herself for judgment. Instead, Maeve had offered observations about Gracie's paintings with the kind of perceptiveness that caught Gracie off guard. The girl had understood the intent behind Gracie's work in a way that suggested a mind far older than eleven. There was no meanness in her critique, only honesty—and somehow, that honesty felt like acceptance.
Finn had been shyer, a boy with brighter red hair and Aidan's grey-blue eyes, clutching a book to his chest like a shield. But when Gracie had asked about his music, his entire face had transformed. His enthusiasm had been infectious, and his giggle had made something in Gracie's chest ache in the best possible way.
Lunch had been surprisingly easy. Maeve had asked direct questions—practical, intelligent inquiries that revealed her protective nature—but there had been no hostility in them. Instead, there had been a moment when Maeve had observed that Aidan seemed happier, and the simple statement had carried more weight than any elaborate welcome could have. It was a test, Gracie had realized, and she'd passed it simply by being genuine in return.
The afternoon had been even better. Badminton in the back garden had dissolved any remaining tension. The kids had been competitive and funny, their trash-talking infused with Aidan's dry humor, and Gracie had felt the last of her anxiety melt away in genuine laughter. She'd felt included naturally, effortlessly, as though she'd always belonged in this space.
When it had been time for her to leave—back when she'd still been splitting time between the cottage and Aidan's house—Finn had hugged her goodbye without prompting, his small arms tight around her neck. Maeve had offered a hand to shake, which had felt like a significant victory, and had told her she could come back if she wanted. The invitation had been casual, but Gracie had understood its true meaning.
Looking back now, Gracie realized that day had been the moment she'd truly understood what being with Aidan meant. It wasn't just the romantic parts—the passion and the intimacy and the late-night conversations. It was this too. His whole life. His children, his ex-wife, the complicated beautiful mess of a blended family. It was the realization that loving him meant loving all of this, and that all of this was worth loving.
Aidan had been right about everything. He'd known his kids would welcome her. He'd known Sarah would be kind. He'd known it would all work out. And standing in that garden, surrounded by laughter and the easy comfort of people who were becoming her family, Gracie had understood that he'd been right because he knew her—knew that she was exactly the kind of person his children and ex-wife could love. He'd seen her clearly enough to know she would fit into his life not as an outsider trying to squeeze in, but as someone who belonged there all along.
Two weeks later, Aidan brought up the premiere.
They were at his place, Gracie working on a new painting while Aidan read through a script his agent had sent. The evening light was golden through the windows, everything peaceful and domestic.
"I have to go to London next month," he said, not looking up from the script. "For the premiere."
Gracie's brush paused. "Game of Thrones?"
"Yeah. Big event—red carpet, press, the whole circus." He set down the script and looked at her. "I'd like you to come with me."
Her heart started racing. "To the premiere?"
"As my date. My girlfriend." He said it carefully, watching her reaction. "It would mean going public. Cameras, interviews, probably ending up in tabloids and on gossip sites. I know that's a lot to ask."
Gracie set down her brush, her hands suddenly unsteady. They'd been in their bubble for months now—private, protected, just theirs. Going to something like this would change that irrevocably.
"I don't want to pressure you," Aidan continued. "If you're not ready, I understand. But I also don't want to hide you, Gracie. I'm proud to be with you. I want the world to know that."
She looked at him—this man who'd become her whole world, who'd introduced her to his children, who'd made space for her in every part of his life. He wasn't asking her to change. He was asking her to step into his world, to be by his side publicly the way she was privately.
"Okay," she said.
"Okay?"
"Yes. I'll come with you." She took a shaky breath. "I'm terrified, but yes."
Aidan crossed the room and pulled her into his arms. "You don't have to be terrified. I'll be right there with you the whole time."
"It's a big step."
"It is," he agreed. "But we've already taken bigger ones. This is just... making it official."
The next few weeks passed in a blur of preparation. Al insisted on helping her find a dress, forcing her to send him pictures of every dress she tried on, a velvet strapless maroon dress that hit just below her knees, the deep burgundy fabric catching the light as she moved, elegant and sophisticated.
"You're going to be stunning," Al declared. "Aidan's not going to know what hit him."
Father Marcus offered more practical advice: "Remember to breathe. Smile. And if anyone asks you something inappropriate, you have my permission to tell them to fuck off."
"I don't think that's how red carpets work," Gracie said.
"Then they should."
London was overwhelming from the moment they arrived. The hotel was impossibly posh—all marble floors and crystal chandeliers, their suite larger than Gracie's entire cottage with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Hyde Park. Aidan's publicist met them in the lobby, a brisk woman named Caroline with a sleek black bob and an iPad that seemed permanently attached to her hand. She ran through the schedule with military precision.
"Red carpet starts at six. We'll have a car pick you up at five-thirty. Aidan, you'll do the full press line—about twenty minutes of interviews. Gracie, you'll walk with him, but you don't have to stop for every interview unless you want to."
"I don't want to," Gracie said immediately, her voice coming out more panicked than she'd intended.
Caroline's expression softened slightly. "That's perfectly fine. Just smile, look beautiful, and stay close to Aidan. The photographers will want shots of you together." She glanced at Gracie's hands, which were already trembling slightly. "First premiere?"
"First everything," Gracie admitted. "I've never done anything remotely like this."
"You'll be fine. Aidan will take care of you." Caroline squeezed her shoulder briefly before turning back to her iPad. "Hair and makeup will be here at two. That gives you plenty of time."
The day of the premiere, Gracie spent three hours getting ready. The hair stylist—a cheerful woman named Siobhan—swept Gracie's dark hair into an elegant updo, leaving a few soft tendrils framing her face. The makeup artist worked with careful precision, creating a look that was dramatic but still felt like her: smoky eyes that made the green in her hazel eyes pop, a nude lip, subtle contouring that made her cheekbones look sharper than they actually were.
When they finally left her alone to get dressed, Gracie stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. She barely recognized the woman looking back—polished, glamorous, like someone who belonged at a premiere.
The dress hung on the back of the door, burgundy velvet that caught the light like water. She'd fallen in love with it the moment she'd tried it on—a fitted bodice, and that hit mid calf. The back was almost entirely open, dipping low enough to make her blush. It was the most expensive thing she'd ever worn, the most revealing, the most beautiful.
She slipped it on carefully, the fabric cool against her skin, and zipped it up with shaking hands. The dress fit like it had been made for her—which, technically, it had been after the alterations. It hugged her curves, made her waist look impossibly small, made her feel like someone else entirely.
Someone who belonged in Aidan's world.
"Gracie?" Aidan's voice came from the bedroom. "Can I come in?"
"Yeah."
The door opened, and Aidan stopped dead in the doorway. He was already dressed—a perfectly tailored midnight blue suit that was so dark it was almost black, with a crisp white shirt and no tie. The suit fit him like a dream, emphasizing his broad shoulders and lean frame. His hair was styled with just enough product to look effortlessly perfect, his beard trimmed close. He looked like he'd stepped out of a magazine—sophisticated, elegant, every inch the movie star.
"Jesus Christ," he breathed, his eyes traveling slowly from her face down to her feet and back up again. "Gracie, you look... I don't even have words. You're absolutely stunning."
"I feel like I'm playing dress-up," she admitted, smoothing her hands nervously over the silk. "Like I'm pretending to be someone I'm not."
"You're not." He crossed the room and came up behind her, his hands settling gently on her bare shoulders. In the mirror, they looked like they belonged together—like a couple who did this sort of thing all the time. "You're just letting the rest of the world see what I see every day. You're beautiful, Gracie. Always. But tonight... Christ, you're going to stop traffic."
She leaned back against him, drawing strength from his solid presence. "I'm terrified."
"I know. But I'll be right there with you. Every second." He pressed a kiss to her temple, careful not to mess up her makeup. "And if at any point it's too much, just squeeze my hand twice and we'll leave. I don't care about the premiere. I care about you."
The car ride to the Leicester Square Theatre felt far too short. Gracie sat rigid in the back of the black Mercedes, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles were white. She could hear the crowd before she could see it—a roar of voices, screams, the constant click and flash of cameras. It sounded like a living thing, wild and overwhelming.
"Hey." Aidan took her hand, his thumb stroking gently over her racing pulse. "Look at me."
She turned to face him, and his grey-blue eyes were steady, calm, anchoring.
"You can do this," he said firmly. "I know it's scary. I know this isn't your world. But you're not alone. I'm right here, and I'm not letting go of you. Okay?"
"Okay." She took a shaky breath, then another. "Okay. I can do this."
"That's my girl."
The car pulled up to the red carpet, and through the tinted windows, Gracie could see the chaos waiting for them. Barriers holding back screaming fans, photographers lined up three deep, massive cameras on tripods, reporters with microphones. The red carpet itself stretched out like a gauntlet, impossibly long, impossibly exposed.
Her heart was hammering so hard she thought she might be sick.
The door opened, and the noise hit her like a physical force—a wall of sound that made her ears ring. Cameras flashing like lightning, people screaming Aidan's name, photographers shouting instructions all at once.
"Aidan! Over here!"
"Aidan! This way!"
"Aidan! Who's your date?"
Aidan stepped out first, and the screams intensified. He turned immediately and offered her his hand, his expression warm and encouraging. Gracie took it and stepped out of the car on legs that felt like water.
The cameras went absolutely insane.
Flashes everywhere, blinding, disorienting. She couldn't see properly, couldn't think. The noise was deafening—fans screaming, photographers shouting, the constant mechanical click-click-click of camera shutters. It was sensory overload, too much, too bright, too loud.
Aidan's hand tightened around hers, steady and grounding. "Breathe," he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear. "You're doing great."
He guided her down the carpet toward the first photo area—a backdrop covered in the show's logo and sponsor names. Photographers were packed in front of it, jostling for position, all shouting at once.
"Aidan! Look here!"
"To your left!"
"Big smiles!"
"Who's the girl?"
Aidan's arm came around her waist, pulling her close against his side, and suddenly Gracie could breathe again. His hand was warm and solid on her hip, his body a shield against the chaos. She could feel his heartbeat, steady and calm, and she tried to match her breathing to it.
"Just look at the cameras and smile," he said softly, his lips barely moving. "You're doing perfect."
They posed together, Aidan's arm never leaving her waist. Gracie tried to smile naturally even though her face felt frozen, even though the flashes were so bright she was seeing spots. The photographers kept shouting—turn this way, look here, over your shoulder, big smiles—and Aidan moved them smoothly through each pose, his hand on her waist keeping her grounded through it all.
"Beautiful! Perfect!"
"Aidan, give us a kiss!"
Aidan glanced at her, a question in his eyes, and Gracie nodded slightly. He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to her lips, and the cameras went wild, the flashes intensifying until Gracie had to close her eyes against the brightness.
After what felt like an eternity but was probably only two minutes, Aidan guided her away from the photo area toward the press line. Reporters waited behind a barrier, microphones extended, cameras rolling.
"Stay close," Aidan murmured. "I'll do the talking. You don't have to say anything if you don't want to."
"Okay."
He stopped at the first reporter—a woman from Entertainment Tonight with perfectly styled blonde hair and a bright smile. A cameraman stood behind her, red light blinking on his camera.
"Aidan! So wonderful to see you. Are you excited for tonight?"
"Very excited," Aidan said easily, his media persona sliding into place like a well-worn coat. "It's been an incredible journey with this show, and I'm thrilled to share this season with everyone."
"The fans are absolutely excited for this season. Your performance as Littlefinger has been phenomenal."
"Thank you. It's been a dream role."
The reporter's eyes slid to Gracie, curiosity bright in her expression. "And who is this beautiful woman with you tonight?"
Aidan's hand found Gracie's, his fingers lacing through hers, and he gently pulled her forward into the frame. His arm came around her waist again, and when he looked at her, his expression was soft and proud and full of love.
"This is Gracie Bennett, my girlfriend," he said, and there was such warmth in his voice that Gracie felt her chest tighten. "Gracie's an artist based in Ireland."
"Lovely to meet you, Gracie!" The reporter's smile was genuine. "How long have you two been together?"
Gracie's mouth was dry, her heart racing, but she managed to smile. "About eight months now."
"And is this your first premiere?"
"It is." Gracie's voice came out steadier than she felt. "It's quite overwhelming, but I'm excited to be here supporting Aidan."
"You're American originally?"
"Yes, from the States, but I've been living in Ireland for about a year now."
"And you're an artist? What kind of art do you do?"
"I'm a painter. Mostly landscapes, some portraiture."
"How wonderful!" The reporter beamed. "Well, you two look absolutely stunning together. Enjoy the evening!"
"Thank you," Aidan said, already guiding Gracie toward the next reporter.
They moved down the press line, stopping every few feet. Each time, Aidan would tell Gracie to stay close, then step forward to do the interview. She'd stand just to the side, trying to look comfortable and not at all like she wanted to run back to the car. But she found herself watching him, fascinated by how easily he handled it all—the questions, the cameras, the constant attention. He was charming and articulate, giving thoughtful answers while still keeping things light. He made it look effortless.
At the third interview, the reporter—a man from BBC—asked about the show's upcoming season. Aidan was in the middle of answering when he reached back without looking and found Gracie's hand, pulling her forward to stand beside him. His arm came around her waist again, that grounding touch that made the chaos feel manageable.
"Sorry," he said to the reporter with an easy smile. "I don't like her being too far away."
The reporter laughed. "Young love. It's beautiful. Gracie, what's it like dating one of Ireland's most beloved actors?"
Gracie felt herself blush, heat creeping up her neck. "It's... he's wonderful. I'm very lucky."
"She's the lucky one?" Aidan looked at her with such open affection that Gracie's blush deepened. "I'm the one who gets to come home to her every night."
He leaned in and kissed her cheek, soft and sweet, and Gracie heard the cameras clicking frantically around them. She wasn't used to this—the public affection, the cameras, being on display. In her normal life, she was private, quiet, content to fade into the background. This was the opposite of everything she was comfortable with.
But Aidan's hand was warm on her waist, and when she looked at him, she saw only love and pride. He wasn't embarrassed by her or trying to hide her. He wanted the world to know she was his.
They continued down the press line. More questions about how they met (Aidan told a charming, edited version that left out the part where she'd run away to New Orleans), about her art (she mentioned her recent show at the Serpentine Gallery, which seemed to impress people), about their plans for the future (Aidan deflected smoothly, saying they were taking things one day at a time).
By the time they reached the end of the press line, Gracie's face hurt from smiling and her feet were killing her in the strappy silver heels Al had insisted she buy. But she'd done it. She'd survived the red carpet.
Inside the theater, away from the cameras and crowds and constant noise, she could finally breathe properly. The lobby was elegant and relatively quiet, with only cast and crew and select press allowed inside.
"You were perfect," Aidan murmured, pulling her into a quiet corner and pressing a kiss to her temple. "Absolutely perfect. I'm so proud of you."
"That was insane," Gracie said, her voice shaking slightly now that the adrenaline was wearing off. "How do you do that all the time?"
"You get used to it. Sort of." He studied her face carefully, his hands coming up to cup her cheeks. "Are you okay? Really?"
Gracie considered the question. Was she okay? She'd just been photographed by hundreds of cameras, interviewed on camera, thrust into a spotlight she'd never wanted. Tomorrow, her face would be all over the internet, in tabloids, on gossip sites. People would have opinions about her, about them, about whether she was good enough for him. They'd analyze her dress, her hair, her body, her background. They'd dig into her past, about her running away to Ireland. Her privacy was gone, just like that.
It was terrifying.
But Aidan's hands were warm on her face, and when she looked at him, she saw only love and pride and certainty. He wasn't ashamed of her. He wasn't trying to hide her or keep her separate from this part of his life. He'd introduced her as his girlfriend with such warmth, such obvious affection, that it had made her chest ache.
"I'm okay," she said, and meant it. "I'm with you. So I'm okay."
His smile was brilliant, relieved. "We should probably head in. The screening's about to start."
The theater itself was beautiful—all red velvet seats and ornate gold trim. They found their seats in the middle section, surrounded by cast and crew. Gracie recognized faces from the show, people she'd watched on television now sitting just rows away.
The lights dimmed, and the episode began.
Gracie tried to focus on the screen, but she kept getting distracted by Aidan beside her. Watching him watch himself was strange—he seemed completely detached from his own performance, more interested in the technical aspects and how the scenes had been edited together. When his character appeared on screen—Lord Baelish in all his manipulative glory—Aidan's hand found hers in the darkness, his thumb stroking gently over her knuckles.
The episode was brilliant. Tense and dramatic, with Aidan's performance absolutely stunning. She'd seen him act before, of course, but seeing it on the big screen with perfect sound and surrounded by an audience that gasped and laughed at all the right moments made it feel different. More real. This was his world—this glittering, talented, impossibly glamorous world—and she was just a painter from Georgia who'd run away to Ireland to find herself.
When the episode ended, the theater erupted in applause. Aidan stood with the rest of the cast for a brief Q&A, answering questions about the season and his character with the same easy charm he'd shown on the red carpet. Gracie watched from her seat, admiring him, feeling proud and terrified in equal measure.
Could she really do this? Long-term? Be part of this world?
After the screening, they were ushered to the after-party at a glamorous venue in Soho—a converted warehouse space that had been transformed into something out of a magazine spread. The moment Gracie stepped inside, she was hit by a wall of sensation: the cacophony of voices layered over each other in a constant hum of conversation and laughter, the sharp clink of champagne flutes and ice against glass. The air was thick with competing perfumes—expensive, heady scents that mingled with the sweet smell of champagne and something earthier underneath, the old brick and concrete of the warehouse itself that no amount of renovation could quite erase.
Dramatic lighting cast everything in alternating pools of warm gold and cool blue, making the exposed brick walls look almost theatrical. Enormous arrangements of white flowers—orchids and roses, their scent adding another layer to the olfactory assault—stood on tall pedestals throughout the space. The crowd was dense, bodies pressed close together, all of them beautiful and polished and effortlessly sophisticated in their designer clothes.
Gracie felt immediately, viscerally out of place.
Her dress suddenly felt too tight, the velvet constricting around her ribs with each breath. The strapless cut meant she was hyperaware of her bare shoulders, her exposed collarbones, the way the fabric clung to her body. Her heels—which had felt manageable on the red carpet—were already starting to pinch, the balls of her feet aching against the unforgiving floor. She could feel sweat beginning to gather at the small of her back, at her hairline, despite the air conditioning that made goosebumps rise on her arms.
She accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter just to have something to do with her hands, but the flute felt fragile and expensive, like she might shatter it with the wrong grip. The champagne was cold and dry, the bubbles sharp against her tongue, but her mouth was so dry from nerves that it didn't help. She took another sip anyway, feeling the alcohol warm her chest, hoping it might ease the tight knot of anxiety lodged there.
Around her, people moved with easy confidence, air-kissing and laughing, their movements fluid and practiced. The women were all impossibly elegant—sleek updos and perfect makeup, designer dresses that probably cost more than Gracie's entire wardrobe, jewelry that caught the light with every gesture. The men were equally polished in their tailored suits, their expensive watches, their artfully tousled hair that probably took an hour to achieve. They all seemed to know each other, to speak the same language of casual sophistication that Gracie had never learned.
She noticed things. Small things. The way certain people commanded more space, how others orbited around them. The subtle hierarchies in who spoke to whom, who got interrupted, who got listened to. Inside jokes she didn't understand that made whole groups laugh. References to people and places and events she'd never heard of, delivered with the assumption that of course everyone knew what they meant.
This wasn't her world. She was a girl from Georgia who'd grown up in a small town, who'd spent her twenties broke and struggling, who'd run away to Ireland to paint in a cottage by the sea. She didn't know how to navigate rooms like this, didn't know the unspoken rules, didn't have the easy confidence that came from a lifetime of belonging.
"There you are!" A familiar voice cut through the noise, and Gracie turned to see Natalie making her way through the crowd, her husband Marcus right behind her. Natalie looked stunning in a black cocktail dress, her hair swept up elegantly, diamond earrings catching the light.
"Natalie!" Gracie felt some of her tension ease as Natalie pulled her into a warm hug. The embrace was brief but grounding—the soft fabric of Natalie's dress against her bare arms, the familiar scent of her perfume, something floral and light.
"You too! You look absolutely gorgeous. That dress is incredible." Natalie stepped back, beaming, her hands warm on Gracie's arms.
They chatted for a few minutes—Natalie asking about Gracie's art, Marcus telling a funny story about their own long-distance relationship when they'd first started dating. It was easy and comfortable, and Gracie felt herself relaxing slightly, her shoulders dropping from where they'd been hunched near her ears. But even as she laughed at Marcus's story, she was aware of the crowd pressing in around them, of having to lean in close to hear over the music and voices, of the way people kept glancing at her—curious, assessing.
"Come on," Natalie said, linking her arm through Gracie's. "Let me introduce you to some people. The cast is lovely, I promise."
Natalie's arm was solid and reassuring, but as she led Gracie through the crowd, Gracie felt every brush of fabric against her skin, every accidental bump of shoulders and elbows. The space was too warm now, too many bodies generating heat, and she could smell the mingled scents of perfume and cologne and champagne and sweat underneath it all. Her heels caught on the uneven floor, making her stumble slightly, and she gripped her champagne glass tighter, terrified of spilling it on someone's expensive dress.
She met cast members—beautiful people with perfect smiles who complimented her dress and asked polite questions about her art. Everyone was kind, welcoming even, but Gracie still felt like an imposter. Like she was playing dress-up, pretending to be someone who belonged in this world of beautiful people and easy glamour. She kept catching glimpses of herself in the mirrors that lined the walls—this polished, glamorous woman in a burgundy velvet dress—and not quite recognizing who she saw. That couldn't be her. That woman looked like she belonged here.
But Gracie knew better. She could feel the fraud of it in every forced smile, every careful response, every moment of not quite understanding the reference or the joke. Her Southern accent felt too pronounced, too out of place among all these British and Irish voices. Her hands were sweating, making the champagne glass slippery in her grip.
"Ah, there's the man of the hour," a dry, amused voice said behind them.
Gracie turned to see an older man with sharp features and intelligent eyes approaching. He was wearing a perfectly tailored grey suit and had the kind of face that looked like it was made for delivering sarcastic commentary.
"Conleth!" Aidan's face lit up, and Gracie felt a rush of relief at his presence beside her again. "I was wondering where you'd gotten to."
"Avoiding the press, obviously. You know how I feel about interviews." Conleth's eyes slid to Gracie, curiosity evident but not unkind. "And who is this lovely creature you've been hiding?"
"Gracie, this is Conleth Hill—he plays Lord Varys on the show. Conleth, this is Gracie Sullivan, my girlfriend."
"Ah, the famous Gracie." Conleth took her hand—his grip was warm and dry, confident—and kissed it with exaggerated gallantry. "Aidan hasn't shut up about you for months. It's been absolutely nauseating."
"I have not—" Aidan started, but Conleth waved him off.
"Please. 'Gracie this, Gracie that, Gracie's so talented, Gracie's so beautiful.' I was beginning to think you'd made her up." He studied Gracie with those sharp eyes, and she felt seen in a way that was both uncomfortable and oddly reassuring. "But I see now that you were, if anything, understating the case. You're far too good for him, you know."
Gracie laughed, surprised, some of the tightness in her chest easing. "I think it's the other way around."
"Nonsense. Aidan's a decent actor and a passable human being, but you—you're an artist. A real one, from what I understand. That puts you several levels above us mere performers."
