“Oh my God, Y/N,” Livvy gasped, instantly seizing up with panic. “Your waters have broken! Oh my God, what do we do?!”
“Just help me clean up,” you said, your tone surprisingly calm, already looking for a towel.
“Y/N, we have to get to the hospital like now!” she was practically screaming, the pitch already grating on your nerves.
“Would you relax!” you snapped back. “Jesus Christ. Labor can start hours later. Let me call my midwife.” You walked to the kitchen to get your maternity notes.
“Are you sure it's alright?” she asked, worried, and you shot her an unimpressed roll of your eyes that answered the question for her.
You spoke to your midwife. Since your mucus plug had dropped a week ago and you weren't dilated then, she advised you to rest, get moving, and that walking could help. She wanted you to wait for contractions; if nothing happened in 24 hours, you'd head to the hospital for induction. At 36 weeks, it was early, but the baby was measuring fine in your last scan, and you reassured yourself that her organs were well-developed.
You changed your clothes, opting for leggings and staying in your bra because of the sudden heat, and moved to the living room. You started bouncing and swaying your hips on your ball, determined that this baby was going to come naturally, even though you’d privately thought a C-section was inevitable.
Cillian was nowhere to be found. He always left his phone on his trailer—so utterly typical. He wasn't supposed to get off work until late, so it could be hours before you'd hear from him. You didn't want to bother him until it got serious, but Livvy, ignoring your warning look, quickly texted him just one line: “Y/N’s waters have broken.” She sent it into the void and prayed he saw it soon.
You soon grew bored of the yoga ball, too, and started packing your hospital bag. Elisa’s little bag was ready, but yours was still sitting on the to-do list.
“Just sit down,” Livvy commanded, pointing toward the bed, but you were restless and anxious.
“It’s fine, I can do it,” you protested, but she spread her arms out, blocking the way.
“I’m serious, Y/N. I don’t know how you can be so calm,” she said. You finally complied, sitting on the edge of the bed; your back was starting to kill you.
“Me neither, I mean. I’ve heard horror stories, but my pregnancy has been so… peaceful.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Physically,” you corrected, knowing what she meant.
“Remember that thing with your placenta and all? Where are your knickers?”
“Jesus, thanks, Liv. I’m trying to stay positive here. Left top drawer,” you sighed, knowing you were lying to yourself. It felt like the quiet before the storm.
“Shit, sorry, babe, you know what I mean.” She came over to hug you, and you felt tears well up in your eyes. “I just want you and this little princess to be safe. I love you so much.”
“Me too,” you squeezed her tight. She went back to the drawer as you dabbed your eyes. You were getting hungry and suddenly very hot.
“Aha!” she exclaimed, holding up a delicate, lacy white bodice. You instantly flushed and let out a genuine, teary-eyed laugh. She always knew how to cheer you up.
“I didn't know you still had fun!” she teased.
“Ha! I couldn't fit into those now even if I tried—they’d rip all over,” you joked. She kept rummaging, pulling out a plum bra and panties set, then a grey silk one. “Oh my God, stop, please!” you pleaded, blushing hotly at the rush of memories those sets brought back.
“Cillian’s a lucky man!”
“I bought those long ago, when we first started, actually,” you reminisced, gently rubbing your hand over your belly. You’d had cramps all day, but you thought the baby was just pushing down.
Livvy paused, folding a stack of soft t-shirts and sweats. “Can I say something?” she asked seriously. “I never thought he would stay. Like, really stay and commit. I honestly thought he was going to run away.”
“Yeah, he was a real coward back then,” you recalled, remembering the sharp sting of heartbreak when he’d temporarily bolted earlier in your relationship.
“Good thing he’s not anymore,” she said quickly.
“Yeah, well, let’s see how he manages this,” you scoffed, signaling dramatically at your entire current situation. “I can picture his face when he sees me ten centimeters dilated—just… boah.” You punctuated the image with a gesture of explosive chaos.
“I don’t know how you can do it,” she admitted, looking terrified.
“Me neither, I’m shit scared.”