"I don't know about that," Gracie said, but she was smiling. There was something about Conleth's dry wit that was immediately appealing, something genuine beneath the performance.
"Oh, I do. We're just playing pretend, after all. You create something from nothing. That's actual magic." He turned to Aidan. "Don't fuck this up, Gillen. Women like this don't come along often."
"I'm aware," Aidan said, his arm coming around Gracie's waist, his hand warm and solid against the velvet at her hip. "Believe me, I'm aware."
They talked for a few more minutes—Conleth telling stories about on-set disasters and making Gracie laugh with his bone-dry delivery. She could see why he and Aidan got along. They had the same kind of humor, the same intelligence behind their eyes. But even as she laughed, she was aware of the party continuing around them, of the photographers still lurking at the edges with their long lenses, of being watched and assessed and judged.
As the night wore on, Gracie met more of the cast and crew. Everyone was kind, welcoming, but she couldn't shake the feeling that she was playing a part—pretending to be someone who belonged in this world. The champagne had made her slightly lightheaded, but it hadn't dulled the sharp edge of her anxiety. Her feet were killing her now, a constant throb of pain with each step. The velvet dress that had felt so elegant earlier now felt like a costume, something borrowed that she'd have to return. She kept tugging at it unconsciously, making sure it hadn't slipped, that she was still covered, still presentable.
She caught more glimpses of herself in those mirrors—flushed cheeks, slightly glassy eyes, hair that was starting to come loose from its careful styling. She looked tired. Out of place. Like a girl playing dress-up in her mother's clothes.
"You're doing great," Aidan whispered during a quiet moment, his hand finding the small of her bare back. His palm was warm against her skin, grounding, real. "I know this is a lot."
The touch helped. It reminded her why she was here, what mattered. But it also made her aware of how much she'd been holding herself together, how exhausted she was from the effort of it all.
"It is a lot," Gracie admitted, her voice barely audible over the music and conversation. She took another sip of champagne—her second glass now, or was it her third?—just to have something to do with her hands, to give herself a moment before she had to smile and nod and pretend again. "I keep waiting for someone to realize I don't belong here."
"You belong wherever you want to be." Aidan turned her to face him, his hands gentle on her waist, his thumbs stroking small circles through the velvet. The touch was intimate, possessive in a way that made her feel claimed and safe. "And if you want to be here, with me, then you belong. But if this isn't what you want—if this life is too much—I need you to tell me. Because you're more important than any of this."
Gracie looked around the party—really looked at it. The celebrities laughing and drinking, their faces familiar from screens and magazines. The photographers still lurking at the edges with their long lenses, waiting for the perfect shot, the perfect moment to capture and sell. The whole glittering world that was Aidan's normal, that he navigated with such ease while she felt like she was drowning.
Could she see herself in this? Long-term? Being photographed and scrutinized and always slightly on display? Attending premieres and parties, making small talk with famous people, having her every outfit and expression analyzed by strangers on the internet? Always feeling like she was one wrong word away from revealing herself as the fraud she felt like?
The honest answer was that she didn't know. She didn't know if she could do this, if she was strong enough, if she could learn to navigate this world without losing herself in it.
But she knew she loved him. She knew that what they had was real and deep and worth fighting for. She knew that when she looked at him—really looked at him, past the expensive suit and the celebrity and the cameras—she saw her future. Messy and complicated and uncertain, but hers. And maybe that was enough for now. Maybe love was enough to build on, even when everything else felt impossible.
"I'm here," she said simply, reaching up to cup his face, feeling the slight stubble on his jaw, the warmth of his skin. "I'm with you. That's what matters."
Aidan kissed her, soft and sweet, and Gracie heard the click of cameras but didn't care. Let them take pictures. Let the world see. She was his, and he was hers, and everything else was just noise.
Chapter 28: Coming Home
Explicit Sexual Content
The first few weeks after Croatia were surprisingly easy. Gracie had expected the separation to feel harder after those two perfect weeks together, but instead, she felt grounded. Certain.
They texted constantly—Aidan sending her photos from set, Gracie sharing progress shots of new paintings. Video calls became part of their evening routine, Aidan calling from his hotel room after long shooting days, still in his Littlefinger costume sometimes, making her laugh with behind-the-scenes stories.
"Natalie asked about you today," he said one evening, his face filling her laptop screen. "Wanted to know when you're coming back to visit."
"Tell her I'm working on something special," Gracie said, angling her phone to show him the canvas she'd been working on—a sweeping view of Dubrovnik's old town, all terracotta and turquoise, the light captured in that particular Croatian way.
"That's stunning, love." His voice was warm, proud. "You've been so productive."
She had been. The Croatia paintings were flowing out of her, each one a love letter to those two weeks. But she was also revisiting the New Orleans pieces, seeing them with fresh eyes, understanding now what they'd been trying to say about loss and finding yourself again.
"Máire wants to do another show," Gracie admitted. "Bigger this time. She's talking about a proper opening, press coverage, the whole thing."
"That's brilliant, Gracie. When?"
"Next month. If I can get enough pieces ready."
"You will." He said it with such certainty that she believed him.
The exhibition opening fell on a crisp summer evening, and Gracie arrived at the gallery an hour early, her stomach a knot of nerves and anticipation.
This was different from her first opening. That had been intimate, almost cozy—a handful of locals, some tourists. This was something else entirely. Máire had secured a larger gallery space in Dingle's arts district, with proper lighting and white walls that made the space feel both expansive and intimidating. There were programs printed on heavy cardstock, a guest list that included names Gracie recognized from Irish art publications, and—most terrifying of all—actual press.
"You're going to be brilliant," Máire said, appearing at her elbow with a glass of wine. "Here. Liquid courage."
Gracie took it gratefully, her hands trembling slightly. "What if no one comes? What if they come and hate everything? What if—"
"What if you take a breath and trust yourself?" Máire squeezed her shoulder. "Your work is extraordinary, Gracie. People are going to see that."
The gallery had been transformed. Gracie's paintings hung on the walls in careful arrangement—the New Orleans series on the left, dark and haunting and raw, the Croatia pieces on the right, all light and color and Mediterranean warmth. In the center, bridging the two, were her Ireland paintings: the cottage, the cliffs, the sea in all its moods.
It was her journey, laid bare for everyone to see.
By seven o'clock, people began to arrive. First a trickle, then a steady stream. Gracie positioned herself near the back, watching as the gallery filled with bodies and conversation. There were more people than she'd expected—easily fifty, maybe sixty. Some she recognized from around town, but many were strangers. Art collectors, Máire had said. Critics. People who actually knew what they were looking at.
The thought made Gracie's stomach clench.
She watched a middle-aged couple pause in front of her painting of the jazz club in New Orleans—all shadow and smoke and the suggestion of music you could almost hear. The woman leaned in close, studying the brushwork, while the man stood back, taking in the whole composition.
"The light is remarkable," the woman said to her companion. "See how she's captured the way smoke moves through stage lights?"
Gracie felt a flush of pride mixed with terror. They were talking about her work. Really looking at it, analyzing it, understanding what she'd been trying to do.
A photographer from the Irish Times approached, asking if he could take her photo in front of one of the paintings. Gracie agreed, feeling awkward and exposed as the flash went off. A blogger from a popular arts website asked her questions about her process, her influences, what had drawn her to Ireland.
"I came here to disappear," Gracie found herself saying. "But instead, I found myself. These paintings are that journey."
The blogger scribbled notes, nodding enthusiastically.
Around eight o'clock, Gracie noticed a woman in an elegant navy dress standing in front of the shotgun house painting—the one Gracie had painted of Rusty's house in New Orleans, where she'd woken up lost and terrified and so far from home. The woman stood there for a long time, not moving, just staring.
Finally, she turned and caught Gracie's eye. "Are you the artist?"
Gracie nodded, moving closer. "I am. Gracie Sullivan."
"This painting," the woman said, gesturing to the canvas. "It's devastating. In the best possible way." She had kind eyes, crow's feet at the corners. "I grew up in New Orleans. Left twenty years ago and haven't been back. But this... this is exactly how I remember it. That particular quality of light, the way the houses seem to lean into each other like they're sharing secrets."
Gracie felt her throat tighten. "Thank you. That means more than you know."
"I'd like to purchase it," the woman said. "If it's available."
"It is." Gracie could barely get the words out. Her first sale of the evening, and it was this painting—the one that represented her lowest point, her darkest moment. And this woman saw beauty in it.
Máire appeared with a red dot sticker, placing it discreetly next to the painting's title card. Sold.
Gracie excused herself, needing a moment. She found a quiet corner near the back of the gallery, pressing her hand to her chest, trying to steady her breathing. Someone had bought her painting. Someone had connected with it so deeply they wanted to take it home, to live with it, to let it become part of their life.
"You alright?" Máire asked, appearing beside her.
"Yeah. Just... overwhelmed. In a good way."
"Well, brace yourself. Because that gentleman over there is asking about the Dubrovnik piece. The one with the old town at sunset."
Gracie looked over to see a distinguished older man in a well-cut suit studying the painting she'd done from the city walls—all terracotta roofs and turquoise water, the light golden and warm, the way it had been that perfect afternoon with Aidan.
She made her way over, and the man turned to her with a smile. "Ms. Sullivan? Patrick Brennan. I'm a collector, primarily contemporary Irish artists." He gestured to the painting. "This is exceptional work. The way you've captured the light—it's not just technically proficient, it's emotionally resonant. I can feel the warmth, the joy in this piece."
"Thank you," Gracie managed. "I painted it from memory, actually. From a trip earlier this year."
"It shows. There's an intimacy to it. A personal connection." He paused. "I'd like to purchase this one. And I'd also be interested in seeing more of your work, if you have other pieces available."
Another sale. Gracie felt dizzy with it.
By nine o'clock, she'd sold six paintings. Six. Each one marked with a small red dot, each one representing someone who'd connected with her work deeply enough to want to own it. The cemetery painting from New Orleans went to a young couple who said it reminded them of their honeymoon. One of the Ireland seascapes sold to a local doctor who'd been following her work since her first show. A painting of the Croatian coastline went to a gallery owner from Cork who said she'd love to feature Gracie in a group show next spring.
Máire was practically vibrating with excitement. "Do you understand what this means? Six sales, Gracie. And we still have an hour left."
But it wasn't just about the sales. It was about the conversations. The woman who stood in front of Gracie's painting of the cottage and said it made her think of her grandmother's house in Kerry. The young artist who asked about her technique, her process, looking at Gracie like she was someone worth learning from. The elderly man who stood in front of the New Orleans jazz club painting for fifteen minutes, tears in his eyes, before finally walking away without saying a word.
Her work was touching people. Moving them. Making them feel something. That was worth more than any sale.
By ten o'clock, the crowd had thinned. Gracie's feet ached in her heels, and she felt wrung out, emotionally exhausted in the best possible way. She'd sold nine paintings total—nine—and had interest from a Dublin gallery about a potential show in the spring.
"I told you," Máire said, pulling her into a hug. "I told you that you had something special."
Gracie hugged her back, feeling tears prick her eyes. "Thank you. For believing in me. For making this happen."
"You made this happen, love. I just gave you the space to do it."
After Máire left to lock up, Gracie stood alone in the gallery for a moment, looking at the paintings that remained. The ones that hadn't sold yet. They were still beautiful. Still meaningful. Still hers.
She thought about the woman who'd bought the shotgun house painting. About Patrick Brennan and his kind words about emotional resonance. About all the people who'd stopped and looked and really seen what she was trying to say. She was an artist. A real artist. People wanted her work. The thought was terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure.
Gracie drove home in a daze, her mind replaying moments from the evening. By the time she got back to the cottage, it was nearly eleven, and she was exhausted—the kind of bone-deep tiredness that came from being "on" for hours, from smiling and talking and being vulnerable in front of strangers. But she was also too wired to sleep.
She kicked off her heels, poured herself a glass of wine, and curled up on her couch. Then, unable to wait any longer, she called Aidan.
He answered on the second ring, his face filling her screen. He was in his trailer, still in costume—or at least partially. The Littlefinger costume was gone, but his hair was still styled in that severe clean way.
"There she is," he said, his smile immediate and warm. "How did it go? Tell me everything."
"Nine paintings," Gracie said, and even saying it out loud felt surreal. "I sold nine paintings, Aidan."
His face lit up. "Nine? Gracie, that's incredible! That's—Christ, I'm so proud of you." He leaned closer to the camera. "Tell me about them. Which ones sold?"
"The shotgun house from New Orleans," Gracie said, feeling herself smile. "This woman bought it—she grew up in New Orleans, and she said it reminded her of home. She stood in front of it for so long, just looking, and then she told me it was devastating in the best possible way."
"That's beautiful," Aidan said softly. "That painting deserved someone who understood it."
"And the Dubrovnik sunset piece. The one I painted from the city walls, remember? That afternoon when we—"
"When we sat there for two hours and you kept saying the light was perfect," Aidan finished, grinning. "I remember. Who bought it?"
"A collector. Patrick Brennan. He said it was emotionally resonant." Gracie felt herself blushing. "He wants to see more of my work."
"Of course he does. Because you're brilliant." Aidan's voice was full of pride and love. "What else? Tell me about all of them."
So she did. She told him about the cemetery painting, about the couple on their honeymoon. About the seascape that sold to the local doctor. About the Croatian coastline piece and the gallery owner from Cork who wanted to feature her in a group show.
"And there was this moment," Gracie said, her voice getting quieter. "This elderly man stood in front of the jazz club painting for fifteen minutes. He didn't say anything, didn't buy it, just stood there with tears in his eyes. And I realized... it doesn't matter if he bought it or not. I made him feel something. That's what matters."
Aidan's expression softened. "That's everything, love. That's what art is supposed to do."
"I wish you could have been there," Gracie said, and she meant it. "I kept looking around, wanting to share moments with you. Like when the Irish Times photographer took my picture, I felt so awkward, and I just wanted you there to make me laugh."
"I wish I could have been there too," Aidan said, and she could hear the regret in his voice. "God, Gracie, I hate that I missed this. Your big night, and I'm stuck in bloody Croatia."
"You're working. It's okay."
"It's not okay. I should have been there." He ran a hand through his hair, messing up the careful styling. "But I'm so fucking proud of you. You know that, right? You took a chance, put yourself out there, and look what happened. Nine paintings, Gracie. And interest from Dublin."
"Máire thinks the Dublin show could be big. Like, really big."
"It will be. Because you're talented and hardworking and your art deserves to be seen." He paused. "How are you feeling? Really?"
Gracie considered the question. "Exhausted. Overwhelmed. Terrified. Proud. All of it at once."
"That sounds about right." His smile was gentle. "You should be proud. This is huge, love."
"I couldn't have done it without you," Gracie said quietly. "Without your support, your encouragement. You believed in me when I didn't believe in myself."
"You would have done it anyway. Maybe it would have taken longer, but you would have gotten here. This talent, this drive—it's all you, Gracie."
"Still. Thank you. For everything."
They were quiet for a moment, just looking at each other through the screen. Gracie wished she could reach through and touch him, feel his arms around her, his solid presence grounding her.
"How much longer?" she asked, not for the first time.
"Two weeks. Maybe three. We're almost done with principal photography, then just some pickup shots." He paused, his eyes intense even through the pixelated screen. "I can't wait to come home, Gracie. I can't wait to just... be with you. Without an ocean between us. To wake up next to you every morning and fall asleep with you every night. To be there for moments like this."
"Me neither," Gracie said, her voice thick with emotion. "I miss you so much it hurts sometimes."
"I know. I feel the same way." He smiled, but it was tinged with sadness. "But we're almost there. Just a few more weeks, and then I'm coming home and I'm not leaving for a long time. We'll have all the time in the world."
"Promise?"
"Promise." His voice was firm, certain. "I love you, Gracie. So much. And I'm so incredibly proud of you."
"I love you too."
They talked for another twenty minutes—about his day on set, about the terrible craft services food, about how one of the other actors had forgotten their lines six times in a row. Normal things, mundane things, the kind of conversation that made the distance feel a little less vast.
When they finally hung up, Gracie sat in the quiet of her cottage, staring at her phone. Nine paintings sold. Interest from Dublin. A man she loved who believed in her completely. She curled up on her couch, suddenly exhausted, and let herself feel it all—the pride, the fear, the overwhelming gratitude for this life she was building.
"Me too." She curled up on her couch, pulling a blanket over herself. "Get some sleep. You have an early call tomorrow."
"You too. Congratulations again, love. You deserve all of this and more."
After they hung up, Gracie sat in the quiet darkness, the adrenaline of the evening finally fading. Her body ached with tiredness, but her mind was still racing, replaying moments from the night.
Nine paintings. Nine people who'd connected with her work deeply enough to want to own it.
She thought about Aidan's words: You're talented and hardworking and your art deserves to be seen. Maybe he was right. Maybe she did deserve this. Maybe she was finally becoming the person she was always meant to be.
Two weeks later, Aidan knocked on her cottage door at seven in the morning, looking rumpled and jet-lagged and absolutely perfect.
Gracie launched herself at him, and he caught her, lifting her off her feet, his face buried in her hair. "You're here," she breathed. "You're actually here."
"I'm here." He set her down but didn't let go, his hands framing her face. "And I'm not leaving. Not for a long time."
The following weekend, they started packing up her cottage. Not all of it—she'd keep her paint supplies here, her easels and canvases, the north-facing light that made the space perfect for working. And the kitchen would stay stocked for when she needed to escape here to create. But everything else, all the pieces of her life that could travel, would come with her to Aidan's house.
Their house, she corrected herself, still getting used to the idea.
"What about this?" Aidan held up a battered copy of Wuthering Heights, its spine cracked and pages dog-eared, a huge brown coffee stain discoloring most f the pages.
"That was my favorite when i was in art school," Gracie said softly, taking it from him. He handled it like it was made of glass, passing it over with both hands. "I suppose it is a bit damaged, perhaps I should throw it away."
Aidan pressed a kiss to her temple. "No, it's Definitely coming with us, then."
They worked through the afternoon, filling boxes with her clothes, books, the vintage records she'd collected over the years. Aidan found her sketchbooks stacked in the closet—years and years of them, dating back to high school.
"Can I look?" he asked, and she nodded, watching as he carefully flipped through the pages. He paused on a sketch of his eyes, done from memory months ago, before Croatia. "You've been drawing me for a while."
"I couldn't help it," she admitted. "You have very drawable eyes."
He grinned and kept flipping, finding more—his hands, his profile, the curve of his smile. "I'm flattered. And slightly concerned about how much you were thinking about me."
"Shut up." She threw a throw pillow at him, which he caught easily, laughing.
In the bedroom, they debated what furniture to bring. The bed was hers, but Aidan's was bigger. The dresser was an antique she'd restored herself, and he insisted it would look perfect in their bedroom. Their bedroom. The words still sent a thrill through her.
"What about this?" She held up a small watercolor she'd done years ago—a simple landscape of the cliffs at sunset.
"That's beautiful. Why isn't it hanging up?"
"I never thought it was good enough."
Aidan took it from her, studying it with the same careful attention he gave everything she created. "It's going on our wall. You get to decide where, but it's going up."
By evening, her cottage looked strange—emptier but not empty. Her art supplies still claimed the main room, her paints and brushes organized on the shelves, blank canvases stacked against the wall. The kitchen still had her mismatched mugs and the tea kettle that whistled too loud. It was still hers, still her sanctuary, but now it was just her studio. Her home was somewhere else.
Her home was with him.
It felt domestic. Real. Like they were building something that could last.
"I could get used to this," Gracie said one evening, her feet in his lap as they sat on his back patio, watching the sun set over the water.
"Good." Aidan's hand traced lazy circles on her ankle. "Because I'm not planning on going anywhere for a while."
"What about work?"
"I'm being selective. Only projects I really care about, and nothing that requires months away." He looked at her, his expression serious. "I meant what I said, Gracie. You're my priority."
She leaned over and kissed him, tasting wine and contentment.
________________________________________________________
Three weeks later, they stood on the dock at Carrick-on-Shannon, Aidan's hand warm in hers as they approached the vessel, the morning mist still clinging to the water's surface, the Shannon stretched out before them. The boat Aidan had arranged was a traditional river cruiser, all polished wood and brass fittings, with a small cabin below deck and an open helm above, its name—Wanderlust—stenciled in elegant copper letters along the bow. The gentle sway of the yacht, a rhythmic lullaby against the lapping waters of the River Shannon, was the first thing Gracie truly registered. It was a sensation she’d quickly grown accustomed to, a subtle rocking that promised adventure and tranquility in equal measure.
"Remember when I promised you this?" Aidan said, "Back in Croatia?"
"I remember thinking it sounded like a dream," Gracie admitted, taking in the gentle lap of water against the hull.
"Well, dreams do come true." He grinned and stepped aboard first, then helped her across. "Welcome aboard, Ms. Sullivan."
They spent the first half-hour getting oriented—Aidan reviewing the controls with the rental company representative, on the fly bridge, a glass‑capped perch that crowns the yacht like a modern lighthouse. While Gracie explored the cozy cabin with its tiny galley and surprisingly comfortable berth. Gracie and Aidan were bringing the luggage and crates on board preparing for the journey down the river. a battered canvas duffel sat next to a series of neatly taped cardboard boxes stand like miniature cargo ships: one labeled “Fresh Produce,” another “Wine & Cheese,” and a third, whimsically, “Emergency Snack Stash.”
Above deck, Aidan’s deep voice carried on the breeze, punctuated by the thump of luggage and the rustle of provisions being stowed. “Okay, love, we’ve got the essentials,” he calls down, his voice a warm baritone that carries a hint of mischief. “If we get lost, we’ll have enough cheese to barter with."
Gracie, already ensconced in the surprisingly spacious cabin below, chuckled softly. She had just stretched out on the bed, a plush island of comfort that dominated the room, its crisp white linens an inviting canvas. The wood-paneled walls, gleaming softly in the filtered sunlight, whispered of classic elegance. This wasn't just a boat; it was a floating sanctuary, a bespoke escape. She closed her eyes, letting the yacht’s gentle motion cradle her. She thinks back to the first time she’d ever set foot on a vessel—one of those cramped, oar‑powered rowboats that bobbed like a child's toy on a quiet lake. The memory flickers: the splash of the oars, the rhythm of the water, the laughter of friends. Yet today, here on a sleek yacht gliding down the Shannon, it feels as if she’s been handed a new chapter, the pages still pristine and waiting to be filled.
Aidan looked ridiculously handsome at the helm, wearing a navy captain's hat he'd produced from somewhere, one hand on the wheel as he guided them into the current. The wind ruffled his hair beneath the cap, and his eyes were bright with boyish pleasure.
"You're enjoying this far too much," Gracie called up to him from where she'd settled on the deck with her sketchbook.
"I'm the captain now," he said with mock seriousness. "You have to call me Captain."
"Absolutely not."
"Mutiny already. We haven't even reached Lough Ree."
But Gracie was already sketching, her pencil moving quickly across the page—capturing the line of his shoulders, the way he stood with easy confidence, the wine glass he'd set beside the helm (they'd agreed it was five o'clock somewhere). The captain's hat tilted at just the right angle. Behind him, the Irish countryside rolled past in shades of emerald and gold, ancient ruins dotting the shoreline, cattle grazing in fields that seemed to stretch forever.
This was Ireland as she'd always imagined it. Wild and beautiful and utterly peaceful.
They anchored for lunch in a quiet cove, the only sound the cry of waterfowl and the gentle creak of the boat. Aidan had packed a picnic—crusty bread, sharp cheddar, strawberries, and a couple of bottles of wine they had no intention of finishing responsibly.
"To us," he said, raising his glass. "And to being completely unreachable."
"To being unreachable," Gracie echoed, and they drank as the sun warmed their faces.
The River Shannon stretched out before them, a shimmering ribbon of silver under the Irish sun. They had been sailing for two days, and Gracie had grown to love the gentle rock of the boat and the warmth of the sun on her skin. The “Wanderlust” had lived up to its name. Aidan, ever the orchestrator of perfect moments, had outdone himself. The River Shannon, had been a revelation. And the weather… oh, the weather! A glorious Irish summer, defying all expectations, had bathed their journey in golden sunshine. Gracie was determined to soak up every last ray.
Slipping out of her shorts and tank top, she reached for the small white bikini she’d packed specifically for days like this. The fabric, soft and minimalist, was a second skin. As she tied the strings into tiny knots, she caught a glimpse of herself in the miroor – a confident, sun-kissed woman, ready for whatever delights the Wanderlust and its captain had in store.
With a towel draped over her arm, she padded barefoot up the steps to the main deck. Aidan, perched regally in the captain's chair on the flybridge, was expertly navigating a gentle curve in the river, his hands resting lightly on the wheel. The sun glinted off his dark sunglasses, and the faint scent of the river and his cologne mingled in the air.
Gracie made her way to the bow, the teak deck warm beneath her feet. She spread her towel carefully, arranging it just so, her movements fluid and unhurried. As she bent to smooth out a crease, a low, appreciative whistle cut through the air.
“Well, hello there, sunshine,” Aidan’s voice drifted down from above, rich with amusement and something deeper. “Didn’t realize we had a goddess gracing our bow.”
Gracie straightened, a slow smile spreading across her face. She looked up at him, shaking her head playfully. “Just trying to make the most of this glorious Irish summer, Captain.”
“And succeeding admirably, I might add,” he chuckled, and flashed a boyish grin from the captain's chair, his strong hands steady on the wheel, but his gaze roved over her with an intensity that promised more than just admiration. “Don’t forget the SPF, my love. You’re already looking rather… radiant.”
“Never fear,” she called back, settling onto her towel, adjusting her sunglasses. “I’m a pro.” the sun's golden rays kissing her skin as she stretched out on her stomach, propping herself up on her elbows to glance back at Aidan with a playful glint in her eyes, but all she could focus on was the way his appreciative whistle lingered in the air, stirring a flutter of excitement in her chest.
The gentle rocking of the boat, the warmth of the sun on her skin, the distant murmur of the river – it was all too perfect. Gracie drifted, her thoughts as lazy as the clouds scudding across the impossibly blue sky. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but the combination of peace and warmth was irresistible. Gracie stirred from her hazy slumber, as Aidan's gentle shake on her arm pulled her back to awareness. She blinked up at him, his eyes laced with concern that only deepened the warmth pooling in her chest. "Gracie? Love? Time to come in, I think," he murmured, his voice a soft Irish lilt that was tinged with concern, his hand lingering on her shoulder just a moment longer than necessary. She turned onto her side, wincing at the sting, the fabric of her bikini scraping against tender, inflamed skin. “Hmm? What time is it?”
“Late afternoon. And you, my dear, are looking a little lobster-esque,” he said, his fingers lightly tracing a line on her shoulder. “You’ve caught a bit too much sun. Let’s get you inside and slathered in some aloe.”
Nodding weakly, she pushed herself up, “Alright, Captain. Your orders are my command.” She gathered her towel, her bare feet padding across the warm deck as she followed him down the narrow stairs into the main cabin, the cooler air a welcome relief. As Aidan was in the small bathroom looking for the aloe gel, Gracie was standing in front of the big bed, the urge to shed her sun-baked bikini was immediate. She reached behind her and began to untie the top knot.
Just as the knot came undone and the white fabric began to loosen, Aidan appeared in the doorway, a bottle of cool, green aloe vera gel in his hand.
“Need a hand with that?” he asked, his voice a low rumble, a hint of something more than just helpfulness in his tone. His eyes, dark and knowing, swept over her bare back, the pale strap marks contrasting with the deepening flush of her skin.
Gracie paused, the bikini top still half-on, half-off. A shiver, not entirely from the chill of the cabin, ran down her spine. Gracie turned to look at him, her eyes flicking down to the bottle of aloe in his hand. She bit her lip, a playful smile on her face. “Actually, yes,” she admitted, a little breathless. “My shoulders are a bit… tender.”
She let the top fall to the floor, exposing her back, already a rosy canvas. “Don’t be too rough, though. I think I’m officially a bit crispy.” Gracie sank onto the bed, lying on her stomach, as Aidan straddles her legs. The cool sheets felt heavenly against her heated skin. She rested her chin on her folded arms, her bikini bottoms still clinging to her hips.
Aidan’s gaze softened, a flash of tenderness in his eyes. He stepped closer, the cool bottle of aloe a stark contrast to the heat radiating from her skin. “Never rough with my Gracie, not when you’re delicate.” He uncapped the bottle, squeezing a generous dollop into his palm. He rubbed his hands together, warming the gel slightly, the smooth scent of aloe filling the air. He started to rub it onto Gracie's inflamed back, starting at the nape of her neck and working downward in slow, gentle circles. She jolted at the initial contact, a sharp gasp escaping her lips, the aloe cold against her sunburned skin.
"Sorry, love," Aidan murmured, his voice full of concern. "Did I hurt you?"
Gracie shook her head, her dark hair fanning out on the pillow. "No, it's just colder than I expected," she said, her voice breathy.
“Sorry, darling. It’s a bit of a shock to the system,” he murmured, his fingers already working their magic. He began to spread the soothing gel across her shoulders, down her spine, his touch firm yet incredibly gentle. The initial cold faded, replaced by a delicious, cooling sensation.
His hands moved in slow, deliberate circles, easing the tightness in her sun-kissed skin. The scent of aloe, fresh and clean, mingled with the faint aroma of the river and Aidan’s own intoxicating musk. Gracie felt herself relaxing, the tension in her shoulders melting under his skilled touch. But it wasn't just relaxation. There was a deeper current stirring within her, a delicious warmth unfurling low in her belly. His thumbs traced the taut muscles along her spine, easing the burn while igniting something far more primal within her; the rhythmic pressure of his hands coaxed a flush of heat between her legs, her body arching subtly in response, craving more of that intimate friction.
She closed her eyes, savoring the sensation, every stroke of his hands sending shivers of pleasure through her. His fingers kneaded the small of her back, tracing the curve of her spine, each movement more intimate than the last. Her breathing deepened, a soft sigh escaping her lips.
Then, his hands slipped lower, his fingers brushing against the top of her bikini bottoms. She gasped, her body arching towards him. his fingers grazed the elastic of her bikini bottoms, then dipped just beneath, brushing the sensitive skin of her upper buttcheek.
Gracie gasped, a sharp intake of breath. Her hips involuntarily shifted, pressing back into his hand, as her nipples harden against the bedsheets The air in the cabin suddenly felt thick, charged with unspoken desire. She felt his weight shift, his hips pressing lightly against her thighs as he straddled her, as Aidan leaned over her, his warm breath tickling the shell of her ear. The soft fabric of his linen shirt brushed against her tender, exposed back, a delicious friction. “Mmm, you taste like summer,” he whispered, his voice husky, sending a tremor through her. He lowered his head, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the delicate curve where her shoulder met her neck.
Gracie’s breath hitched. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat. Her body hummed, alive with a raw, undeniable craving. She pushed her hips back again, the pressure of her ass grinding subtly against the burgeoning hardness she could now feel against her, a silent plea for more. Aidan responded by hooking his fingers into the waistband of her bottoms, sliding them down slowly over her curves, revealing the smooth expanse of her bare skin and the glistening evidence of her excitement. A soft sigh escaped Gracie’s lips, a sound of surrender and anticipation.
He moved quickly then, one hand gripping her hip, pulling her up, repositioning her so she was on all fours, her palms flat against the soft mattress. The new angle, the vulnerability of her position, sent a fresh wave of heat through her.
Aidan slipped off the bed for a moment, hastily undo the buttons of his shorts, shoving them down with a sense of urgency that mirrored the throbbing need in his groin. Gracie heard the soft thud of fabric hitting the floor, then felt the bed dip as he rejoined her. His cock hard and insistent, brushing against the slick folds of her pussy as he positioned himself behind her, the tip teasing her entrance with a tantalizing pressure. Gracie gasped at the contact, her body trembling with anticipation, and she pushed back against him, her inner walls clenching in eager invitation.
He leaned in again,his bare chest warm against her back, his lips brushing her ear. “You’re so beautiful, Gracie,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire.
Then, He entered her, welcoming heat that enveloped him, his hands gripping her hips to steady them both as the yacht's gentle sway amplified every thrust. The friction was exquisite, a blend of raw intensity and profound connection, each movement drawing moans from deep within her throat that echoed off the cabin walls. Aidan's own breaths came in ragged bursts, his lips finding the nape of her neck as he whispered endearments in his lilting Irish accent, words of desire and devotion that wove through the haze of their passion.
It wasn’t a gentle lovemaking. After watching her sunbathe in that tiny white bikini, after the exquisite torture of rubbing cool aloe on her burning skin, feeling the delicate curve of her spine and the soft swell of her bottom, Aidan’s control had fractured. His grip on her hips was tight, almost bruising, as he pushed into her, a deep thrust that stole her breath.
Gracie cried out, a mixture of pain and pleasure, her body arching into his. He pounded into her, his rhythm fast and rough, the bed rocking violently with their movements. She moaned louder, her voice raw, trying to match his furious pace, her body a willing receiver to his powerful thrusts.
Her arms, straining to hold her up, began to tremble violently. The intensity was overwhelming, pushing her to her limits. Finally, with a guttural cry, her arms gave way. She collapsed forward, her face pressing into the soft mattress, her hands gripping the sheets tightly, knuckles white.
The new angle, her hips now tilted higher, deeper, made Aidan’s cock hit a soft, spongy spot inside her, a place she didn't even know existed. A blinding white light exploded behind her eyes, a silent scream tearing through her, her mouth open, a small puddle of drool forming beneath her lips. It was too much, yet not enough.
With every thrust, Aidan delved deeper into Gracie's welcoming heat, his cock gliding smoothly through her slick folds, the friction igniting sparks that raced along her nerves like wildfire. She met his rhythm with urgent rolls of her hips, her inner walls clenching around him in a vice of ecstasy that made his grip on her hips tighten possessively. Beads of sweat trickled down Aidan's back, mingling with the faint salt of the air, while Gracie's moans filled the cabin, raw and unrestrained, each one a testament to the overwhelming pleasure building within her.
Aidan’s rhythm became chaotic, desperate, his own climax surging closer. He was breathing in harsh, ragged gasps against her ear, his body shuddering with effort.
“Cum for me, Gracie,” he rasped, his voice raw with urgency, a primal command that reverberated through her very core.
And then, with a sharp, stinging slap to her ass, Gracie shattered. Gracie's body tensed, her fingers twisting the sheets as a wave of release crashed over her, her pussy pulsing rhythmically around Aidan's throbbing cock, milking his cock with an intensity that pulled a choked groan from his throat. She squeezed him tight, tighter, riding the wave of her own shattering climax as his hot cum pulsed deep inside her, filling her completely. The intensity of their shared climax left them both shuddering, the air thick with the heady scent of their coupling—musk and salt and the lingering trace of aloe from earlier. Aidan held her close, his chest pressed against her back, their bodies still joined in the quiet aftermath.
Yet as they lay there, tangled in the rumpled sheets, Gracie became acutely aware of the rough brush of Aidan's chest hair against her sensitive skin, reigniting the sting of her sunburn. She winced, trying to shift away from the irritation, but his arm tightened around her waist, holding her in place. "Aidan," she whined softly, her voice laced with a playful edge despite the discomfort, "your chest hair's rubbing my burn—it's like sandpaper on fire." He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through her, and loosened his hold just enough to let her turn in his arms.
His eyes met hers, amusement dancing in their depths as he traced a gentle finger along her reddened shoulder. "Ah, my poor adventurer," he teased, his accent wrapping around the words like a warm embrace, "how will you manage the rest of our journey down the river, all scorched and delicate? We'll have to find ways to soothe you... perhaps more of this." His gaze held a promise of tender care mixed with lingering desire, pulling her back into the orbit of their connection.
That evening, they anchored near Clonmacnoise, the medieval monastery ruins silhouetted against the sunset. Gracie stood at the bow with Aidan behind her, his arms wrapped around her waist, and watched the sky turn from gold to pink to deep purple.
"Thank you for this," she said quietly. "For remembering. For making it happen."
"Always," he murmured against her hair. "Anything that makes you smile like this—I'll make it happen."
They stayed on the river for three more days, drifting south through locks and past villages, drinking wine and making love and sketching and talking about everything and nothing. Gracie filled an entire sketchbook with drawings of Aidan at the helm, of the passing landscape, of the play of light on water.
"We should do this every year," Aidan said as they tied up at the dock, the lights of the town twinkling in the gathering dusk.
"Every year," Gracie agreed, and kissed him as the Shannon flowed on behind them, ancient and patient and eternal.
Chapter 27: Croatia Interlude
Gracie woke to the sound of Aidan moving quietly through the hotel suite trying not to disturb her. She kept her eyes closed, listening to the familiar morning sounds—the coffee maker gurgling to life, the soft rustle of him gathering his things, the creak of the floorboards near the bed.
"I know you're awake," he said softly, and she felt the mattress dip as he sat beside her.
She opened her eyes to find him already dressed, his hair still damp from the shower. He smelled like soap and that cologne she'd come to associate with early mornings and reluctant goodbyes.
"What time is it?" she murmured.
"Just after six. I have to be on set by seven." He brushed a strand of hair from her face. "There's coffee made. And I left my credit card on the counter for anything you need—there's a place near the Pile Gate that does incredible seafood."
"You don't have to—"
"I know." He leaned down and kissed her, soft and lingering. "But I want to. Explore today. Paint something beautiful. I'll be home by eight."
After he left, Gracie lay in bed for a while, listening to the sounds of the city waking up outside their window. The apartment was in the old town, close enough to the set that Aidan could walk to work, and the morning light filtering through the shutters was already turning golden.
She got up, poured herself coffee, and stood on the small balcony overlooking a narrow street lined with terracotta roofs. The Adriatic stretched out in the distance, impossibly blue even in the early morning haze.
This could be her routine, she realized. For the next two weeks, this could be her life.
The thought made her smile.
By mid-morning, Gracie had established herself at a small café near the Stradun, the main thoroughfare through the old city. She'd brought her sketchbook and watercolors, and the waiter—a young man named Luka who'd immediately clocked her as Aidan's girlfriend due to Aidan coming here alot, treated her like royalty—had set her up at a corner table with a perfect view of the passing crowds.
The light here was different from Ireland. Sharper, somehow. More defined. It carved shadows into the ancient stone and made the colors almost painfully vivid—the bright blue of a tourist's sundress, the deep red of bougainvillea spilling over a wall, the warm honey-gold of the limestone buildings.
She painted quickly, trying to capture the movement of people through the narrow streets, the way the light changed as clouds passed overhead. A woman selling lavender from a basket. An old man sitting in a doorway, his face a map of wrinkles. The endless, mesmerizing blue of the sea.
"You are very talented," Luka said when he brought her lunch—a plate of grilled fish and vegetables that he insisted she needed to try. "Aidan is lucky man."
Gracie felt herself blush. "I think I'm the lucky one."
"No, no." Luka shook his head seriously. "He is lucky. Before you come, he is always working, always serious. Now he smiles more. We all notice."
After Luka left, Gracie sat with that observation, turning it over in her mind like a smooth stone. He smiles more. We all notice.
How selfish she'd been. How completely wrapped up in her own spiral of insecurity—worrying about not being enough, about the distance being too much, about being a burden on his complicated life. She'd spent so much energy cataloging her own fears that she hadn't stopped to consider what she might be giving him in return.
What if she wasn't a complication? What if she was... relief? A respite from the intensity of his work, from the constant performance that his career demanded?
Luka had noticed. His crew had noticed. Aidan was happier with her here.
Maybe it wasn't about being enough. Maybe it was never about being enough. Maybe it was just about being present. About showing up, even when it was scary, even when she felt out of place in his world.
She looked down at her painting—the seascape she'd been working on all morning, all blues and whites and the suggestion of distant islands. It needed something. A focal point. Something to ground all that vast emptiness.
A sailboat, she decided. Small, but there.
She mixed her colors carefully on her palette—titanium white with just a touch of yellow ochre for the sail, catching the light. A hint of burnt sienna for shadow. The hull would be darker, a deep blue-grey that would stand out against the water without overwhelming it.
Her brush was tiny, a detail brush she used for the most delicate work. She started with the sail, a simple triangle that she built up in layers—the base color first, then the highlights where the sun hit the canvas, then the shadows in the folds. It was painstaking work, requiring her to steady her hand against the edge of the sketchbook.
The hull came next, just a suggestion of a curve, a line of darker paint that implied the boat's movement through the water. She added the tiniest touch of white for the wake, a small V spreading out behind it.
It was so small in the vastness of the sea. But it was there. Present. Moving forward despite all that empty space around it.
She sat back, studying it. Yes. That was right.
That was what she needed to remember.
Aidan came home that evening exhausted but happy, and they cooked dinner together in the tiny kitchen—pasta with fresh tomatoes and basil from the market, a simple meal that somehow tasted extraordinary.
"How was your day?" he asked, pouring them both wine.
"Perfect," Gracie said honestly. "I painted for hours. The light here is incredible, Aidan. Everything is so vivid."
"Show me."
She retrieved her sketchbook, suddenly shy, but his reaction was everything she could have hoped for. He studied each page carefully, his fingers tracing the edges of her watercolors.
"These are stunning, Gracie. Really. You've captured something essential about this place." He looked up at her, his steel-blue eyes warm. "I'm so glad you're seeing it through your eyes. Showing me what I've been too busy to notice."
They ate on the balcony, watching the sun set over the Adriatic, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that Gracie knew she'd never be able to replicate. Aidan told her about the day's filming—a complicated scene with multiple characters that had required endless takes—and she told him about Luka and the lavender seller and the old man in the doorway.
Gracie watched him as he spoke, his profile silhouetted against the deepening Croatian sky. The fading light caught the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. God, he was handsome. She'd always known it, of course—had drawn his face countless times from memory, particularly his eyes, those steel-blue depths that could shift from warm to calculating in an instant. But she'd never actually painted him. Never asked him to sit still for her, to let her study him the way she studied light on water or the texture of ancient stone.
"I want to paint you, not as Baelish, but as yourself." Gracie asked.
Aidan raised an eyebrow, and she caught the faint flush creeping up his neck. "Now?"
"No not now, you're exhausted." Gracie added.
He looked away, almost shy, running a hand through his hair—that short-cropped style they'd given him for Littlefinger, so different from his usual longer waves. "I don't know. I'm not very good at sitting still."
"You sit still for the camera all day."
"That's different. That's work." He met her eyes again, and she could see the vulnerability there, the discomfort with being observed so intimately. "You really want to?"
"I've drawn you a hundred times," Gracie admitted. "But always from memory. I want to really see you. Study you. Capture you the way you actually are."
Something shifted in his expression—that vulnerability giving way to something warmer, more open. "Okay," he said softly. "It's a date."
Then he reached for her, his hands finding her waist and pulling her into his lap. She went willingly, her legs straddling his thighs as his mouth found hers. One of his hands slid to her thigh, fingers pressing into the soft flesh there to keep her steady, while the other cupped the back of her neck. Gracie's hands went to his hair, fingers threading through the short-cropped strands that were still so new, so strange and yet so him. She could feel the warmth of his scalp, the slight dampness from the evening heat.
He kissed her deeply, thoroughly, until the sky had gone fully dark and the city lights had begun their nightly dance.
The days developed a rhythm. Aidan would leave early, and Gracie would spend her mornings painting—sometimes at the café, sometimes walking the city walls, sometimes just sitting on their balcony. She'd have lunch at different spots Luka recommended, exploring the maze-like streets of the old town, getting pleasantly lost and then found again.
In the afternoons, when the heat became oppressive, she'd return to the hotel suite and work on larger pieces, spreading her supplies across the small dining table. She was creating a series, she realized—a love letter to this city, to this time, to the feeling of being utterly present in a moment.
One evening, Aidan brought home a colleague—Natalie, who played one of the noblewomen—and her husband Marcus, a cinematographer with an easy laugh and opinions about everything. They'd picked up fresh fish from the market, along with vegetables, wine, and crusty bread that was still warm.
Gracie helped Aidan prepare a simple but elegant meal: grilled sea bass with lemon and herbs, roasted vegetables drizzled with olive oil, and a salad of tomatoes so ripe they were almost obscene. The four of them crowded around the small dining table on the balcony, the evening air still warm, the sounds of the old city drifting up from below.
"So you're telling me," Marcus said, gesturing with his wine glass, "that you actually believe the best way to make risotto is to add all the stock at once?"
Aidan raised an eyebrow. "I'm saying it's a perfectly acceptable method if you're not trying to impress anyone."
"That's culinary blasphemy," Marcus declared. "Natalie, back me up here."
"I'm staying out of this," Natalie said, laughing. "You two can fight about food all you want. I'm just here for the wine."
Gracie felt Aidan's hand settle on her thigh under the table, warm and possessive. His thumb traced small circles against her skin as he continued to argue with Marcus about the proper technique for roasting potatoes. She tried to focus on the conversation, but his touch was distracting in the best way.
"What do you think, Gracie?" Marcus asked. "You're the tiebreaker."
"I think," she said, taking a sip of wine, "that I'm not getting involved in this either."
Aidan squeezed her thigh gently, and she could see the smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He reached for his wine glass with his other hand, his fingers briefly tangling with hers on the table before he lifted it.
"Smart woman," Natalie said approvingly. "That's how you survive being with someone in this industry. Pick your battles."
The conversation flowed easily after that—stories from set, gossip about other cast members, Marcus's tales from previous productions. Aidan kept his hand on Gracie's leg throughout dinner, occasionally playing with her fingers when they rested on the table, small touches that felt intimate and grounding.
After they'd finished eating, the men insisted on doing the dishes despite Gracie's protests.
"You cooked," Marcus said firmly. "We clean. That's the rule."
"Since when?" Aidan asked.
"Since right now. Come on, Gillen. Let's show these ladies how it's done."
The two men disappeared into the small kitchen, and soon Gracie could hear them bickering good-naturedly about the proper way to wash a wine glass, Marcus insisting that Aidan was using too much soap, Aidan countering that Marcus wasn't using enough.
Natalie refilled their wine glasses and settled back in her chair with a contented sigh. "This is nice. Marcus has been wanting to meet you properly—he's heard so much about you from Aidan."
"All good things, I hope," Gracie said.
"Very good things." Natalie studied her for a moment. "You're good for him, you know. He's been different since you arrived. Lighter."
Gracie felt warmth spread through her chest. "I think we're good for each other."
"That's obvious." Natalie paused, then said more quietly, "Can I ask you something? And you can tell me to mind my own business if you want."
"Of course."