“Don’t worry, baby, just think how worth it it will be when she’s in your arms.” You smiled, suddenly feeling nauseous and lightheaded. A wave of hunger hit, but you knew it was the hormones as you quickly ran to the toilet and brought up all the lunch you’d just had.
“Shit, Y/N, are you alright?” Livvy rushed behind you.
“Yeah, it’s normal, I think,” you mumbled, dabbing your eyes.
___________________
Cillian had been going through script readings and filming scenes all day. He was deep in the zone, working hard, and in the rare moments between takes, he was either resting or trying to unwind from the intense character he was playing. He, too, was scared. He didn't know how he was going to manage filming a demanding project while simultaneously welcoming a newborn. They were in the middle of production; he couldn't just take two weeks off. He had to be everywhere, and you, sensing his stress, hadn't wanted to bother him too much.
In the middle of a scene change, he felt the familiar urge to check on you, as you typically texted and talked throughout the day. On the break, he strode quickly to his trailer and grabbed his phone. The color instantly drained from his face when he saw Livvy’s single, stark text. He immediately clicked your contact and rang, once, twice, three times—his leg was shaking frantically beneath his costume trousers when you finally picked up.
“Hi, sorry, I was in the loo,” you said, your voice deceptively calm. You settled back onto the kitchen stool while Livvy made some tea and toast for you.
“How—wha—are you okay? Your waters have broken?” he stammered, already pacing back and forth in the narrow confines of his trailer.
“Wha—how do you know?” Your eyebrow knitted together in confusion.
“Livvy texted me.”
“Fucks sake,” you mumbled under your breath. “I’m fine, love, really, nothing yet, and I spoke to the midwife.”
“Y/N, I’m coming home.”
“No, don’t worry, really, it’s fine. The midwife will come to check on me later. For now, just finish your workday, and we’ll see how things are tomorrow.” You knew he would protest. But you were as stubborn as him, and given your short patience these days, he knew better than to push back.
“Okay, fine. I have about two hours left. I’ll try to rush things here.” You could sense his stress mounting—the way he was running a hand through his perpetually messy hair and that little tick of furiously tonguing his slightly crooked tooth.
“Keep your phone with you. I'll text you if anything happens.”
“Kay, bye. Love you,” he said.
“Love you,” you replied. As soon as you hung up, you felt a light contraction start, just like the ones from the past few days.
You spent the hours moving, stretching, and swaying on the floor in the living room while you watched TV. You tried the sofa, the floor, your ball, getting increasingly frustrated. You watched a movie and texted your sisters and mother snapping a quick picture for them.
Your mother called as soon as she saw the message. She talked your ear off rambling about what you should do and how exited she was. You were getting contractions now and just wanted to hang up and jump in the bath to regulate your body temperature and ease the pressure on your groin and back. The pain was getting too strong now, and you couldn’t stay still.
The midwife arrived right on time. She examined you and confirmed that everything was okay. The baby was well positioned, and you were three centimeters dilated. Still too little to go to the hospital.
The pressure on your hips and back was killing you, and breathing through the contractions felt impossible. You didn't know how it could possibly get worse.
“Alright, you wanna play daddy?” the midwife said to Livvy, and she instructed you to get on all fours.
“Sure,” Livvy said eagerly, ready to be useful in more ways than just making endless cups of tea that just made you nauseous.
“Just press on her back and hips with your knees and fists,” the midwife showed her as you breathed heavily.
“Like this?” Livvy asked, unsure.
“Ooh, yeah,” you groaned, the pressure from Livvy’s hands instantly easing the blinding peak of the contraction. The waves were getting harder, sharp and demanding, but the timing was still frustratingly irregular. You closed your eyes, wishing Cillian was here right now. You tried to rest, to eat, to move—but nothing offered true relief. You just wanted this phase to be over, ready to finally be holding your baby with Cillian.
As if summoned by your need, Cillian burst through the door about half an hour after the midwife left. He had his eyes wide and panicked. “Hi, love,” he rushed, running straight to you and kissing your sweaty forehead.