"How are you handling all of this? The distance, the travel, the whole... circus of dating someone in this industry?" Natalie's expression was kind, genuinely curious. "I only ask because I remember how hard it was when Marcus and I first got together. He was always on location, I was working in London, and I kept thinking it was impossible."
Gracie glanced toward the kitchen, where she could hear Aidan laughing at something Marcus had said. "Honestly? I'm still figuring it out. Some days it feels manageable, and other days..." She trailed off, not sure how to articulate the fear that sometimes gripped her.
"Other days you wonder if you're crazy for even trying," Natalie finished. "I get it. I really do."
"How do you make it work?" Gracie asked. "You and Marcus, I mean. With him traveling so much for work."
Natalie was quiet for a moment, considering. "The truth? We decided early on that we were going to be a team, no matter what. That means sometimes I go with him on location when I can. Sometimes he turns down jobs to be home with me. We video call every single day when we're apart, even if it's just for five minutes. And we trust each other completely." She leaned forward slightly. "That last part is the most important. You have to trust that when he's away, he's still yours. That the distance doesn't change what you have together."
"And that's enough?" Gracie asked. "The trust?"
"It has to be," Natalie said simply. "Because the alternative is driving yourself crazy with worry and what-ifs. Look, this life—it's not conventional. There are going to be long stretches apart, weird schedules, premieres and parties and all sorts of chaos. But if you love each other, if you're committed to making it work, then you find a way." She smiled. "And from what I've seen, you two have something real. Aidan looks at you like you hung the moon. That's not something you find every day."
Gracie felt something settle in her chest, a knot of anxiety she hadn't fully acknowledged loosening. "Thank you. I needed to hear that."
"Anytime. And seriously, if you ever need to talk—about any of this—I'm here. It helps to have someone who understands the madness."
From the kitchen came the sound of something clattering, followed by Marcus's voice: "That wasn't me!"
"It was definitely you," Aidan called back.
Natalie laughed. "Those two are like children."
When the men finally emerged from the kitchen, Aidan immediately came to stand behind Gracie's chair, his hands settling on her shoulders. "All clean," he announced.
"Only broke one glass," Marcus added cheerfully.
"You broke a glass?" Natalie asked.
"A very small glass. Barely counts."
They stayed for another hour, talking and laughing as the night deepened around them. When Natalie and Marcus finally left, with promises to do it again soon, Aidan pulled Gracie into his arms.
"That was nice," she said.
"It was." He kissed her forehead. "I'm glad you got to meet them properly. They're good people."
"Natalie gave me some really good advice," Gracie said. "About... all of this. Us."
"Yeah?" He pulled back to look at her. "What did she say?"
"That we're a team. That trust is everything. That what we have is worth fighting for." She smiled up at him. "She's right, you know."
"She usually is," Aidan said softly. "And for the record, I agree with all of that. We're in this together, Gracie. Distance and all."
"Together," she echoed, and kissed him.
That was the best kind of relationship, she thought. The kind worth fighting for.
On Aidan's day off, they took a boat to Lokrum Island. It was Gracie's idea—she'd seen it from the city walls and been captivated by the dark green forest rising from the turquoise water.
They spent the day exploring the abandoned monastery, swimming in the small saltwater lake, lying on the rocky beach while Aidan read aloud from a book he'd brought. Gracie sketched him when he wasn't looking—the line of his profile against the sea, the way his hair fell across his forehead, the elegant length of his fingers turning pages.
"I can feel you staring," he said without looking up.
"I'm not staring. I'm observing. There's a difference."
"Mmm." He set down the book and rolled toward her, propping himself up on one elbow. "And what are you observing?"
"That you have a freckle right here," she touched his shoulder, "that I never noticed before. That you're getting more sun than you probably should. That you look happy."
"I am happy." He took the sketchbook from her hands and set it aside, pulling her close. "Happier than I've been in a long time."
They kissed, slow and sweet, the sun warm on their skin and the sound of the sea a constant backdrop. When they finally pulled apart, Aidan's expression was serious.
"I know this isn't easy," he said. "The distance, the schedules, all of it. But I want you to know—this matters to me. You matter to me. More than I knew how to say before."
Gracie felt tears prick at her eyes. "You matter to me too. So much it scares me sometimes."
"Good scared or bad scared?"
They stayed on the island until the last boat back, watching the sun set over Dubrovnik, the city walls glowing golden in the fading light. Gracie took a mental photograph, knowing she'd paint this later—the two of them silhouetted against the sky, the ancient city spread out before them, the sea endless and blue.
As the last rays of sunlight painted the sky in deep oranges and purples, Aidan turned to her with a thoughtful expression. "When we're back in Ireland, I've always wanted to explore the Shannon River. Properly, I mean. Not just driving alongside it, but really exploring it."
Gracie tilted her head, intrigued. "What do you have in mind?"
"A boat," Aidan said, his eyes bright with the idea. "We could rent a small boat, maybe spend a week just drifting along the river. Stop in little towns, explore the countryside. I've heard there are parts of the Shannon that look like they haven't changed in centuries."
"That sounds magical," Gracie said, her artist's imagination already painting the scenes. Misty mornings on the water, old stone bridges, green banks rolling into soft hills. "A floating adventure."
"I'll make all the arrangements," Aidan promised, squeezing her hand. "Something to look forward to when we're back home."
The promise hung between them, another thread weaving their futures together—a small, perfect plan born in the golden light of a Croatian sunset.
They stayed on the island until the last boat back, watching the sun set over Dubrovnik, the city walls glowing golden in the fading light. Gracie took a mental photograph, knowing she'd paint this later—the two of them silhouetted against the sky, the ancient city spread out before them, the sea endless and blue.
The second week passed even faster than the first. Gracie visited the set again, watching Aidan work with new appreciation for the craft of it—the way he could slip into character between takes, then emerge as himself during breaks, joking with the crew and checking his phone for her messages.
She finished her series of paintings, and Aidan insisted on photographing each one, already talking about where they might hang them in his house in Dingle.
"Our house," he started to say, then paused, catching himself. He looked at her, suddenly vulnerable in a way that made her heart squeeze. "Actually, I've been meaning to talk to you about that."
Gracie set down her paintbrush, giving him her full attention. "About what?"
"About ... us. About where we live." He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture she'd come to recognize. "You still have your cottage on the coast, and I have my house in town, and we're constantly going back and forth between them. It feels like we're always packing bags, always leaving half our things in the wrong place."
"I know," Gracie said softly. She'd been thinking about it too, but hadn't known how to bring it up.
"I want you to move in with me." Aidan said, the words coming out in a rush. "Properly. I mean. Not just staying over most nights, but actually living there. Making it yours too. Our home, not just mine that you visit."
Gracie felt her breath catch. "Aidan..."
" I know it's a big step," he continued, speaking faster now, as if afraid she'd say no before he finished. "And I know you love your independence, and I'm not trying to take that away from you. You could keep your cottage if you wanted, or we could find something together, or..." He stopped, took a breath. "I just want to wake up with you every morning. I want your paintings on the walls and your books on the shelves and your coffee mugs in the cupboard. I want it to feel like our space, not mine with you as a guest."
"I'm scared," Gracie admitted, her voice small. "What if we get sick of each other? What if having our own space is what makes this work?"
"Then we'll figure it out." Aidan said, taking her hands in his. "But I don't think that's going to happen. Do you?"
Gracie though about it, really thought about it. About how she felt most at home when she was with him, regardless of which house they were in. About how she'd started leaving morea ndmore of her things at his place without really meaning to, as if her belongings were migrating there of their own acccord. About how the cottage had started to feel empty and lonely, like a place she used to live rather than somewhere she belonged.
"No," she said finally. "I don't think we'll get sick of each other."
"So?" Aidan's blue eyes searched hers, hopeful and anxious. "what do you think?"
"I think..." Gracie felt a smile spreading across her face. "I think i'd like that. Moving in with you. Making it ours."
The relief and joy that flooded Aidan's expression made her heart soar. He pulled her into his arms, kissing her forehead, her cheeks, her lips. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," she laughed against his mouth. "But I'm keeping my studio. I need somewhere to work."
"whatever you need. We'll make it work however works best for you." Aidan agreed immediately.
" For us." Gracie corrected, and watched his smile grown even wider.
"For us," he repeated, and kissed her again, "Our house. Our home. I like the sound of that."
"Me too," Gracie whispered, and realized she meant it completely. The fear was still there, a small flutter in her chest, but it was overwhelemed by something bigger, excitement, anticipation, the bone-deep certainty that this was right.
They stood there for a long moment, wrapped in eachother's arms, the Croatian sun streaming through the windows and her finished paintings drying on their easels around them. A new chapter, Gracie thought. Another step forward into their shared future.
"So when I get back to Ireland," Aidan said, pulling back to look at her, "you'll start bringing your things over? Really moving in?"
"When we both get back," Gracie said. "I want to do it together. Make those decisions about where things go, how we arrange everything."
"Together," Aidan agreed, and the wold felt like a promise.
And every night, they came home to their hotel suite and made love like they were trying to prove something to themselves, to each other, to the world. Their passion was urgent and desperate, fueled by the uncertainty of their future and the intensity of their present. In those moments, wrapped in tangled sheets and each other's arms, nothing else mattered—not the bills piling up on the kitchen counter back home, not the dreams they'd put on hold. It was just the two of them, skin against skin, breathing in sync, holding onto each other like lifelines in a storm they couldn't quite name.
The morning of Gracie's departure arrived too quickly. Aidan had managed to rearrange his schedule so he could take her to the airport, and they were both determinedly cheerful over breakfast, talking about everything except the fact that she was leaving.
"I'll be back in Ireland in six weeks," Aidan said as they loaded her suitcase into the taxi. "Seven at the most."
"I know." Gracie squeezed his hand. "And we'll video chat. And text. We're better at this now."
"We are," he agreed. "We've learned."
At the airport, they stood in the departures area, neither quite ready to let go. Gracie had her arms wrapped around his waist, her face pressed against his chest, breathing in the scent of him.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "For inviting me. For sharing this with me."
"Thank you for coming." He pulled back just enough to look at her, his hands cupping her face. "For being brave enough to get on a plane and come with me. For understanding this part of my life. For painting this city in a way I'll never forget."
"I love you," Gracie said, the words coming easily now.
"I love you too." He kissed her, soft and lingering, not caring about the people flowing around them. "Now go, before I convince you to miss your flight."
She forced herself to step back, to pick up her carry-on, to turn toward security. But she looked back once, twice, three times, and each time he was still there, watching her with that small, crooked smile that had first caught her attention in a Dingle bookshop.
She waved one final time, then made herself walk through security without looking back again.
On the plane, Gracie pulled out her sketchbook and flipped through the pages—two weeks of Croatia captured in watercolor and ink. The old city walls. The endless blue of the Adriatic. The narrow streets and terracotta roofs. And scattered throughout, quick sketches of Aidan—reading on the beach, cooking in their tiny kitchen, sleeping in the morning light.
She'd come to Croatia uncertain, still carrying the weight of their recent struggles. She was leaving with something solid, something real. The knowledge that they could do this—the distance, the complications, the merging of their very different lives.
It wouldn't always be easy. There would be more separations, more challenges, more moments of doubt. But sitting on this plane, flying back to Ireland with a suitcase full of paintings and a heart full of hope, Gracie felt certain of one thing:
They were worth fighting for. Whatever came next, they would face it together. Even when they were apart, they were together in all the ways that mattered.
She closed her sketchbook and looked out the window at the clouds below, already thinking about the painting she'd start when she got home. Something that captured not just the beauty of Croatia, but the feeling of these two weeks—the joy, the intimacy, the quiet certainty of love.
The plane climbed higher, carrying her home. But part of her heart stayed behind in Dubrovnik, in a small apartment with a balcony overlooking the sea, waiting for the day when she and Aidan would be in the same place again.
It wouldn't be long. And until then, she had her art, and her memories, and the absolute knowledge that she was loved.
That was enough. That was everything.
St. Patrick's Day One - Shot
Just wanted to write a random one shot to celebrate St. Patrick's Day. Enjoy!
The first thing Sarah noticed was the light—too bright, too insistent, slicing through unfamiliar curtains and stabbing directly into her skull. She groaned, her mouth tasting like she'd licked the floor of a bar, and tried to burrow deeper into the pillow. Except the pillow smelled wrong. Not her lavender detergent, but something masculine and expensive. Cedar, maybe. And cigarettes.
The second thing she noticed was that she was naked.
Completely, utterly naked.
Sarah's eyes snapped open, her heart suddenly hammering against her ribs. This wasn't her bedroom. The walls were exposed brick, the ceiling high and industrial. Modern art hung in sleek frames—actual art, not IKEA prints. Through the brightness, she could make out a spacious loft apartment, all clean lines and minimalist furniture that probably cost more than her car.
Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God.
The third thing she noticed was the breathing beside her.
Sarah turned her head slowly, almost afraid of what she'd find. A man lay next to her, face-down in the pillow, one arm flung across the space where she'd been sleeping. The sheets had pooled around his waist, revealing a lean, pale back scattered with freckles. Dark hair, slightly mussed. The morning light caught the silver threading through it.
She stared at him, her brain still sluggish, trying to piece together—And then he shifted, turning his face toward her, still asleep.
Sarah's breath caught in her throat.
No. No fucking way.
She knew that face. She'd seen it on her television screen countless times. Those sharp cheekbones, the distinctive nose, the mouth that could shift from charming to menacing in a heartbeat. She'd watched him play a scheming brothel owner in Game of Thrones, a corrupt politician in The Wire, a dozen other roles that had made her sit up and take notice.
Aidan Gillen was asleep in bed beside her.
Aidan fucking Gillen.
Sarah's hand flew to her mouth, stifling the sound that wanted to escape—half laugh, half scream. This couldn't be real. This was some kind of fever dream brought on by too much Guinness and green food coloring. Any second now, she'd wake up in her own bed with her cat judging her from the doorway.
But the longer she stared, the more real it became. The fine lines around his eyes. The stubble shadowing his jaw. The way his chest rose and fell with each breath. This was definitely, unmistakably, actually Aidan Gillen.
And she was naked in his bed.
What the hell happened last night?
Sarah closed her eyes, trying to force her alcohol-soaked brain to cooperate. Fragments of memory began to surface, hazy and disjointed, like scenes from a film she'd only half-watched.
It had started innocently enough. St. Patrick's Day in Dublin—the one day of the year when the entire city transformed into a writhing, green-clad mass of celebration. Sarah had woken that morning with a flutter of excitement in her chest, the kind she only felt on special occasions. She'd spent an hour getting ready, trying on three different outfits before settling on her favorite green dress—emerald knit that hugged her curves in all the right places, hitting just above the knee. The neckline was modest enough for day drinking but showed just enough cleavage to be interesting. She'd paired it with black tights, ankle boots, and her worn leather jacket. Her dark hair she'd left loose, falling in waves past her shoulders, and she'd done her makeup carefully—smoky eyes, a touch of shimmer, lips painted a deep rose.
Looking in the mirror, she'd felt powerful. Beautiful. Ready to take on the madness of Paddy's Day in Dublin.
She'd met Claire, Aoife, and Niamh at O'Donoghue's on Merrion Row at noon sharp. The pub was already heaving, traditional music pouring out the doors along with the smell of beer and bodies packed too close together.
"There she is!" Claire had shrieked, pulling Sarah into a crushing hug. Claire was her oldest friend, a whirlwind of energy with bright red hair and freckles, wearing a ridiculous green hat with a giant shamrock on it. "Jesus, look at you! Who are you trying to impress?"
"Myself," Sarah had shot back, grinning. "Can't a woman look good for herself?"
"Not on Paddy's Day," Aoife had said, appearing with a tray of pints. Aoife was the practical one of the group, a solicitor with a sharp wit and sharper tongue. She was wearing jeans and a green jumper, her blonde hair pulled back in a sensible ponytail. "On Paddy's Day, you dress for comfort and spillage. That dress is far too nice to be covered in Guinness by three o'clock."
"I'll be careful," Sarah had said, taking her pint.
Niamh, the quietest of the four, had just smiled and clinked her glass against Sarah's. "You look gorgeous. Ignore them."
"To St. Patrick!" Claire had shouted, raising her glass high enough that beer sloshed over the rim. "May he have driven out all the snakes, but left us plenty of reasons to drink!"
They'd all raised their glasses, a chorus of "Sláinte!" ringing out, and Sarah had taken that first perfect sip of Guinness. Cold and creamy and tasting like home.
The afternoon had unfolded in a glorious blur of pubs and laughter. From O'Donoghue's, they'd made their way to The Temple Bar, fighting through the crowds of tourists taking photos of the iconic red facade. Inside, a trad band was playing, the fiddle player's bow flying across the strings while a woman sang "The Wild Rover" in a voice that could shatter glass. The four of them had squeezed into a corner, shouting to be heard over the music.
"Remember last year?" Claire had yelled, her face already flushed from alcohol and heat. "When Aoife tried to dance on that table and nearly broke her ankle?"
"I was graceful," Aoife had protested. "It was the table that was unstable."
"You were three sheets to the wind and wearing heels," Niamh had pointed out, laughing.
"Details," Aoife had waved her hand dismissively. "This year, I'm staying firmly on the ground."
They'd ordered whiskey shots—Jameson, because it was that kind of day—and Sarah had felt the burn all the way down, warming her from the inside out. The alcohol was already making everything softer around the edges, her inhibitions starting to loosen.
From Temple Bar, they'd wandered to The Brazen Head, Dublin's oldest pub, where the low ceilings and dark wood made it feel like stepping back in time. Here, the crowd was a mix of locals and tourists, everyone united in their determination to drink Ireland dry. Sarah had ordered fish and chips, suddenly ravenous, and they'd shared the basket while debating the merits of various Irish actors.
"Colin Farrell," Claire had declared. "Hands down the sexiest Irish export."
"Please," Aoife had scoffed. "He's all eyebrows and bad boy posturing. Give me Cillian Murphy any day."
"Cillian Murphy looks like a beautiful alien," Niamh had said. "I'm not sure he's entirely human."
"What about you, Sarah?" Claire had asked, stealing a chip from her plate. "Who's your Irish fantasy man?"
Sarah had thought about it, taking a sip of her pint. "Aidan Gillen," she'd said finally.
"Littlefinger?" Aoife had raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
"He's not just Littlefinger," Sarah had protested. "Have you seen him in anything else? He's got this intensity, this intelligence. And that voice—God, that voice could read me the phone book and I'd be turned on."
"Fair enough," Claire had conceded. "Though I still think you're mad."
They'd moved on to Kehoe's on South Anne Street, a proper Dublin pub with Victorian decor and the kind of atmosphere that made you want to settle in for the long haul. The snug was occupied, but they'd found space at the bar, pressed shoulder to shoulder with strangers who quickly became friends. A man in his sixties had bought them a round, declaring that beautiful women should never have to buy their own drinks on St. Patrick's Day.
"You're a gentleman and a scholar," Claire had told him, kissing his cheek and making him blush.
By the time they'd left Kehoe's, the sun was starting to set, painting the Dublin sky in shades of pink and gold. Sarah had felt gloriously, perfectly drunk—not sloppy, but loose and happy, her body humming with energy. The streets were even more packed now, people spilling out of pubs, music and laughter echoing off the buildings.
"Where to next?" Niamh had asked, linking her arm through Sarah's.
"Somewhere with less tourists," Aoife had said. "I'm tired of hearing American accents."
They'd ended up at a smaller pub off Grafton Street, the name of which Sarah couldn't quite remember now. It was the kind of place locals went, tucked away down a side street, with no sign outside and a door you had to know to look for. Inside, it was warm and crowded but not unbearably so, with a proper fire burning in the grate and a musician in the corner playing guitar.
"This is perfect," Sarah had sighed, feeling the warmth seep into her bones.
They'd found a table near the back, and Claire had gone to get the first round. Sarah had been laughing at something Niamh was saying when she'd felt her phone buzz. A text from her sister: Happy Paddy's Day! Try not to do anything I wouldn't do. (Which leaves you a lot of options.)
She'd been typing back a response when Claire had returned, looking annoyed.
"The bar's absolutely mental," she'd said. "I couldn't even get close. Sarah, you're the smallest—go squeeze through and get us drinks."
"I'm not the smallest," Sarah had protested, but she'd gone anyway, weaving through the crowd toward the bar.
It had been a crush of bodies, everyone trying to catch the bartender's attention. Sarah had managed to wedge herself into a small space, raising her hand and trying to make eye contact with the harried-looking man pulling pints. She'd been so focused on getting served that she hadn't noticed the person beside her until they'd shifted, their shoulder brushing against hers.
"Sorry, love," a voice had said—a Dublin accent, warm and slightly rough around the edges. "Bit of a crush in here."
Sarah had turned, an automatic smile on her face, ready to wave it off with some joke about St. Patrick's Day madness—and the words had died in her throat.
Because it was him.
Aidan Gillen.
Standing right there, close enough that she could smell his cologne—something woody and expensive. He was wearing a simple black button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and dark jeans. No fancy styling, no entourage, just a man out for a pint on Paddy's Day. But there was no mistaking those eyes—startlingly blue, the kind of blue that seemed to see right through you. The sharp angles of his face, the mouth she'd watched deliver a thousand cutting lines on screen.
Her brain had short-circuited completely.
"You alright?" he'd asked, and there was amusement in his voice now, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He'd clearly noticed her staring.
"I—yes. Sorry. I just—" Sarah had taken a breath, trying to gather herself. Her heart was hammering so hard she was sure he could hear it. "I know who you are."
The amusement had faded from his expression, replaced by something more guarded. She'd seen it happen in real-time—the walls going up, the public face sliding into place. "Ah. Right."
"No, I mean—" Sarah had felt her cheeks flush, but she'd pressed on. She wasn't going to be one of those fans, the ones who made celebrities uncomfortable in their own city. "I'm not going to make a scene or anything. I just wanted to say I'm a huge fan. You're brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Your work is—it's really special."
The wariness in his eyes had softened slightly. "That's very kind of you. Thank you."
There had been a pause, and Sarah had known she should turn away, go back to trying to get the bartender's attention, let the man have his pint in peace. But something had made her keep talking.
"I'm Sarah," she'd blurted out, then immediately felt like an idiot. Why was she introducing herself? He didn't care who she was. He probably had a dozen people a day telling him they were fans.
But he'd smiled—a real smile this time, warm and genuine, reaching his eyes. "Aidan. Though you already knew that."
"I did, yeah." She'd laughed, feeling some of the tension ease. "Sorry, I'm not usually this awkward. It's just—you're really good at what you do. The Wire is one of my favorite shows ever, and your character in Game of Thrones—God, I loved to hate him. Which I know is probably what everyone says, but it's true. You made him so complex, so fascinating even when he was being absolutely terrible."
"The highest compliment," Aidan had said, his smile widening. "Making people feel something, even if it's hatred—that's the job."
"You're good at your job, then."
"I try." He'd paused, studying her face in a way that had made her skin prickle with awareness. "Can I buy you a drink, Sarah? Since you've been so gracious about not making a scene."
She should have said no. Should have politely declined, gone back to her friends, continued the pub crawl as planned. But there was something in his eyes—a spark of interest, maybe, or just loneliness on a holiday when everyone else seemed to be in groups—that made her say yes.
"I'd like that," she'd heard herself say. "But I should probably get drinks for my friends first, or they'll kill me."
"Fair enough." Aidan had turned to the bar, and somehow—whether it was his height or his presence or just the way he carried himself—the bartender had immediately noticed him. "What are you having?"
"Four Guinness," Sarah had said. "And a Jameson for me."
Aidan had ordered, adding a whiskey for himself, and within minutes they'd had their drinks. Sarah had carried the pints back to her table, where her friends had looked at her with varying degrees of curiosity.
"What took so long?" Claire had asked.
"Crowded," Sarah had said, which wasn't technically a lie. "Listen, I'm going to stay at the bar for a bit. I met someone."
Three pairs of eyes had widened simultaneously.
"Someone?" Aoife had leaned forward. "What kind of someone?"
"Just someone," Sarah had said, trying to keep her voice casual. "I'll catch up with you later, yeah?"
"Sarah Murphy, you better not be ditching us for some random bloke," Claire had said, but she'd been grinning. "Though fair play to you if he's gorgeous."
"Text us if you need an escape," Niamh had added. "Or if you need us to disappear so you can have privacy."
"You're all terrible," Sarah had said, but she'd been smiling as she'd made her way back to the bar.
Aidan had secured them a small table in the corner, away from the worst of the crowd. Two whiskeys sat waiting, and he'd stood when she'd approached, pulling out her chair in a gesture that was old-fashioned and charming.
"Your friends alright with you abandoning them?" he'd asked as she sat.
"They'll survive," Sarah had said, taking a sip of her whiskey. The burn was familiar now, welcome. "They're probably already plotting how to interrogate me later."
"Should I be worried?"
"Terrified," she'd said, and he'd laughed.
The conversation had flowed easily after that, lubricated by alcohol and the strange intimacy of St. Patrick's Day, when the normal rules seemed suspended. Aidan had asked about her life, and she'd found herself telling him about her work as a graphic designer, the struggle of freelancing, the satisfaction of creating something from nothing.
"It's not glamorous," she'd said. "Most of my clients are small businesses who want logos or websites. But every now and then, I get a project that really excites me. Something where I can be creative, you know? Where I can make something beautiful."
"That's not so different from acting," Aidan had said. "Most of it is just work—learning lines, hitting marks, doing take after take. But every now and then, you get a moment where everything clicks. Where you find something true in the character, something that resonates. Those moments make all the rest worth it."
"Do you miss theater?" Sarah had asked. She'd done her research over the years, knew he'd started on stage. "Or do you prefer film and television now?"
"I miss the immediacy of it," he'd admitted. "The energy of a live audience, the way you can feel their reaction in real-time. But film allows for a different kind of truth. You can be more subtle, more internal. The camera catches things a theater audience would never see."
They'd talked about Dublin, about how the city had changed over the years, about their favorite hidden spots and the places tourists never found. Aidan had told her about growing up in Drumcondra, about his early days as an actor when he'd been broke and desperate and willing to take any role.
"I did a commercial for butter once," he'd said, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "Had to pretend to be absolutely transported by the taste of butter on toast. It was possibly the most challenging performance of my career."
Sarah had laughed so hard she'd nearly choked on her drink. "Please tell me there's footage of this somewhere."
"If there is, I've paid good money to have it destroyed."
"That's a shame. I would have paid good money to see it."
"Would you now?" He'd leaned forward slightly, his eyes locked on hers, and Sarah had felt the air between them shift. "And what else would you pay good money for, Sarah?"
The question had been innocent enough, but the way he'd said it, the heat in his gaze, had made it feel like something else entirely. Sarah had felt her pulse quicken, warmth spreading through her body that had nothing to do with the whiskey.
"I'm sure I could think of a few things," she'd said, holding his gaze.
One drink had turned into two, then three. At some point, Aidan's knee had pressed against hers under the table. Neither of them had moved away. His hand had found hers, his fingers tracing idle patterns on her palm that sent shivers up her arm. Every touch felt deliberate, charged with possibility.
"I should probably confess something," Sarah had said, emboldened by alcohol and the way he was looking at her—like she was the only person in the room, like he wanted to devour her. "I had a massive crush on you after watching The Wire. Like, embarrassingly massive. My friends used to make fun of me for it."
"Past tense?" Aidan had asked, his thumb still tracing circles on her palm.
"Well," she'd said, her voice dropping lower. "The jury's still out on that."
His eyes had darkened, his gaze dropping to her mouth before returning to her eyes. "Is that so?"
"Mm-hmm." Sarah had leaned forward, close enough that she could see the flecks of grey in his blue eyes. "You're even more attractive in person. It's really quite unfair."
"Unfair," he'd repeated, and there was amusement in his voice but also something else—desire, raw and unmistakable. "I could say the same about you. That dress should be illegal."
"You like it?" She'd known she was flirting shamelessly now, but she didn't care. This was Aidan Gillen, and he was flirting back, and the whole thing felt like a dream she didn't want to wake from.
"I like what's in it more," he'd said, his voice low and rough. His hand had moved from her palm to her wrist, his fingers circling it, his thumb pressing against her pulse point. "Your heart's racing."
"I wonder why," she'd breathed.
The pub had seemed to fade away around them. The music, the laughter, the crowds—all of it had become background noise. There was only Aidan, his eyes on hers, his hand on her wrist, the tension between them so thick she could barely breathe.
"Sarah," he'd said, and the way he said her name—like a prayer, like a promise—had made her stomach flip. "Would you like to get out of here?"
She'd known what he was asking. Knew what would happen if she said yes. This wasn't just leaving the pub for a walk or another drink somewhere quieter. This was an invitation to something more, something that would change the trajectory of her night—maybe her life.
Her heart had hammered in her chest. This was insane. This didn't happen to people like her. But the way he was looking at her, the heat in his eyes, the feeling of his fingers on her wrist—
"Yes," she'd whispered.
Aidan had smiled—slow and devastating—and stood, pulling her up with him. Sarah had grabbed her jacket and her purse, her hands shaking slightly. She'd pulled out her phone, seeing a string of increasingly drunken texts from Claire.
Where are you???
We're at The Stag's Head
Ok we're going to Dicey's, meet us there
You better not be dead in a ditch
She'd typed back quickly: I'm fine! Met someone. Catch up with you tomorrow.
Claire's response had been immediate: SOMEONE?? WHO?? Details immediately!
Sarah had just sent back a winky emoji and put her phone on silent.
Aidan had taken her hand, lacing his fingers through hers, and led her through the crowd toward the door. The cool night air had hit her face like a slap, sobering her slightly. The streets were still packed with revelers, but Aidan had pulled her into a quieter side street, away from the worst of the crowds.
"I should tell you," he'd said, turning to face her. "I don't usually do this."
"Do what?"
"Pick up beautiful women in pubs on St. Patrick's Day."
Sarah had laughed. "I don't usually go home with famous actors I've just met, so we're even."
"Are you sure about this?" he'd asked, and there had been genuine concern in his eyes. "Because if you're not, we can just get a coffee, or I can put you in a taxi home. No pressure."
She'd appreciated that—the out he was giving her, the acknowledgment that this was moving fast. But she'd known what she wanted.
"I'm sure," she'd said, and then, because she'd needed to know it was real, she'd risen on her toes and kissed him.
It had been electric. His lips had been soft but demanding, his hand coming up to cup the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair. She'd tasted whiskey and want, and when his tongue had swept into her mouth, she'd moaned softly. The kiss had gone on and on, and when they'd finally broken apart, both breathing hard, Aidan had rested his forehead against hers.
"Fuck," he'd breathed. "We need to get out of here before I take you against this wall."
Sarah's core had clenched at the image. "Your place or mine?"
"Mine's closer," he'd said. "And more private."
He'd hailed a taxi, and they'd climbed into the back seat, the driver barely glancing at them before pulling into traffic. The moment the door had closed, Aidan's mouth had been on hers again, his hand sliding up her thigh, pushing her dress higher.
The taxi ride to his apartment had been torture. Aidan's hand had slid higher on her thigh, his fingers tracing patterns that made her pussy clench with anticipation. She'd pressed her legs together, trying to ease the ache building between them, but it only made it worse. When his fingers had brushed the edge of her knickers, she'd gasped, and he'd leaned in to whisper in her ear.
"I'm going to fuck you so hard tonight."
The words had sent liquid heat pooling in her core. By the time they'd stumbled into his loft—all exposed brick and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Liffey—she'd been soaking wet and desperate for him.
His mouth had crashed into hers before the door had even fully closed. The kiss was bruising, all teeth and tongue, tasting of whiskey and raw need. His hands had fisted in her hair, yanking her head back so he could attack her throat with his mouth, sucking hard enough to leave marks.
"Fuck," she'd moaned, her hands clawing at his shirt.
"Bedroom. Now," he'd growled against her skin.
They'd stumbled down the hallway, shedding clothes as they went. Aidan had spun her around, pressing her against the wall, his hands roughly pulling down the zipper of her dress. The fabric had fallen away, and his palms had immediately cupped her breasts through her bra, squeezing, thumbs rubbing over her nipples until they were hard peaks.
"These tits," he'd muttered, his accent thick. "Fucking perfect."
He'd unhooked her bra with practiced ease, tossing it aside, and then his mouth had been on her breast, sucking her nipple between his lips, teeth grazing the sensitive flesh. Sarah had cried out, her back arching off the wall, her fingers tangling in his hair.
His other hand had slid down her stomach, into her knickers, and when his fingers had found her slick folds, he'd groaned.
"Jesus Christ, you're fucking soaked."
"For you," she'd gasped. "All for you."
Two fingers had pushed inside her, and she'd nearly come right then. He'd pumped them in and out, his thumb finding her clit and rubbing in tight circles. The pleasure had been almost too much, her legs trembling, barely able to hold her up.
"That's it," he'd murmured against her breast. "Let me feel how wet you are. Let me feel that pussy squeeze my fingers."
"Aidan, please—I need—"
"What do you need, Sarah? Tell me."
"Your cock," she'd whimpered, beyond shame. "I need your cock inside me."
He'd pulled his fingers out, bringing them to his mouth and sucking them clean, his eyes locked on hers. "You taste fucking incredible. But I want more."
Before she could process what he meant, Aidan had dropped to his knees, yanking her knickers down her legs. He'd lifted one of her thighs over his shoulder, spreading her open, and then his mouth had been on her pussy.
The first stroke of his tongue had made her scream. He'd licked her from entrance to clit, then focused on that sensitive bundle of nerves, flicking it with the tip of his tongue before sucking it between his lips. His fingers had pushed back inside her, curling to hit that perfect spot, and she'd ground against his face, chasing her pleasure.
"Oh God, oh fuck, Aidan—"
He'd worked her relentlessly, his tongue and fingers driving her higher and higher until she'd been teetering on the edge. When he'd added a third finger, stretching her, filling her, and sucked hard on her clit, she'd shattered. Her orgasm had ripped through her, her pussy clenching around his fingers, her thighs shaking so hard he'd had to hold her up.
Aidan had licked her through it, drawing out every last tremor, before standing and kissing her hard. She'd tasted herself on his tongue, musky and sweet, and it had only made her want him more.
"Bedroom," she'd panted. "Now."
They'd made it to his bed, and she'd pushed him down onto it, climbing on top of him. His cock had been rock hard, straining against his jeans, and she'd made quick work of his belt and zipper, freeing him. He was thick and long, the head already glistening with precum, and her mouth had watered.
"Fuck, I want to suck your cock," she'd said, wrapping her hand around his shaft and stroking.
"Next time," he'd groaned. "Right now I need to be inside you."
He'd reached for the nightstand, pulling out a condom, but Sarah had stopped him.
"I'm on the pill. And I'm clean. I want to feel you. All of you."
His eyes had darkened. "You sure?"
"Yes. Please, Aidan. I want to feel you come inside me."
That had broken whatever restraint he'd had left. He'd flipped her onto her back, spreading her thighs wide, and positioned himself at her entrance. The head of his cock had pressed against her opening, and then he'd thrust in hard, burying himself to the hilt in one stroke.
Sarah had screamed. He'd stretched her, filled her so completely she could barely breathe. For a moment, they'd both frozen, adjusting to the sensation of him inside her, bare and hot and perfect.
"Fuck, your pussy is so tight," he'd groaned. "So fucking wet and tight around my cock."
"Move," she'd begged. "Please, Aidan, fuck me."
He'd pulled almost all the way out, then slammed back in, setting a brutal pace. Each thrust had driven her up the bed, his hips pistoning into hers, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. His hands had gripped her hips hard enough to bruise, holding her in place as he'd pounded into her.
"Yes, yes, fuck, just like that," she'd moaned, her nails raking down his back.
"You like that? You like my cock fucking this tight little cunt?"
"God, yes, harder, fuck me harder—"
He'd obliged, his thrusts becoming even more forceful, each one hitting that spot deep inside her that made stars explode behind her eyes. One hand had moved to her throat, not squeezing, just holding, a possessive gesture that had made her pussy clench around him.
"Look at me," he'd commanded. "I want to see your face when you come on my cock."
She'd met his eyes, those piercing blue eyes now dark with lust, and the intensity of his gaze combined with the relentless pounding had pushed her closer to the edge.
"Touch yourself," he'd ordered. "Play with your clit. Make yourself come."
Her hand had slipped between their bodies, her fingers finding her swollen clit and rubbing frantically. The dual sensation—his cock stretching her, filling her, hitting that perfect spot with every thrust, and her fingers on her clit—had been overwhelming.
"I'm close, I'm so close—"
"Come for me, Sarah. Come all over my cock. Let me feel that pussy squeeze me."
His words, his voice, the filthy command, had sent her over. Her second orgasm had been even more intense than the first, her whole body convulsing, her pussy clamping down on his cock like a vice. She'd screamed his name, her vision going white, pleasure crashing through her in waves.
"Fuck, yes, that's it," Aidan had groaned, his rhythm faltering. "I'm going to come. I'm going to fill this pussy with my cum."
Three more hard thrusts and he'd buried himself deep, his cock pulsing inside her as he'd come. She'd felt the hot spurts of his release coating her inner walls, and it had triggered another small orgasm, her pussy milking him for every drop.
He'd collapsed on top of her, both of them gasping for air, their bodies slick with sweat. His cock had still been inside her, softening slowly, and she'd loved the feeling of fullness, of his cum leaking out around his shaft.
They'd lain there for several minutes, catching their breath, and Sarah had thought that might be it. One incredible, mind-blowing fuck. A story she'd never quite believe had really happened.
But then Aidan had lifted his head, that wicked smile playing at his lips, and said, "Give me a few minutes to catch my breath."
True to his word, ten minutes later his cock had been hardening again, and Sarah had felt it—the gradual thickening against her thigh where they'd been lying tangled together, his body heat radiating into hers. Her pulse had quickened immediately, anticipation flooding through her veins like electricity.
This time, he'd pulled her up onto her hands and knees, his hands firm on her hips, positioning her exactly how he wanted her. The sheets had been cool beneath her palms, a stark contrast to the heat of her flushed skin. She'd felt exposed like this, vulnerable, her ass in the air, her thighs spread. The vulnerability had made her wetter.
When he'd entered her with one smooth thrust, the sensation had stolen her breath. The angle was completely different from before—deeper, more intense. She'd felt every inch of him sliding into her, the stretch and fullness making her gasp. Her inner walls had still been swollen and sensitive from their previous rounds, and the friction was almost too much, pleasure bordering on pain. His cock had felt enormous from this position, reaching places that made her toes curl.
"That's it, fuck yourself on my cock," he'd said, one hand tangling in her hair, pulling her head back. The sharp tug on her scalp had sent tingles racing down her spine. "Show me how much you want it."
She'd pushed back against him, meeting each thrust, and the sensation had been overwhelming. Every time she'd rocked back, taking him deeper, she'd felt the head of his cock pressing against that spot inside her that made stars burst behind her eyelids. The sound of their bodies colliding—wet, obscene, primal—had echoed in the quiet room, mixing with their ragged breathing and her helpless moans.
His free hand had come down on her ass with a sharp smack, and the sting had been immediate and shocking. Heat had bloomed across her skin, radiating outward from the point of impact. The pain had transformed almost instantly into pleasure, making her pussy clench around his cock.
"You like that?" Another smack, harder this time, in almost the same spot. The burn had intensified, layering sensation upon sensation. "You like it rough?"
"Yes, fuck, yes—" Her voice had been breathless, desperate. Her arms had been trembling with the effort of holding herself up, her muscles taut with tension.
He'd spanked her again and again, alternating cheeks, each slap sending jolts of pleasure-pain through her entire body. The sting had built with each impact, her skin growing hot and tender, the burn spreading across both ass cheeks. She'd felt the warmth radiating through her, mixing with the heat of arousal pooling low in her belly. Her pussy had been dripping, so wet she could feel it coating her inner thighs, could hear the slick sounds as he'd continued to thrust into her.
The combination of sensations had been almost too much to process—the deep, relentless penetration, the burning sting of her spanked ass, the sharp pleasure-pain of his hand in her hair, the stretch and fullness of his cock inside her. Every nerve ending had been firing at once, her whole body hypersensitive and trembling.
Then his hand had slipped around to her clit, and the first touch had made her cry out. She'd been so swollen, so sensitive, that even the lightest pressure had felt intense. He'd rubbed in tight, deliberate circles, and the pleasure had built impossibly fast, pressure coiling tighter and tighter in her core.
Her arms had given out, her face pressing into the pillow as the orgasm had crashed over her. She'd screamed her release, the sound muffled by the pillow, her entire body convulsing. Her pussy had clamped down on his cock in rhythmic pulses, waves of pleasure radiating outward from her core. She'd felt it in her fingertips, her toes, behind her eyes—a full-body explosion of sensation that had left her shaking and gasping for air.
Through the haze of her orgasm, she'd felt Aidan's rhythm falter, his fingers digging into her hips hard enough to bruise. The bite of pain had only intensified her pleasure, grounding her in her body even as she'd felt like she was flying apart.
The third time had been different—slower, more deliberate. After they'd both caught their breath, Sarah had pushed him onto his back and straddled him, her thighs bracketing his hips. The position had made her acutely aware of her own body—the weight of her breasts, the curve of her waist, the strength in her legs as she'd positioned herself above him. She'd felt powerful like this, in control, and the look in his eyes as he'd gazed up at her had made her feel like a goddess.
When she'd sunk down onto his cock, taking him inch by inch, the sensation had been exquisite. From this angle, he'd filled her completely, the pressure different than before—deeper in some ways, the head of his cock pressing against her front wall with each movement. She'd been so wet, so swollen from their previous rounds, that the slide had been smooth and slick, her body opening for him easily despite the lingering soreness.
She'd started to move, rolling her hips in slow, deliberate circles, and the friction had been perfect. Each time she'd ground down, her clit had pressed against his pelvis, sending sparks of pleasure through her core. She'd controlled the pace, the depth, the angle—finding exactly what felt good and chasing it. The stretch and fullness as she'd rocked forward, the delicious drag as she'd lifted slightly before sinking back down—every movement had been intentional, designed to maximize her pleasure.
His hands had come up to cup her breasts, and the warmth of his palms against her sensitive skin had made her gasp. Her breasts had felt heavy, swollen, her nipples already hard and aching. When his fingers had found her nipples, pinching lightly, rolling them between thumb and forefinger, the sensation had shot straight to her clit. She'd arched into his touch, her head falling back, a moan escaping her lips.
"Look at you," he'd murmured, his voice rough with arousal. "So fucking beautiful."
The knowledge that he was watching her—really watching her, his eyes tracking every movement, every expression of pleasure on her face—had added another layer of intimacy to the moment. She'd felt exposed but not vulnerable, seen in a way that had made her feel cherished rather than objectified. The heat in his gaze had been palpable, and it had made her bolder, more confident in her movements.
She'd increased her pace slightly, grinding harder against him, and the pressure on her clit had intensified. His cock had felt enormous inside her, filling every inch of her, the angle allowing him to reach places that made her breath catch. Her inner walls had been gripping him, still sensitive and responsive, and she'd felt every ridge, every vein as she'd moved.
His hands had continued their exploration of her breasts, alternating between gentle caresses and firmer touches. When he'd pinched her nipples harder, the sharp sensation had made her pussy clench around him, pleasure radiating from her breasts down through her belly to where they were joined. The dual stimulation—his cock inside her, his hands on her breasts, the friction on her clit—had been building something different this time.
Not the sharp, explosive peaks of before, but something slower, deeper. A wave building gradually, pleasure spreading through her body like warm honey. Her breathing had grown ragged, her heart pounding, and she'd felt the sweat between them, their bodies sliding together, slick and hot.
She'd leaned forward slightly, changing the angle, and the new position had made her gasp. The head of his cock had been pressing directly against that perfect spot inside her, and combined with the pressure on her clit, the sensation had been overwhelming in the best way. Her thighs had been burning with the effort of maintaining the rhythm, but she hadn't cared—the pleasure had been worth it.
"That's it," Aidan had encouraged, his thumbs brushing over her nipples in time with her movements. "Take what you need. I want to watch you come."
The permission, the encouragement, had pushed her closer to the edge. She'd ground down harder, faster, chasing the building pleasure, and when it had finally crested, it had been different from before. Not a sharp explosion but a slow, rolling wave that had started deep in her core and radiated outward, washing through her entire body in pulsing ripples.
Her movements had become erratic, her rhythm faltering as the orgasm had taken over. She'd trembled above him, her thighs shaking, her pussy clenching rhythmically around his cock. The pleasure had been almost gentle in its intensity—no less powerful, but softer somehow, more sustained. It had rolled through her in waves, each one leaving her more boneless than the last.
When it had finally subsided, she'd collapsed forward onto his chest, her limbs weak and trembling, her body feeling like liquid. She'd been utterly spent, every muscle relaxed, her breathing ragged against his neck. He'd wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, and she'd felt safe, satisfied, completely undone in the best possible way.
By the time they'd finally collapsed into exhausted sleep, the sky outside had been lightening with dawn. Sarah's body had been marked with his touch—bite marks on her shoulders, fingerprint bruises on her hips and thighs, her pussy sore and swollen and still leaking his cum. She'd never been so thoroughly fucked in her life.
And it had been absolutely perfect.
Now, lying in his bed with the full weight of her actions crashing down on her, Sarah felt panic rising in her chest.
What have I done?
She'd had a one-night stand with Aidan Gillen. Multiple rounds of a one-night stand. Her body still ached in places that reminded her exactly how thorough they'd been.
And now she needed to get the hell out of here before he woke up.
Moving as carefully as possible, Sarah slid out from under the sheets. The cool air hit her naked skin, raising goosebumps. She scanned the floor, trying to locate her clothes in the wreckage of last night. Her green dress was crumpled near the door. Her bra dangled from a lamp. Her knickers were—where the hell were her knickers?
Aidan stirred, mumbling something in his sleep, and Sarah froze. Her heart hammered so loudly she was sure it would wake him. But he just rolled over, facing away from her now, and settled back into sleep.
Sarah let out a breath and continued her search. She couldn't seem to find her knickers and went without. She pulled on her bra and dress. The zipper was broken, she realized with dismay. Luckily she had her leather jacket to try and hide the fact that her dress was undone.
Her shoes were in the living room. She tiptoed out, wincing at every creak of the floorboards. The loft looked even more impressive in daylight—huge windows offering a stunning view of the Liffey, the morning sun glinting off the water. Under different circumstances, she might have stopped to appreciate it.
But right now, all she wanted was to escape.
She found her shoes by the door, along with her purse, thank God. Her phone showed a dozen more texts from her friends and a battery at 12%. She shoved it back in her purse and slipped on her shoes.
One hand on the door handle, Sarah paused. Should she leave a note? Her phone number? This had been—well, it had been incredible. Mind-blowing. The kind of night she'd remember for the rest of her life.
But he was Aidan Gillen. A famous actor. This was probably just another St. Patrick's Day hookup for him. She was probably just another fan who'd gotten lucky.
The thought stung more than she wanted to admit.
No. Better to leave now, preserve the memory as it was. A perfect, impossible night that she'd treasure and never quite believe had really happened.
Sarah turned the handle as quietly as possible and slipped out into the hallway. The door clicked shut behind her with a soft finality.
She made it to the elevator, pressed the button, and waited. Her reflection in the polished doors showed a woman with sex-mussed hair, smudged makeup, and a dress held together by the cover of her jacket. The classic walk of shame.
Except she didn't feel ashamed.
She felt alive.
The elevator dinged, and Sarah stepped inside. As the doors closed and she began her descent, a smile spread across her face. Her friends were never going to believe this. Hell, she barely believed it herself.
But her aching thighs and the faint marks on her hips told the truth. Last night had happened. She'd met Aidan Gillen on St. Patrick's Day, and they'd spent the night together in a tangle of sheets and passion.
As the elevator reached the ground floor and Sarah stepped out into the bright Dublin morning, she pulled out her phone. Claire had sent one final text at 3 AM: You better have a good story tomorrow.
Sarah laughed and typed back: You have no idea.
She'd tell them eventually. Maybe. Or maybe she'd keep this one to herself, a secret memory to pull out on ordinary days when she needed to remember that magic could happen, even in the most unexpected ways.
The streets of Dublin were quiet, the city sleeping off its St. Patrick's Day hangover. Sarah started walking, her heels clicking on the pavement, the morning sun warm on her face.
She didn't know if she'd ever see Aidan Gillen again. Probably not. This had been a moment out of time, a perfect collision of chance and chemistry that couldn't be replicated.
But as she walked through the waking city, Sarah couldn't stop smiling.
Some St. Patrick's Days, she thought, were more magical than others.
And this one—this one she'd never forget.
Chapter 26: Dubrovnik
Explicit sexual content
Gracie flew with Aidan to Croatia, and despite the exhaustion of travel and the lingering anxiety about everything that had happened in New Orleans, she found herself excited. Excited to see Dubrovnik, excited to be with Aidan in his world, excited to close the distance that had been slowly killing them.
On the flight over, while Aidan dozed beside her, Gracie did research on her phone. She knew he would only have limited time to do touristy things—his schedule was demanding, his days long—so she wanted to be prepared to explore on her own when he was working. The ancient city walls, the limestone streets of the Old Town, the cable car up Mount Srđ, the beaches with their impossibly blue water. There was so much to see.
Of course, Aidan had told her he wanted her to come to set, to see how the magic worked. And she'd agreed, curious despite herself. But truthfully, she was more excited about the ancient city itself, about losing herself in history and architecture and the kind of beauty that made her fingers itch for a sketchbook.
Not that she'd tell Aidan that. He was so eager to share this part of his life with her, to let her into the world he'd been so carefully keeping separate. She wouldn't diminish that by admitting she'd rather wander medieval fortifications than watch him film the same scene seventeen times.
They'd been in Dubrovnik for about two days now, and Gracie was still suffering from jet lag. Her body had no idea what time it was, and she kept waking at odd hours, disoriented and groggy. But today, Aidan was bringing her to set, and he'd made sure to load her up with caffeine before they left the hotel.
"You'll need it," he'd said, pressing a second espresso into her hands. "Filming can be incredibly boring if you're not involved in it. Lots of waiting around."
"I'll be fine," Gracie had assured him, though privately she wondered if she'd made a mistake agreeing to come.
The set was located in several places around Dubrovnik, taking advantage of the city's stunning medieval architecture. Today they were filming interior scenes in a studio that had been built to replicate King's Landing. Gracie followed Aidan through a maze of corridors and equipment, crew members bustling past with purpose.
Their first stop was the makeup department. Gracie watched, fascinated and mildly amused, as they applied layer after layer of makeup to Aidan's face. More makeup than she was wearing, certainly.
"It's for the camera," Aidan explained, seeing her expression. "The lights wash you out. You need this much just to look normal on screen."
They also trimmed his facial hair, shaping his goatee into the precise style his character wore. Ever since Aidan had returned to Croatia, they'd cut his beautiful curls and styled his hair differently—slicked back to show off the gray at his temples, making him look older, more calculating. It changed his entire appearance, made him look like someone else.
Like Lord Petyr 'Littlefinger' Baelish.
Next was the costume department, and Gracie watched in amazement as Aidan was dressed in layer after layer of elaborate clothing. First a shirt, then a doublet, then a long coat with intricate embroidery, and finally a heavy outer robe. Four layers in total, each one adding to the silhouette of the character.
"How are you going to survive in this heat?" Gracie asked, concerned. The temperature outside was already climbing, and inside the studio it was even warmer with all the lights.
Aidan shrugged, adjusting the collar of his coat. "You get used to it. Some of my costars have put small mini AC units underneath their costumes. Very high-tech solution to a medieval problem."
"That's insane."
"That's television."
When he was finally dressed, Gracie stood back and looked at him properly. The transformation was complete. This wasn't Aidan anymore—not the man who made her breakfast or held her while she slept or kissed her forehead when she was anxious. This was Lord Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin, proprietor of brothels, manipulator and schemer.
It was unsettling. And oddly attractive.
The moved to set, The air buzzed with the electric hum of generators and the sharp commands of crew members barking orders, their walkie-talkies crackling like distant thunder. they navigated the labyrinth of cables and equipment crates, the ground uneven. The set was alive with activity: a group of actors in elaborate armor rehearsed lines under the watchful eye of a director, their voices echoing with the cadence of ancient intrigue. Gracie's breath came in shallow bursts, her senses overwhelmed by the spectacle—the clink of chainmail, the rustle of velvet robes, and the underlying tension that made her feel as if she had stepped into the very world of the Seven Kingdoms.
Gracie stood behind and off to the side of the camera, trying to stay out of the way as the crew bustled around preparing for the shot. And then they called "Action," and Aidan transformed completely. His entire bearing changed, embodying the sly charm of Lord Petyr Baelish. His sharp features, framed by grey-streaked hair, his presence commanding and magnetic. Gracie pressed herself against a stack of props, her pulse quickening as she watched him deliver a line with that signature smirk, his voice a velvet whisper that soft, dangerous voice that made every word sound like a threat wrapped in silk.
Gracie watched, transfixed, as they filmed the scene. It was a dialogue with another actor, something about political maneuvering and debts and leverage. She didn't fully understand the context, but she understood the performance. The way Aidan—no, Baelish—calculated every word, every pause, every slight smile.
They did seventeen takes. Seventeen times through the same dialogue, with tiny variations each time. Different emphasis on different words. Slightly different blocking. Adjusting for light and camera angles. By take twelve, Gracie understood what Aidan had meant about filming being boring. But she couldn't take her eyes off him. There was something magnetic about watching him work, about seeing this side of him she'd only glimpsed before. Gracie's stomach twisted tighter with each calculated glance Aidan cast across the set, his eyes like polished flint in the harsh stage lights, igniting a fire that spread from her core outward, making her skin prickle with an insistent heat.
Finally, they broke for lunch. The director called out, "That's great, everyone. One hour," and the set immediately relaxed. People started checking their phones, heading to craft services, shedding costume pieces.
Aidan made his way over to Gracie, still in full costume, his makeup slightly melted from the heat and lights.
"What did you think?" he asked, and she could hear the nervousness beneath the casual question. He actually cared what she thought.
"You were amazing," Gracie said honestly. "I mean, I've seen the show, but seeing it in person... it's different. You're incredible."
Aidan's smile was pleased but also relieved. "It's a lot of repetition. Not very exciting to watch."
"I don't know about that," Gracie said, and there must have been something in her voice because Aidan looked at her more closely.
"What?"
"Nothing." But she could feel heat creeping up her neck. Watching him like that, in costume, embodying that character with all its dangerous charm and calculated menace, had done something to her. Something she hadn't expected.
"Gracie." Aidan stepped closer, lowering his voice. "What is it?"
"I just..." She glanced around to make sure no one was paying attention to them. "Lord Baelish is very... compelling."
Understanding dawned on Aidan's face, followed by a slow, wicked smile. "Is that so?"
"Shut up."
"You're turned on by my character."
"I said shut up," Gracie hissed, but she was smiling despite herself.
"This is fascinating," Aidan said, clearly enjoying her embarrassment. "I'm learning all sorts of things about you today."
Before Gracie could respond, before she could think better of it, she grabbed his hand and started pulling him away from the set, guiding him away from the bustling set toward the secluded row of trailers.
"Where are we going?" Aidan asked, but he was following willingly.
"Your trailer. Now."
"Gracie—"
"We have an hour, right? For lunch?"
Aidan's eyes darkened with understanding. "We do."
The door to his trailer swung open with a creak, enveloping them in the dim, confined space. It wasn't as glamorous as Gracie had imagined from Al's teasing—just a small, climate-controlled space with a couch, a vanity and a rack for costume pieces. The moment the door closed behind them, Gracie wasted no time, her hands were on him, fisting the rich fabric of her Lord Baelish doublet, her mouth hungry and desperate against his, her fingers trembling as they elaborate fastenings of his coat, fumbling with the complicated closures., revealing the layers beneath doublet, the insisting he keep the rest on—the high-collared shirt, the breeches, the very essence of Lord Petyr Baelish that had ensnared her. She paused there, her breath mingling with his, the room's shadows playing across his face as she slowly tugged at the laces of his pants, the rough cord slipping through her fingers, heightening the tension that hung between them.
“That fucking scene,” she breathed against his lips, her voice a ragged, wanton thing she barely recognized. “The way you looked at her, with all that fucking calculation… I nearly came right there in my chair, Aidan.”
He chuckled, a low, familiar sound that was so at odds with the sinister purr he’d been using on set. His hands, came up to frame her face. “It’s called acting, love.”
“It was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. All that power, that control.” her fingers continue to scrambled with the intricate ties of his pants. “I need you. Now. Don’t you dare take this fucking costume off.”
A real, genuine smile broke through his actor’s facade. “Is that so?” he murmured, his voice dropping, the Irish lilt weaving around the words, making them a promise. “And what does my little voyeur want from her lord today?”
The formality, the slightest hint of his character, sent a violent shudder through her. She backed him towards the small couch, her need a physical, aching pressure taking over her senses. “I want you to fuck me while you’re still him. I want to feel this silk glide along my thighs. I want to taste the fucking pomade in your hair.”
"Christ, Gracie," Aidan breathed, His eyes darkened with pure, unadulterated lust. “As my lady commands.”
Aidan got into character, His eyes narrowed slightly, those sharp features sharpening further as if he were sizing up an opportunity in the game of thrones itself. "Ah, my dear," Aidan murmured, his voice dropping into the silky, manipulative cadence of Lord Baelish, the words laced with a feigned warmth that sent a shiver racing down Gracie's spine. He leaned in just a fraction, his breath warm against her cheek, carrying hints of mint and the faint tang of stage makeup, as if to whisper secrets only the cunning could share. "You come to me with such... eagerness. But tell me, what makes you think you're worthy of my attention? A woman of your fire could be quite the asset, or perhaps a dangerous distraction." His fingers, steady and deliberate, raised up her thigh taking the fabric of the sundress with it. The air was cool on her exposed skin, a sharp contrast to the heat flooding her body.
Gracie's breath hitched, the role sinking into her like a role she'd always yearned to play, her body responding with a surge of heat that pooled low in her belly. She tilted her head, playing the part of the bold suitor, her voice husky and laced with playful challenge. "Oh, Lord Baelish, I've heard tales of your web of intrigue," she replied, the warmth of his skin seeping into hers like a forbidden promise.
Gracie pushed him down onto the small couch, the leather creaking under his weight. She straddled him immediately, her sundress riding up around her hips as she settled over him. His hands went to her hips instantly, fingers digging into her flesh with a possessive grip that made her gasp. The silk of his costume was cool and slippery against her inner thighs, a decadent contrast to the heat radiating from both their bodies.
"Look at you," Aidan murmured, his voice still carrying that dangerous edge of Baelish—calculated, predatory. "So desperate. So needy. Does it excite you, knowing I could ruin you with a word? That I hold all the power here?"
"Yes," Gracie breathed, her hands sliding up his chest, feeling the intricate embroidery of his doublet beneath her palms. She could feel him hard beneath her, the evidence of his desire straining against the elaborate ties of his costume pants. Her fingers worked frantically at the fastenings, trembling with urgency.
His grip on her hips tightened, holding her still, controlling her movements. "Patience," he said, that silky purr making her shiver. "Good things come to those who wait. Isn't that what they say?"
"Fuck patience," Gracie breathed.
Aidan chuckled, he leaned in closer, his breath a faint tickle against her neck as he murmured, "You see, my dear, in the game of thrones, every piece has its place. You could be useful to me, a hidden ally in my web, if you provide yourself fully to my designs." His voice was a low, hypnotic rumble, each word wrapping around her like the shadows he so often manipulated on screen, and she shivered as the cool air kissed the exposed curve of her shoulder, her pulse racing beneath his fingertips.
Aidan's hand ventured lower, slipping beneath her dress and to the waistband of her panties, with agonizing deliberateness. His fingers hovering just above her wet lips, the damp fabric of her underwear rubbing against his fingers, they found her slick and yearning. The sensation was electric, his middle finger gliding along her folds with exploratory care, the warmth and wetness enveloping him as he circled her entrance, each slow, rhythmic movement igniting a cascade of tremors through her body. She clutched at his shoulders, the world narrowing to the exquisite pressure of his touch, every subtle shift amplifying the ache that had been building inside her, her hips instinctively rocking to meet his hand in a silent plea for more.
As his fingers delved deeper into her slick warmth, Aidan maintained that unyielding rhythm, his middle finger delving inward with gentle insistence, curling just enough to brush against that sensitive spot within her that made Gracie's entire body shudder. Her hips bucked against his hand, the pressure building with each stroke sending waves of heat radiating from her core outward, her breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps that filled the confined space of the trailer. The world dissolving into a haze of overwhelming sensation—the wet glide of his skin against hers, the musky scent of her arousal mingling with his cologne, and the low, throaty hum of approval that escaped his lips, encouraging her surrender.
Gracie's body tensed, her inner walls clenching around his fingers in rhythmic pulses as she cried out, a sharp, uninhibited moan tearing from her throat. Waves of pleasure crashed through her, her thighs trembling uncontrollably, the release spilling forth in a flood of warmth that coated his hand. Aidan held her steady, as he withdrew his fingers, glistening with her essence, and lifted them to his lips, his eyes locking onto hers with that same predatory gleam. The taste was immediate and intoxicating, and he sucked them clean deliberately, his tongue swirling around each digit, savoring the intimate tang as a low growl of satisfaction rumbled in his chest.
His free hand moved to his trousers, As he eased the fabric open, revealing the hard outline straining against his underwear, the air between them thickened with renewed anticipation; Gracie's gaze dropped, her breath hitching at the sight, her body still humming from the aftershocks, eager for what came next. The heat of his arousal was palpable, a tangible promise that made her pulse quicken anew, her hands instinctively reaching out to trace the growing hardness.
She could feel the pulse of him beneath the cloth, a throbbing rhythm that mirrored her own racing heartbeat, as she took his hard cock out of his pants.
She lifted herself slightly, positioning him at her entrance. The anticipation was almost unbearable—the heat of him, the way his fingers dug into her hips, the silk of his costume sliding against her bare skin. She could smell the pomade in his hair, that theatrical scent mixing with his cologne and the musk of their arousal.
"Please," she whispered, looking into those sharp, calculating eyes that were somehow both Baelish and Aidan all at once.
His lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. "Since you asked so nicely."
He pulled her down hard, sheathing himself inside her in one smooth thrust. The initial invasion stretched her exquisitely, a sharp sting of fullness giving way to an overwhelming wave of pleasure that radiated from her core, her inner walls clenching around him in greedy welcome. Gracie cried out, her head falling back as pleasure shot through her. His hands guided her movements, setting a rhythm that was both controlled and desperate, the leather couch creaking beneath them with each roll of her hips.
"That's it," he murmured against her throat, his accent thickening. "Take what you need from me. Show me how much you want this."
Gracie bounced on Aidan's lap, her tits bouncing with her movements as Aidan's grip on her tighten.
“You watched me,” he growled, “You got all wet and needy for a performance.” Gracie's breath hitched, the sound echoing in the confined space, as she felt every inch of him filling her, the veins along his shaft rubbing against her sensitive flesh, igniting sparks of sensation that traveled up her spine. Aidan's low growl of satisfaction vibrated against her neck, his hips pressing flush against hers, holding the position as if to savor the intimate connection.
“So wet for me,” he purred, his voice a wicked whisper against her ear as she worked his cock in and out of her “All for a bit of mummery. You’re a desperate, filthy thing, aren’t you?”
A pleasured sob left Gracie's lips "Yes!"
The heat of his breath ghosted over her sweat-dampened skin, each exhale a warm caress that made her shiver despite the oppressive closeness of the trailer. Gracie's fingers dug into the fabric of his shirt, the coarse material bunching under her nails as she felt the subtle, involuntary twitch of his length inside her, a teasing friction that sent ripples of pleasure through her inner walls, coaxing her body to respond with a slow, undulating grind of her hips. Aidan's growl deepened, a primal vibration that traveled from his chest into hers, his hands sliding up her sides to cup her breasts, thumbs circling her hardened nipples with deliberate pressure, each touch amplifying the exquisite fullness that stretched her, making her gasp and arch against him in silent urging.
She could feel the tension coiling tighter in her belly, her breaths coming in sharp, uneven pants that matched his own, the sound of their bodies meeting—a wet, rhythmic slap—filling the small space. His grey-streaked hair brushed her cheek as he leaned in, capturing her lips in a messy, open-mouthed kiss, their tongues tangling with the taste of salt and desire, while his hands roamed possessively over her curves, heightening the frenzy until the world narrowed to just this: the relentless build of pleasure threatening to overwhelm them both.
Then, with a final, deep surge that seemed to touch the very core of her being, they shattered together her inner muscles contracting around him in powerful waves as he spilled into her, hot and pulsing. Gracie's body convulsed, a guttural moan tearing from her throat as the climax ripped through her, every nerve alight with the intoxicating rush of release. Aidan groaned low and ragged, his hips jerking instinctively, prolonging the shared intensity until they were both left trembling, breaths harsh and labored in the aftermath.
A light, breathless giggle escaped her lips, her chest heaving as she murmured against his ear, "I had no idea how much I'd been craving that." He responded with a lingering kiss, his lips soft and unhurried against hers, tasting of their shared passion,.
They made it back to set with five minutes to spare, both of them slightly disheveled despite their best efforts to put themselves back together. Aidan's costume was wrinkled in places it hadn't been before, and Gracie's hair was messier than when they'd left.
A few crew members gave them knowing looks, but no one said anything. Apparently this wasn't the first time actors had used their lunch breaks for... personal recreation.
The afternoon filming went smoothly, and Gracie watched with new appreciation for what Aidan did. The repetition, the precision, the way he could slip in and out of character between takes. It was exhausting just watching it; she couldn't imagine actually doing it.
By the time they wrapped for the day, the sun was setting and Gracie's jet lag was hitting her with full force. She dozed in the car on the way back to the hotel, her head on Aidan's shoulder, his arm around her.
"Thank you for coming today," Aidan said quietly. "For being interested in this part of my life."
"Thank you for letting me in," Gracie replied, her eyes still closed. "Even if I did objectify your character."
She could feel him smile. "You can objectify Lord Baelish anytime you want, love. I certainly don't mind."
Back at the hotel, they ordered room service and ate on the balcony overlooking the Adriatic Sea. The water was impossibly blue even in the fading light, and the old city walls glowed golden in the sunset.
"I want to explore tomorrow," Gracie said, picking at her pasta. "While you're filming. Walk the walls, see the Old Town properly. Maybe take the cable car up the mountain."
"I wish I could come with you," Aidan said.
"I know. But you're working. And I'm good at entertaining myself." She smiled at him. "Besides, I'll take lots of pictures. Show you everything when you get back."
"I have the day after tomorrow off," Aidan said. "We could spend it together. I'll show you my favorite spots in the city."
"I'd like that."
They sat in comfortable silence, finishing their meal, watching the city lights begin to twinkle on as darkness fell. Gracie felt more at peace than she had in weeks. The distance was still there—Aidan would be back at work tomorrow, gone for long hours, and eventually she'd have to fly home while he stayed to finish filming. But for now, they were together. And that was enough.
"I'm glad you came," Aidan said again, taking her hand across the table.
"Me too," Gracie said. And she meant it.
Despite the jet lag and the heat and the strangeness of being in his world rather than hers, she was glad. Glad to see him work, glad to understand this part of his life, glad to close the gap that had been slowly pulling them apart.
They still had challenges ahead. The distance, the schedules, the complications of his life and hers. But sitting here on this balcony in Dubrovnik, his hand warm in hers, the sea breeze carrying the scent of salt and history, Gracie felt like maybe—just maybe—they could figure it out.
Chapter 25: Forgiveness
Chapter Twenty-Five: Forgiveness
Later that evening, after Gracie had showered, had a little nap, and managed to eat something—toast and soup, the only things her stomach could handle—she found herself in the living room of Father Marcus's house, with three upset men staring at her.
The air in Father Marcus’s living room hung thick with a silence that pressed down on Gracie like a physical weight. The soft glow of a stained-glass lamp in the corner did little to dispel the somber mood. She sat perched on the edge of the plush, floral couch, feeling the collective gaze of three deeply concerned men. Father Marcus, his usually jovial face etched with worry, stood by the mantelpiece, his hands clasped tightly, looking older and more tired than she'd ever seen him. Al, his usual playfulness replaced with silence and formidable, leaned against the doorframe, his dark eyes fixed on her. And Aidan, whose sudden appearance in New Orleans was a stark reminder of the chaos she’d caused, was pacing near the fireplace, his hands in his pockets, his jaw tight. Gracie took a deep breath to steel herself and sat down on the couch. Aidan immediately stopped pacing and sat beside her, wrapping his arm around her shoulders in a comforting gesture that somehow made her feel worse. She didn't deserve comfort right now.
Father Marcus was the first to break the tension, "Gracie," he said, his voice hoarse from lack of sleep and probably too much shouting her name in the streets last night. “I was sick to my stomach last night. We all were. Al and I… we searched all over New Orleans for you. We couldn’t get in touch, contacted the police, checked the hospitals, even Aidan flew here, having to take a break from his filming.”
At the mention of Aidan, Gracie’s hand instinctively reached for his, giving it a grateful squeeze. His presence, solid and real beside her, was a beacon in her emotional storm. “I didn’t mean to worry anyone,” she managed, her voice barely a whisper. She tried to relay what she remembered from the night before, fragmented memories—the bars, the drinking, calling Aidan, stumbling back inside. And then nothing. Just waking up in a stranger's house, terrified and alone.
When she mentioned Rusty, tears started streaming down her face. "He did take care of me, in a way," she choked out, her voice cracking with the terrifying realization.
"He could have... it could have been so much worse. So much worse."
Aidan pulled her closer, and she could feel the tension in his body, the barely controlled fear and anger at what might have happened.
"I know I scared you all," Gracie continued. "And I'm so, so sorry. I was stupid and reckless and—"
Aidan, sensing her distress, tightened his arm around her. “Alright, that’s enough of a lecture,” he interjected, his voice firm but gentle. “Gracie’s had enough. She learned her lesson. And frankly, I didn't fly halfway across the world to spend our limited time together rehashing what happened. Since I'm here in New Orleans, I'm going to spend some time with her before I have to fly back to Croatia.” He stood, pulling Gracie up with him, his grip on her hand warm and resolute. As they walked towards the door, Gracie turned, hugging Al fiercely, then Father Marcus. “Thank you for everything,” she whispered, genuine gratitude flooding her.
The moment they stepped out into the vibrant New Orleans afternoon, the heavy cloud seemed to lift. Aidan’s plan to whisk her away on a tourist trek was exactly what she needed, determined to show her that New Orleans could still be beautiful, could still be full of wonder, even after the terror of last night. They rode in a horse-drawn carriage through the bustling French Quarter, the clip-clop of hooves on cobblestones a rhythm of freedom. Gracie, finding her voice and spirit returning, pointed out quaint cafes, the gallery where she'd first shown her work, the corner where street musicians played every Saturday.
"I forgot how much I loved this city," she admitted, leaning against Aidan's shoulder as the carriage rolled past Jackson Square.
"It's easy to forget the good when you're running from it," Aidan said softly.
They did a small ghost tour at St. Louis Cemetery, listening to tales of voodoo queens and restless spirits. Gracie had heard most of the stories before, but hearing them with Aidan beside her made them feel new again. His hand in hers, warm and solid, anchoring her to the present.
Now, as evening descended, they found themselves on the grand deck of a paddlewheeler, the gentle rocking of the boat a soothing contrast to the day’s earlier tension. Dinner had been a delicious blur, punctuated by shared smiles and quiet conversations, and the sultry notes of a live jazz band flowed around them. It was a wonderful day, a reprieve she desperately clung to, not wanting it to end. Weeks had stretched into an eternity without Aidan, and she realized how profoundly she’d missed him.
After dinner, as couples began to sway to the music on the dance floor, Aidan led her away, guiding her to the bow of the boat. The night air was cool and soft against her skin as he wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, pulling her close. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, and the city skyline was beginning to light up behind them, a breathtaking tapestry of light reflected on the dark expanse of the Mississippi.
It was a wonderful day, and Gracie didn't want it to end. She hadn't seen Aidan in weeks, and she'd forgotten what it felt like to be near him. The comfort of his presence, the way he looked at her like she was the only person in the world.
"I've been to New Orleans before," Aidan said, his chin resting on her shoulder, his breath warm against her ear. "Years ago, filming a movie. But I didn't really have time to explore the city, to take it in properly. This is nice. Seeing it through your eyes."
They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, the jazz music drifting out from inside, the warm evening air wrapping around them. Then Aidan loosened his embrace, stepping back slightly, his hand reaching into his pocket. Her heart gave a little flutter of anticipation as he pulled out a small, black velvet box. Gracie's breath caught. She turned to face him, her heart suddenly pounding. “I was planning on having this mailed to you,” he explained, his eyes twinkling in the city lights, holding the box but not yet opening it. “since I wasn’t sure when we’d see each other in person. I wanted you to have it before your birthday in a few days.”
Gracie had completely forgotten about her birthday. With everything that had happened—Father Marcus, the long distance, last night's disaster—her birthday had been the last thing on her mind.
"Aidan, you didn't have to—"
"I wanted to," he said firmly. He held out the box. "Open it."
She couldn’t believe Aidan had gotten her anything. Her hands trembled slightly as she took the box from him, her fingers tracing the soft velvet. When she opened it, a gasp escaped her lips. Resting on a bed of cream-colored satin was a stunning 2.5 carat trinity solitaire diamond necklace, set on a delicate yellow gold chain – a singular, brilliant point of light. The diamonds caught the city lights, sparkling with an almost ethereal beauty
Gracie found herself unsuccessfully trying to hold back tears that had welled up, blurring the sparkling diamond. It was too much. Too beautiful. A wave of crushing guilt washed over her as she remembered her recent neglect, the unanswered calls and texts, the worry she’d caused. She was a terrible girlfriend. "Aidan," she whispered. "This is... this is too much. I can't accept this."
Aidan’s hand gently stroked her hair. His steel-blue eyes, reflecting the city lights, held a confused sadness that twisted her gut."Why not?"
"Because I've been a terrible girlfriend," she said, the words tumbling out. "These past few weeks, I ignored your calls and texts. I shut you out when you needed me to talk to you. I got so drunk I ended up in a stranger's house and scared everyone half to death. I don't deserve—"
Her voice broke, and suddenly she was sobbing, all the guilt and shame and fear from the past few weeks pouring out. Aidan immediately wrapped his arms around her, pulling her against his chest.
"Shh," he murmured, one hand stroking her hair. "It's alright. You're alright."
"I'm not," Gracie sobbed into his shirt. "I'm a mess. I’m so sorry for worrying you so bad that you put filming on hold just to fly out here. I’m sorry I’m not a good communicator. I don't deserve this beautiful gift or your kindness or—" She rambled on, listing every inadequacy she felt, until Aidan’s soft lips met hers, effectively silencing her.
"Gracie." Aidan pulled back, his hands coming up to cup her wet cheeks, forcing her to look at him. "Stop. Just stop." His hands stayed on her cheeks, his thumbs brushing away her tears, as his soft lips continued to met hers. It was a sweet, passionate kiss that had an underlying salty taste from her tears. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, he gazed into her eyes, a gentle smile playing on his lips. “Everything’s fine, Gracie. We’re still new, we’re figuring things out. I understand that me being away for months at a time isn’t easy. I understand that you got scared. And yes, last night was terrifying, but you're safe now. That's all that matters. We’ll work on our communication together. Together. Both of us. This isn't just on you. I could have pushed harder to talk about the difficult things. I could have been more understanding about how hard the distance was for you. We're learning, love. That's what relationships are—constant learning and adjusting."
He pulled back and took the necklace from the open box, its diamond catching the distant lights. “Turn around,” he instructed, his voice a warm murmur. She did, her hands coming up to move her hair out of the way. She felt Aidan's fingers at her neck, he clasped the necklace around her neck, the cool metal a pleasant contrast against her skin. Then, he leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the nape of her neck, his lips brushing her skin as he whispered, “Happy birthday.”
Gracie shivered, a delightful warmth spreading through her veins that had nothing to do with the humid night air. Aidan’s lips at the nape of her neck sent a cascade of goosebumps down her arms, a stark contrast to the tears that had just soaked her cheeks. She reached up, her fingers finding the delicate chain of the necklace he’d just fastened. It felt cool against her skin, a tangible symbol of his love and forgiveness.
Turning back to face him, she met his steel-blue eyes, now softened by affection and relief. The sadness was gone, replaced by a radiant tenderness that made her heart ache with a sweet joy. "Aidan," she whispered, her voice still a little hoarse from crying. She didn't know what to say, her emotions a tangled knot of gratitude, love, and a lingering touch of shame for her earlier behavior. she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. Not the gentle kiss he'd given her, but something fiercer, more desperate. A kiss that said thank you and I'm sorry and I love you all at once.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Aidan's eyes were dark in the dim light. He simply smiled, a gentle, understanding curve of his lips. His thumbs tenderly wiped away the last of her tears. "Better?" he murmured, pulling her close again, his arms wrapping around her waist. She leaned into him, resting her head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. The jazz music from the deck, previously a backdrop to her turmoil, now sounded like a celebration.
"So much better," she confessed, her voice muffled against his shirt. She could smell his familiar scent – a clean, masculine aroma with a hint of something spicy, probably from the dinner. It was the scent of home, of safety, and of a love she hadn't realized how much she’d missed until he was here.
"Good," he said, pulling her back into a hug. "Now, about this birthday. It's in a few days, right? So, this isn't just a 'sorry I worried you' gift. This is a 'you're incredible and I love you and I want you to have something beautiful to celebrate you' gift." His words filled her with warmth, chasing away the last vestiges of guilt. He saw her, truly saw her, even through her messiness.
They spent the rest of the paddlewheeler ride in a comfortable bubble, their hands clasped together, sharing quiet smiles and whispered jokes. When the boat finally docked, the night air was cooler, carrying the damp, sweet scent of the Mississippi. As they walked hand-in-hand along the dimly lit streets back towards Father Marcus’s house, New Orleans felt different to Gracie. It was still vibrant, mysterious, and a little wild, but now it also felt like a place where things could be mended, where love could bloom even amidst chaos.
The next few days were a blur of New Orleans magic, a counterpoint to the city's darker side Gracie had recently experienced. Aidan insisted on revisiting some of the places Gracie had mentioned, but this time, with him by her side, they were transformed. They strolled through Jackson Square, hand-in-hand, laughing as a street artist sketched a caricature of them. They visited Cafe Du Monde for beignets and chicory coffee, Gracie delighting in teaching Aidan the proper, messy technique for eating them. He even let her drag him back to the small antique shop she loved, where she had found some unique pieces for her apartment, offering his opinion on various trinkets.
He was attentive, present, and utterly devoted. He listened patiently as she recounted more details of the night with Rusty, not with judgment, but with a quiet understanding that helped her process the trauma. "It sounds like you handled it incredibly well, all things considered, Gracie," he’d said one afternoon, sitting on a bench in Audubon Park, his arm around her. "You were resourceful, and you got yourself out of a very dangerous situation." His words, combined with his unwavering support, helped to reframe the memory from one of vulnerability to one of quiet strength.
On her actual birthday, Aidan surprised her with a small, intimate dinner at a quiet Creole restaurant, just the two of them. He brought out a small, beautifully wrapped gift – a first edition copy of one of her favorite Southern Gothic novels, a subtle nod to her love for literature and the city’s unique charm. It was perfect.
But too soon, the visit came to an end. Standing at the airport, the buzz of travelers a dull roar around them, the reality of his departure hit Gracie with a familiar ache. They had reclaimed so much in these few days, rebuilt bridges, and strengthened their foundation. The thought of him leaving, even with the promise of future visits, felt like a wrench.
"I don't want you to go," she whispered, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist, her face pressed against his chest.
"Come back with me," he said suddenly. "To Croatia. When I fly back. Come with me."
Gracie blinked, surprised. "What?"
"Come with me," Aidan repeated. "You could stay for a week, maybe two. See where I'm living, what I'm doing. Be part of that world instead of just hearing about it through phone calls."
"I don't know," Gracie said, uncertainty creeping in. "What about Father Marcus?"
"Father Marcus is fine," Aidan said. "He's got Al. But Gracie, we need this. We need time together, in person, to reconnect. To remember why we're doing this."
He was right. She knew he was right. The distance had been killing them slowly, and maybe what they needed was to close that gap, even temporarily.
"Okay," she said finally. "Okay, yes. I'll come with you."
Aidan's smile was brilliant, relieved, like she'd just given him the best gift imaginable. He pulled her close again, He leaned down, giving her a long, sweet kiss that tasted of promises.
"I love you," Gracie said, the words coming easier now. "I really do love you, Aidan. Even when I'm terrible at showing it."
"I love you too," Aidan murmured into her hair. "Even when you're being a disaster."
"Especially when I'm being a disaster," Gracie corrected.
"Especially then," Aidan agreed, and she could hear the smile in his voice.
Dingle Peninsula, County Kerry, Ireland
via boyhistory
Chapter 24:
Chapter Twenty-Four: Found
Gracie woke up with the worst headache she'd ever had in her life. Her whole body was throbbing in pain, every muscle screaming in protest. She could barely open her eyes—the light filtering through wherever she was made the pain exponentially worse, like knives being driven into her skull.
When she finally managed to crack her eyes open, squinting against the assault of daylight, she was completely disoriented. This wasn't Father Marcus's guest room. This wasn't her cottage in Ireland. This was... somewhere else entirely.
A bed she didn't recognize. Plain white sheets. A dresser with a mirror across from her. A window with a thin curtain doing a poor job of blocking the sun. A nightstand with an alarm clock that read 11:30 in harsh red numbers.
She was still wearing her emerald dress, but her shoes were off, sitting neatly by the door.
Panic started to rise in her chest. Where was she? How did she get here?
She tried to sit up and immediately regretted it as nausea rolled through her stomach like a wave. She clamped her mouth shut, breathing hard through her nose, willing herself not to vomit. After a moment, the worst of it passed, and she managed to swing her legs over the side of the bed.
The room spun. Everything hurt. She felt like she'd been hit by a car—and she'd actually been hit by a car before, so she had a basis for comparison. This was worse.
She looked around the room for her belongings. Her shoes were by the door, but where was her purse? Her phone? She patted the nightstand, checked under the bed, looked on the dresser. Nothing.
She stood up, swaying slightly, and took a deep breath. Tried to remember. She remembered going bar hopping with Al. Remembered dancing and drinking—a lot of drinking. Remembered, with a flush of embarrassment, calling Aidan and rambling about her dress and velvet and how much she loved him.
But after that? Nothing. A black void where her memory should be.
She put on her shoes, wincing at how loud the sound seemed in the quiet room, and tiptoed to the door. She opened it slowly, peeking out into a hallway. The house was small, modest, with worn carpet and walls that needed painting. She could hear the distant sound of a television somewhere.
Gracie moved as quietly as she could, her heart pounding. She didn't know whose house this was. Didn't know if she was safe or in danger. All she knew was that she needed to get out, needed to get home, needed to find Al and Father Marcus who must be sick with worry.
She made it to the front door without encountering anyone. Her hand closed around the doorknob, and she slipped outside into the bright New Orleans morning, closing the door softly behind her.
The street was unfamiliar. Small shotgun houses lined both sides, some well-maintained, others clearly abandoned. A few blocks away, she could see what looked like a main road. She started walking quickly, then running, her heels clicking against the pavement.
She didn't have her purse. No money. No phone. No way to call anyone or get home except to walk, and she had no idea where she was.
A voice shouted behind her: "Hey! Lady!"
She ran
Al POV
Al had never been so terrified in his entire life.
He stood outside St. Louis Cathedral, arms wrapped around himself despite the humid morning air, watching Father Marcus pace back and forth on the stone steps. The priest's face was drawn, his lips moving in what Al assumed was silent prayer. Or maybe he was cursing Al's name. Both seemed equally likely at this point.
Al's phone buzzed. He grabbed it so fast he nearly dropped it.
Just landed. Where are you?
"He's here," Al said, his voice cracking, his fingers moving across his phone screen replying to Aidan's text. "Aidan's here."
Father Marcus stopped pacing. "Thank God. Maybe he can help us think of somewhere we haven't looked."
Al's stomach twisted with guilt. This was his fault. All of it. He'd been the one who suggested going out. He'd been the one buying shots. He'd been the one who'd looked away for five fucking minutes—
A taxi pulled up to the curb, and a man practically fell out of it with a bag slung over his shoulder, shoving bills at the driver without waiting for change.
Aidan Gillen looked like absolute hell.
His hair—that distinctive salt-and-pepper hair that looked so perfectly styled on screen—was sticking up in every direction like he'd been running his hands through it for hours. His eyes were bloodshot and wild, his face pale beneath the scruff of several days' worth of beard. He was wearing jeans and a wrinkled grey t-shirt that looked like he'd slept in it. Or more accurately, like he hadn't slept at all.
"Where is she?" Aidan demanded, his Irish accent thicker than Al had heard it on the phone. "Have you found her? Is there any news?"
"No," Al said, and the word came out as barely a whisper. "Nothing. The police are looking, but—"
"The police." Aidan's voice was flat, dangerous. "The police are looking. That's brilliant. That's just fucking brilliant." He took a step toward Al, and Al instinctively backed up. "How the fuck did this happen? How did you lose her?"
"I know," Al said quickly, holding up his hands. "I know, okay? I fucked up. I fucked up so bad—"
"You were supposed to be watching her!" Aidan's voice rose, drawing looks from early morning churchgoers. "She was drunk, she was vulnerable, and you were supposed to keep her safe!"
"I know!" Al's own voice broke. "Don't you think I know that? Father Marcus already tore me a new one, and he was right to do it. I was right there, I was with her, and then I looked away for five minutes—five fucking minutes—and she was gone."
Tears were streaming down Al's face now, and he didn't bother to wipe them away. "We go out all the time. All the time. With our friends, to bars, to clubs. Nothing like this has ever happened. I thought—I thought she was just in the bathroom, or getting air, or—" His voice broke completely. "I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."
Aidan's anger seemed to deflate slightly. He ran both hands through his hair—explaining the chaotic state of it—and let out a shaky breath. "Christ. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—" He shook his head. "I'm just terrified. I've been on a plane for nine hours imagining every possible—" He couldn't finish the sentence.
"We'll find her," Al said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. "We have to find her."
"Aidan Gillen, I presume?"
Both men turned to see Father Marcus approaching, his expression unreadable. He looked older than Al had ever seen him, the lines around his eyes deeper, his shoulders slightly hunched.
Father Marcus extended his hand, his gaze assessing as he took in Aidan's disheveled appearance, the barely-controlled panic in his eyes. "Mr. Gillen."
Aidan shook it firmly. "Father Marcus. I've heard a great deal about you from Gracie. She speaks very highly of you." He paused, his expression softening slightly. "How are you holding up after the heart attack? Gracie was very worried about you."
For a moment, Father Marcus's guarded expression flickered with something warmer. "That's kind of her to mention. And kind of you to ask." Then his eyes narrowed slightly, protective. "Though I'm afraid Gracie hasn't told me much about you. Only that there was someone from Ireland she was talking to."
The words hung in the air—not quite an accusation, but close.
Aidan's jaw tightened, but he nodded. "I understand. We've been... keeping things private."
"Private enough that she never mentioned your name," Father Marcus said, his tone measured. "And yet here you are, having flown across an ocean the moment you heard she was missing."
"Of course I'm here," Aidan said quietly. "I love her."
Father Marcus studied him for a long moment, then sighed. "I was doing quite well, actually, until this one—" he jerked his thumb at Al, "—gave me a rather unpleasant surprise this morning by calling to inform me that Gracie had gone missing."
Al winced. "Father, I said I was sorry—"
"Sorry doesn't find her, does it?" Father Marcus snapped, then immediately looked contrite. "Forgive me. I'm not myself this morning."
"None of us are," Aidan said quietly.
Father Marcus turned his attention back to Aidan, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You know, it's interesting. Gracie has told me quite a bit about her life in Ireland, about her painting, about the cottage in Dingle. But she's never mentioned you. Not once."
The words hung in the air like an accusation.
Al, who had been studying his shoes, suddenly perked up. "Oh! Oh, wait. Father, he's the guy. The one I was talking to on the phone yesterday. Remember? "
Father Marcus's expression shifted from confusion to realization to something that might have been amusement under different circumstances. "Ah. Yes. The threesome invitation."
Aidan's face went bright red. "That wasn't—I didn't—" He shot Al a look that could have melted steel. "Christ."
Despite everything, Al felt a tiny smile tug at his lips. "In my defense, you do have a very sexy voice."
"Not helping," Aidan muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face.
Father Marcus, however, wasn't smiling. He crossed his arms over his chest, his posture shifting into something Al recognized from countless lectures over the years. The Disappointed Father Figure stance.
"So," Father Marcus said slowly, continuing the conversation where it left off, wanting to know more about the person Gracie was seeing. "You're involved with Gracie."
"Yes," Aidan said simply.
"For how long?"
"A few months."
"And she hasn't told me about you because...?"
Aidan's jaw tightened. "Because she's scared. Because she's been hurt before. Because she doesn't trust easily, and she's still figuring out if what we have is real." He met Father Marcus's gaze steadily. "And because I'm an actor, and she's worried about what that means. The attention, the scrutiny. She values her privacy."
"Yet here you are," Father Marcus observed. "On a plane from Croatia the moment you heard she was missing."
"Of course I'm here." Aidan's voice was rough. "I love her. I'd fly across the world for her. I'd do anything for her."
Something in Father Marcus's expression softened. "Does she know that?"
"I hope so. I've tried to show her." Aidan's hands clenched into fists at his sides. "But I haven't been there enough. I've been away filming, and she's been dealing with things on her own, and I should have—" His voice cracked. "I should have been here."
"You're here now," Father Marcus said quietly. "That counts for something."
They stood in silence for a moment, three men bound together by their love for a woman who was somewhere out there, lost and alone.
"Tell me about yourself," Father Marcus said finally. "Your intentions with Gracie. What you want from this relationship."
"Father, is now really the time—" Al started.
"Yes," Father Marcus said firmly. "It is. Because when we find her—and we will find her—she's going to need all of us. And I need to know that you're someone I can trust with her heart."
Aidan took a deep breath. "I'm forty-two years old. I have two children from a previous marriage—Maeve is eleven, Finn is eight. Well I am separated from my ex-wife although the legal paperwork should be completed within the next few weeks, Gracie knows all about it.. I'm an actor, which means my schedule is unpredictable and I'm away from home more than I'd like." He paused. "I met Gracie in Dingle. She ran into me at a bookstore, and I was... I was captivated. By her talent, by her spirit, by the way she sees the world."
"Go on," Father Marcus prompted.
"She's been hurt," Aidan continued. "Badly. By her family, by people who should have protected her. She doesn't trust easily, and she has every reason not to. But she let me in. Slowly, carefully, but she let me in." His voice grew thick with emotion. "And I swear to you, Father, I will spend the rest of my life proving that her trust wasn't misplaced. I will protect her, support her, love her with everything I have."
Father Marcus studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Good. Because that girl has been through more than anyone should have to endure. She came here broken, and she's worked so hard to put herself back together. If you hurt her—"
"I won't," Aidan said firmly.
"If you hurt her," Father Marcus continued, his voice taking on a steely edge that Al had rarely heard, "you'll have to answer to me. And to Al. And to God himself. Are we clear?"
"Crystal clear, Father."
"Good." Father Marcus's expression softened slightly. "Now, when we find her—and we will find her—you take care of her. You hear me? Whatever she needs, whatever she's been through, you be there for her."
"I will," Aidan promised. "I swear it."
Al's phone buzzed again. He grabbed it, hope flaring in his chest, but it was just a text from one of their friends asking if there was any news.
"Nothing," he said, his voice hollow. "Still nothing."
Aidan pulled out his own phone, checking it compulsively. "The police said they'd call if—"
"They'll call," Father Marcus said, but he sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as them.
The sun was climbing higher now, the morning heat already building. Tourists were starting to emerge from hotels, cameras in hand, ready to explore the French Quarter. Life was going on as normal for everyone else, while Al's world had narrowed to a single, desperate hope: that Gracie was okay, that she was safe, that they would find her.
------
A voice shouted behind her: "Hey! Lady!" The sound was a booming baritone, thick with a Bayou drawl, exploding the fragile silence behind her.
Gracie turned and saw a big, burly man coming from the house she'd just left. He was tall-oversix feet- with a thick build and a beard. Gracie froze, then poured every ounce of energy she could muster into running.
Panic flooded her system, pure and primal. Her heels clicked frantically against the pavement as she tried to move faster, but her body wouldn't cooperate. Sweat poured down her face, her back, soaking through the emerald dress. The midday Louisiana sun beat down mercilessly, but that wasn't why she was sweating. Fear had her heart hammering so hard she could feel it in her throat, in her temples, behind her eyes. And underneath it all, her body was rebelling—shaking, trembling, her stomach churning with nausea as the alcohol from last night worked its way out of her system.
She stumbled, one heel catching on an uneven crack in the sidewalk. Her ankle twisted but she caught herself, kept moving. Her breath came in short, desperate gasps. Behind her, she could hear him—heavy footsteps, getting closer. He was so much bigger than her, his legs so much longer, and she was wearing these stupid fucking heels and her head was pounding and everything was spinning and she couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't—
"Lady, wait!"
She tried to run faster but her legs felt like lead. The hangover made everything sluggish, uncoordinated. Her vision swam. More sweat dripped into her eyes, stinging. She wiped at it frantically with one hand, still trying to run, but it was useless. She could hear him right behind her now, could feel the vibration of his footsteps through the pavement.
Then his hand closed around her arm—big, strong, inescapable—and spun her around.
Gracie's heart felt like it would explode. She could barely see through the tears that were suddenly streaming down her face, mixing with the sweat. Her whole body was shaking violently now, trembling so hard her teeth chattered. She tried to pull away but his grip was firm, and she was so weak, so dizzy, so terrified she thought she might vomit or pass out or both.
"Please," she gasped, the word breaking on a sob. "Please, please don't hurt me. Please, I'll do anything, just please—" Her voice cracked, rising with hysteria. "Please let me go, please, I need to go home, please—"
She was babbling now, words tumbling over each other, barely coherent. Tears and sweat poured down her face. Her heart was beating so fast it felt like it would burst through her ribs. She couldn't catch her breath. Couldn't think. Could only feel the terror consuming her, the absolute certainty that something terrible was about to happen.
"Please," she whispered again, her voice breaking completely. looked up into the face of the Big Burly Man- a man built like a dockworker, with a thick beard and deeply tired eyes. "Please." Gracie said, still struggling against his grip even though she knew it was futile. Her legs felt like they might give out at the realization of her utter defenselessness. This was it. She was caught "I need to go home. I need to—"
"And I'm gonna help you do that, cher" the man said patiently. "But first, you need coffee and maybe some aspirin, because you look like death warmed over."
He was still holding her arm—not tightly, but firmly enough that she couldn't break free. Gracie looked desperately down the street, hoping to see someone, anyone who could help. But the street was empty. Sunday morning. Everyone was either at church or sleeping off their own hangovers.
The man—Rusty, she would learn—walked her back to his house, through the front door, and into a small kitchen with yellow linoleum floors and outdated appliances. He sat her down at a Formica table and went about making coffee.
Gracie sat rigid in her chair, every muscle tense, ready to bolt at the first opportunity. She watched his every move, cataloguing potential weapons within reach. A knife block on the counter. A heavy ceramic mug. The back door just beyond the refrigerator.
"What's your name, cher?" Rusty asked as he poured coffee into two mugs.
Gracie hesitated. "Grace," she said finally, giving the formal version. Not offering any more information than necessary.
"Grace," he repeated, setting a mug in front of her. "That's a pretty name. I'm Rusty."
She took a sip of the coffee. It was burnt and acidic, making her stomach churn worse than it already was. But she forced herself to drink it, needing something to do with her hands.
"You got yourself into quite a state last night," Rusty said, settling into the chair across from her with his own mug. "Ran right into me outside that jazz club on Bourbon. Hit me so hard you knocked yourself clean out. I couldn't just leave you there on the street—some bad people out at that time of night—so I brought you here. Put you in my daughter's old room. She's up in Baton Rouge now, at LSU."
Gracie absorbed this information, trying to match it with her fragmented memories. She remembered stumbling back into the bar, looking for Al. Remembered running into someone. And then... nothing.
"You want some aspirin?" Rusty asked. "You look like you could use it."
Gracie shook her head. She didn't feel comfortable accepting anything from this man, even if he seemed genuinely helpful. She'd watched enough true crime documentaries to know that predators often seemed friendly at first.
They sat in uncomfortable silence for several minutes, Gracie forcing down the terrible coffee, Rusty watching her with what seemed like paternal concern.
"Where you live, cher?" he asked finally. "I can give you a ride home."
Gracie's head snapped up. A ride home. Yes. That's what she needed. "Near St. Michael's," she said. "In the Garden District."
"That's a ways from here," Rusty said, standing up. "But I'll get you there. Come on."
He led her through the house to the garage, where a beat-up truck sat waiting. They both got in, and what followed was the most uncomfortable twenty-five minutes of silence Gracie had ever experienced. She kept one hand on the door handle the entire time, ready to jump out if necessary. She memorized the route, the street names, just in case.
Finally, mercifully, they pulled up in front of St. Michael's Church.
"Thank you," Gracie said quickly, reaching for the door handle.
But Rusty got out too, starting to follow her.
Gracie's breathing became rapid, shallow. Why was he following her? What did he want?
She walked quickly toward the church, not wanting him to know exactly where Father Marcus lived, not wanting to lead a stranger to that door. The church would be safe. There would be people there. Witnesses.
She pushed through the heavy wooden doors into the cool, incense-scented interior—
And heard a startling scream.
Gracie looked up to find Al running toward her, his face streaked with tears, his hair wild like he'd been pulling at it.
"GRACIE!" he screamed, and then he was on her, knocking her completely off her feet, wrapping her in the tightest hug she'd ever received.
"Can't—breathe—" Gracie gasped, but Al didn't let go, just sobbed into her shoulder.
When he finally released her, Gracie noticed Father Marcus standing near the altar. He looked like he'd aged ten years overnight, his face drawn and gray. But there was relief shining in his eyes.
And next to him—
Gracie's breath caught.
Aidan.
He was really here. Not in Croatia, not thousands of miles away, but here, in New Orleans, in this church, looking at her like she was a ghost he couldn't quite believe in.
She stared at him, wondering if she was hallucinating. If the hangover had somehow conjured him from her imagination. But then he was moving toward her, and she could smell him—that familiar scent of his cologne and something uniquely him—and she knew he was real.
He wrapped his arms around her, and Gracie started crying. Really crying, not delicate tears but full-body sobs.
"I missed you," she choked out. "God, Aidan, I missed you so much."
"I missed you too," he murmured into her hair. "Christ, Gracie, I thought—when you disappeared—"
He held her for a long moment, and Gracie could feel him shaking slightly. When he finally pulled back, he pressed a kiss to her forehead, his hands framing her face like he needed to confirm she was real.
A throat cleared behind them.
Everyone turned to see Rusty standing just inside the church doors, looking uncomfortable in this sacred space.
"Sorry to interrupt," he said. "I just... I was real concerned about the girl. Wanted to make sure she got home safe."
Aidan immediately stepped forward, positioning himself slightly between Gracie and Rusty. His entire demeanor had shifted—no longer the vulnerable man holding his girlfriend, but something harder, more protective.
"Thank you for bringing her home," Aidan said, his voice polite but with an edge to it. "She's safe now. We've got her."
Rusty nodded, seeming to understand he was being dismissed. "Alright then. You take care, Grace."
He walked out, and Gracie felt a load lift off her shoulders as the door closed behind him. Her knees went weak, and Aidan caught her, guiding her to sit in one of the pews.
Al dropped down beside her, taking her hand. "Do you have any idea how terrified we were? We searched all night. The police were looking for you. Hospitals. Everywhere."
"I'm sorry," Gracie whispered. "I didn't mean to—I can't remember anything after calling Aidan. It's all just... blank."
"You have a concussion," Father Marcus said, coming over to join them. His voice was stern but caring. "When you ran into that man, you hit your head. That's why you blacked out. You need to see a doctor."
"I'm fine—"
"You're not fine," Aidan interrupted firmly. "You're going to the hospital. Now. Non-negotiable."
Gracie looked at the three of them—Al, Father Marcus, and Aidan, all staring at her with varying degrees of worry and relief and love—and she didn't have the energy to argue.
"Okay," she said. "But after that... can we just go home? I want to shower and sleep and—" She looked at Aidan. "And I want to lay in your arms and not think about anything else."
"That can be arranged," Aidan said softly. He helped her stand, keeping one arm around her waist. "But first, hospital. Make sure you're actually okay."
As they walked toward the door, Al on one side, Aidan on the other, Father Marcus following behind, Gracie felt tears sliding down her cheeks again.
She'd scared them. Scared herself. And the worst part was, she couldn't even remember most of it. Just waking up in a stranger's house, afraid and alone, her entire body hurting.
But she was home now. She was safe.
And Aidan was here—he'd flown halfway across the world because she'd disappeared, because he loved her, because she mattered enough for him to drop everything and come.
That had to mean something.
That had to mean everything.
Chapter 23: Lost
Chapter Twenty-Three: Lost
Later that night, Al and Gracie found themselves traipsing through the different jazz and blues bars that littered the streets of the French Quarter. The night air was thick and humid, carrying the sounds of competing brass sections that vibrated with a thousand stories, each one a note in the city’s endless jazz symphony and the smell of spilled beer and fried food. They'd been at it for hours—drinking, dancing, laughing until their sides hurt. Al, a whirlwind of charisma and questionable life choices, laughed, his head thrown back as Gracie, shimmering in an emerald velvet dress, twirled clumsily beside him, swept away by the heady mix of Prohibition-era décor, raw, soulful music, and a river of potent cocktails.
Gracie, well past drunk and nearing a state of joyful incoherence, The world had taken on a soft, blurry quality, like she was watching everything through a Vaseline-smeared lens, giggled as Al pressed another glass into her hand. "To terrible decisions!" he’d declared a couple of hours ago, and had been making good on the promise ever since. She'd lost count of how many drinks Al had bought her—hurricanes and sazeracs and shots of something that tasted like licorice and regret.The saxophone wailed a lament, the bass thrummed a deep heartbeat, and the crowd swayed, a sea of bodies lost in the rhythm.
"You're doing great, babe!" Al shouted over the music, spinning her around on the dance floor of their current establishment. "This is exactly what you needed!"
Gracie laughed, stumbling slightly. The room tilted at an interesting angle. "I think I'm drunk!"
"You think?" Al grinned. "You're absolutely obliterated. It's beautiful."
The band was playing something sultry and low, a blues number that made Gracie's bones feel liquid. She swayed to the music, her eyes half-closed, amidst the glorious cacophony, that a brilliant, albeit entirely ill-advised, idea sparked in Gracie’s muddled brain: call Aidan. It seemed like a brilliant idea. The best idea she'd ever had. Why hadn't she thought of it sooner?
Calculating the time difference between NOLA and Croatia was a task far beyond her current cognitive abilities, but if it was night here, it had to be "tomorrow" there. That seemed right. Math was hard. She pulled away from Al, who was now dancing with a attractive man in a perfectly tailored suit, and stumbled through dancing couples, her velvet dress brushing against various hips and elbows, until she found a secluded, dimly lit corner near a service door. With a slight wobble, she fished out her phone, the screen blooming a blinding light in the gloom, squinting at the screen until the numbers came into focus, and dialed Aidan’s number, pressing the phone against her ear
"Gracie?" His voice came through, slightly grainy with distance and surprise. "Is that you?"
"Aidan!" Gracie said, too loud, her words slurring together. "Yes! It's me! I'm calling to say... to say I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
The connection was a little scratchy, and Aidan’s voice strained. "Love, I can barely hear you. Where are you?" There was music blaring behind her, brass and drums and the chatter of a hundred drunk conversations. "Can you go somewhere quieter?"
"Yeah, sure," she mumbled, pushing open the service door. She stumbled into a narrow, damp alley, the brick walls cool against her arm, like garbage, piss, something vaguely metallic replacing the sweet perfume of the bar. The sudden quiet was jarring. Just the muffled thump of bass through the walls and the distant sound of traffic, but at least she could hear. The music was muffled out here, a distant throb. "Is this better?"
"Much," Aidan’s voice finally came through, clearer now, tinged with a sleep-softened warmth. "Now, what was that about ‘sorry’?"
Gracie leaned against the grimy wall, tilting her head back to stare at the sliver of indigo sky between the buildings. "I’m sorry for being… absent. Seems to be a recurring habit of mine, doesn’t it? Running away when things get hard. But I don't want to run anymore, Aidan. I want..." She trailed off, distracted by the fabric of her dress. Her voice trailed off, her thoughts snagging on a glittering thread. "And this dress! Aidan, It's emerald. Like Ireland. Shiney Like your eyes when you're happy. And it's velvet—Do you know how much I love to touch velvet? The delicate softness under my fingertips and its directional. You can pet it one way and it's smooth, but the other way it gets all dark and—" She spent a good minute stroking the fabric of her skirt, lost in the tactile sensation, waxing poetic about the way it caught the low light.
Aidan’s laughter, warm and rich even across continents, cut through her monologue. "Christ, love, you sound absolutely wasted. How much have you had to drink?"
Gracie frowned, trying to recall. "I… I don’t remember. Just Al said we were out to make terrible decisions, and he kept pouring drinks down my throat. I think there were hurricanes? And shots? Everything's a bit fuzzy."
Aidan let out a soft sigh. "He would." There was a pause, a moment of tender silence that spoke volumes."I love hearing from you, I've missed your voice so much. But Gracie, sweetheart, you're slurring really badly. You're barely coherent."
"I'm perfectly coherent," Gracie protested, then hiccupped.
"Where’s Al, anyway?"
Gracie looked around the alley as if Al might materialize. "I'm not sure. Last I saw him, he was making out with some guy. On the bar. Good for Al." She giggled, a hiccuping sound.
Aidan chuckled, a low, easy sound. "Right. Sounds about right for Al. I bet he’s trying to find anyone to join in on that threesome." He thought he’d said it low enough, a thought-to-himself kind of comment.
But Gracie, with the uncanny hearing of the truly intoxicated, heard it. "Threesome? What do you mean?"
Aidan hesitated, then decided what the hell. "He propositioned me to join his boyfriend for one."
Gracie burst out laughing, a full-bellied, liquor-fueled guffaw that echoed in the alley. "Al would absolutely love that! Oh my God! Did you say yes?"
"Of course not," Aidan said firmly, but she could hear the amusement in his voice. "I politely declined."
They talked for a little while longer, Gracie rambling about the bars they'd been to, the music they'd heard, how much she missed New Orleans and also missed Ireland and also missed him, most of all missed him. Her words were getting increasingly slurred, her thoughts jumping from topic to topic like a scratched record, the conversation drifting like smoke, until Aidan heard a soft, drawn-out yawn. "You getting tired, love?"
"So sleepy," Gracie murmured, her voice laced with a sudden, profound longing. "I just… I wish I was in your bed right now. Cuddled up. I love feeling your arms wrapped around me." She paused, her voice dropping to a whisper, raw and vulnerable and then, almost without thinking: "I love you, you know."
Aidan took a sharp breath in, a sudden, fierce warmth spreading through his chest. "I love you too, Gracie." The words were a quiet balm. "Listen, sweetheart, I need you to find Al. Keep me on the line while you go back inside, okay? I want to make sure you get home safe."
"M’kay," she agreed, her voice already fading. Pushing off the wall, swaying slightly, and headed back toward the door, she fumbled with the service door handle. She pulled open the door, and the wall of sound hit her—music and voices and the clink of glasses. The lights seemed too bright, making her squint, her vision a hazy watercolor. She stumbled forward, trying to navigate through the crowd. She stumbled back into the pulsing heart of the bar, trying to navigate the swirling bodies. Her foot caught on something, or someone, and she lurched forward, colliding with a solid form. Her phone flew from her hand, hitting the hardwood floor with a sharp crack.
"Oh! I’m so sorry!" she mumbled, trying to focus on the person she'd bumped into, but their face was a blur, their form a shifting shadow. A high-pitched buzzing filled her ears, growing louder, overwhelming the music, the laughter, everything. The next thing she knew, the vibrant world tilted, then dissolved into darkness.
"Gracie?" Aidan's voice sounded from the phone lying on the bar floor. "You there?"
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Panic, cold and sharp, had begun to claw at Al’s throat an hour ago. He had searched every inch of the jazz club, from the crowded bar to the less-crowded booths, even rushing into the ladies’ bathroom in a desperate, futile attempt to find Gracie. The women, understandably, had shrieked and a forcible removal by a very large woman in a floral dress, leaving him more frantic than before. He’d called her, again and again, his thumb raw from redialing, but her phone kept going straight to voicemail.
He knew he’d given her too much to drink, encouraging her to "let loose" and "forget her problems." He’d seen the glassy look in her eyes, the way her words had slurred into affectionate nonsense. He’d been too caught up in his own fun, in the thrilling pursuit of a new connection, to properly look after her. Guilt joined the panic, a crushing weight in his chest. And now she was gone, probably wasted beyond recognition, alone somewhere in the French Quarter.
"Gracie!" he kept calling, his voice getting increasingly frantic. "Gracie, where the hell are you?"
He'd called her phone over and over, but it kept going straight to voicemail. Each unanswered ring ratcheted up his panic another notch.
Al pushed through the crowd again, scanning faces, looking for that emerald dress. Nothing. He called her phone again. Voicemail.
"Fuck," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. His heart was pounding, his mouth dry despite all the alcohol. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
Still calling, still searching, Al wove through the dwindling crowd, his eyes scanning the floor. Then, amidst the discarded napkins and spilled drinks, he saw it – a phone screen glowing faintly on the dark wood. As he looked down, his heart lurched, then plummeted. The screen displayed his own name, "Al," beneath the words "Calling…." It was Gracie’s phone. And she wasn't holding it.
A cold wave of terror washed over him, sparking a full-blown panic attack. His breath hitched, his lungs seizing. He snatched the phone from the floor, his hands shaking so violently he almost dropped it again. Who did he call? Who could help? He scrolled frantically, past a dozen familiar names, his gaze landing on one. Father Marcus.
He dialed, his fingers clumsy, and waited, each ring stretching into an eternity. It rang four times before a groggy voice answered. "Hello?" Father Marcus’s voice was thick with sleep.
"Father Marcus? It’s Al. It’s Gracie. She’s… she’s gone. I can’t find her. Her phone… I just found her phone on the floor of the bar… She was so drunk, Father, I don’t know what to do!" His words tumbled out, breathless and choked with fear.
Marcus, instantly awake, listened patiently, his calm voice a lifeline. "Alright, Al. Breathe. Tell me where you are. Stay put. I’m on my way. "Where are you?"
"That jazz club on Bourbon Street. The one with the blue awning." Al was already moving toward the exit, phone pressed to his ear. "I'm sorry, Father. This is my fault. I gave her too much to drink—"
"We'll discuss that later. Right now, we find her."
Father Marcus hung up, and Al stood on the street outside the bar, looking up and down Bourbon Street with its neon lights and stumbling tourists. She could be anywhere. Anywhere at all.
Minutes later, Al stood shivering outside the bar, the humid night air doing little to soothe his rising terror. Father Marcus, looking oddly formal in his dark clothes despite the hour, pulled up. He was a steady presence, his kind eyes belying the urgency of the situation. "We’ll find her, Al. We’ll make a plan. We’ll retrace your steps."
As Father finished speaking, the phone in Al’s hand, Gracie’s phone, rang again. The name on the screen was Aidan. Al swallowed hard, a dry, painful gulp. This was going to be bad. He took a deep, shuddering breath and answered. "Aidan?"
"Al? What the hell is going on? Gracie was just on the phone with me and then… she just went silent. I heard a thud. and then nothing and she's not answering and—" Aidan was talking fast, his accent became thicker the more frantic it got, laced with a fear that echoed Al’s own.with panic. "What happened? Is she okay?"
Al tried to explain, stumbling over his words, the details a blur of guilt and panic. "I… I don’t know, Aidan. I lost her. We were out drinking and she wandered off and I found her phone on the floor inside the bar but I can't find her and Father Marcus is on his way and—"
There was a moment of silence on the other end, strained and chilling. Then Aidan’s voice, colder now, sharper, came through the line. "You lost her? How the fuck do you lose someone?"
"Okay, okay," Aidan interrupted, clearly trying to get his own panic under control. "Listen to me. I'm getting on the next flight out of Croatia. I'll be there as soon as I can. But right now, you need to go to the police. File a report. Give them her description, what she was wearing—"
"An emerald dress," Al said. "Emerald green, fitted, knee-length."
"Good. Tell them that. Tell them she's intoxicated and possibly disoriented. They need to start looking." Aidan's voice was tight with barely controlled fear. "And Al? Don't leave the area. Stay near where you last saw her. If she comes back looking for you—"
"I will. I'm not going anywhere."
"I'm calling you from the hotel," Aidan said. "I'm packing now. There's a flight at 6 AM Dubrovnik time—that's about two hours from now. I'll be in New Orleans by tomorrow afternoon your time. Just... find her. Please."
"We will," Al promised, though he wasn't sure he believed it. "I'll call you as soon as we know anything."
"Keep her phone with you. Keep it charged. If anyone calls or texts—"
"I will. Go catch your flight."
They hung up, and Al stood there on Bourbon Street, clutching Gracie's phone like a lifeline. A taxi pulled up and Father Marcus emerged, still in his pajamas under a hastily thrown-on coat.
"Any sign of her?" he asked, his face grave.
Al shook his head, tears finally spilling over. "No. Nothing. It's like she vanished."
Father Marcus put a hand on his shoulder, steadying him. "We'll find her. But first, we go to the police, just like Aidan said. We do this properly."
They flagged down a patrol car cruising past and explained the situation. The officer—a woman in her forties with tired eyes—took down all the information. Description, last known location, condition.
"We'll put out an alert," she said. "But I have to be honest with you—Saturday night in the Quarter, drunk young woman, no sign of foul play... we get a lot of these. Most of them turn up in a few hours, sleeping it off somewhere."
"She's not from here, I mean she is sort of," Al said desperately. "But She could be lost, hurt—"
"We'll look for her," the officer assured him. "I promise. But you should also check hospitals, just in case. Sometimes folks end up in the ER for alcohol poisoning or injuries from falls."
The words "alcohol poisoning" made Al feel like he might throw up.
They spent the next hour calling hospitals. Charity. Tulane. Ochsner. None of them had admitted anyone matching Gracie's description.
By four in the morning, Al and Father Marcus were back on Bourbon Street, walking up and down, showing Gracie's photo from her phone to anyone who'd look. Bartenders, bouncers, other drunk people stumbling home.
No one had seen her.
"This is my fault," Al said for the hundredth time. "I should have been watching her. I should have—"
"This is no one's fault except perhaps mine for not instilling better judgment," Father Marcus said firmly, though his face was drawn with worry. "Right now, we focus on finding her."
Gracie's phone buzzed. A text from Aidan: At the airport. Boarding in 30 minutes. Any news?
Al typed back with shaking fingers: Nothing yet. Police are looking. We're still searching.
Aidan: I'll be there soon. Keep me updated. Please.
Al: I will. I'm sorry, Aidan. I'm so sorry.
Aidan: Not your fault. Just find her.
Al put the phone in his pocket and looked at Father Marcus, who'd aged ten years in the past few hours.
"We'll find her," Father Marcus said, but it sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as Al.
They kept walking, kept searching, as the sky began to lighten with the first hints of dawn.
Somewhere in New Orleans, Gracie was lost.
And all they could do was pray they'd find her before something terrible happened.