“Hi. You just missed it. The biggest one yet,” you managed to joke, though your hair was sticking damply to your forehead. He’d been worried sick and explained he'd scrambled out early, the cast sending their regards to you. As he rubbed your belly, absorbing the details, Livvy retreated to the kitchen, visibly pacing—you’d think she was the one about to give birth.
“Did you eat? Do you want something?” he asked, already sliding down to massage your feet.
“Mmm, no. Just feel a bit nauseous,” you admitted, tired and weak.
“Just wait here,” he murmured, quickly walking to the kitchen to grab you a glass of water.
“How has she really been?” Cillian whispered, pacing the kitchen floor. He still had his back to Livvy, demonstrating his complete lack of patience for small talk.
“Great,” Livvy hissed back, “but Cill, I think she needs to get to a hospital. It’s better to be there if anything happens. It could be dangerous.”
“I know,” he sighed, glancing toward the living room where he could hear your low moans. “She just won't listen. Thinks she has everything under control.”
Livvy didn't wait for his decision. “Go and get the bags,” she instructed firmly.
He walked into the bedroom to gather the bags and your coat, returning to the living room a moment later. He stopped short when he saw your bizarre position. He laughed confusedly. “What are you doing?”
You were on the floor on all fours, swaying side to side as another wave hit. You were trying to speed up the process and were now really considering going to the hospital.
“She needs to come out the same way she came in,” you gasped breathlessly.
He let out a choked, breathy laugh and knelt beside you on the carpet. “You’ll have to lay on your side for that, y/n,” he teased gently, trying to coax you up. “Come on, love, let’s go.”
“Yeah, we should—AH!” You screamed, the act of standing triggering a massive contraction that nearly buckled your knees from the sheer pain and pressure.
“Right girls, get on the barre for pliés!” you called out, walking over to your phone to start the music.
The little ones lined up quickly, pink leotards and soft slippers squeaking against the floor. You paced slowly behind them, correcting posture as the familiar piano notes filled the studio.
“Shoulders down, Saoirse,” you said gently, tapping the girl’s shoulder as you passed.
A knock on the studio door made you glance up mid-combination.
“Now to the left side,” you instructed, keeping your voice steady as you crossed to open the door.
Cillian stood there looking slightly frazzled, Claire’s ballet bag slung over his shoulder. Claire’s hair was perfectly bunned, but her cheeks were flushed like they’d run the last block.
“Sorry we’re late,” Cillian muttered, a little out of breath.
“It’s fine,” you replied, biting the inside of your cheek hard to keep the smile off your face. It was almost impossible not to think about how you’d woken up this morning with his head between your legs.
“Don’t worry, love. Come in,” you told Claire, opening the door wider. “We’ve only just started.”
You gave Cillian a quick, shy little “Bye.”
Claire hurried inside and started pulling on her warm-ups. You turned to one of the older girls near the front.
“Cecee, would you mind running through the combination with Claire while I pop to the bathroom?”
Cecee nodded cheerfully. “Yes, Miss.”
“When you’re done, repeat it once more on each side,” you called to the class as you slipped out. A chorus of “Yes, Miss” followed you down the hall.
You made sure Emily, the owner, was still outside on her smoke break before tilting your head toward the small staff bathroom at the end of the corridor. Cillian followed without a word.
The second the door clicked shut behind you, his mouth was on yours.
The kiss was hungry, almost desperate. He pushed you back against the wall, tongue sliding against yours as his hands gripped your hips and then slid down to knead your ass, pulling you flush against him.
“We shouldn’t—” you gasped, but the words dissolved into a soft moan when his lips moved just below your ear and his hand pressed firmly against your clothed core.
“Ten minutes,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “That’s all I ask.”
You barely managed to whisper, “Five,” before he spun you around, pressing your front against the cool tiles. His hands made quick work of your tights and knickers, dragging them down just enough. You heard the metallic sound of his belt and the rasp of his zipper, then the thick, blunt head of his cock nudged against your entrance.
He pushed in with one hard thrust.
A broken sound escaped you. He groaned deeply, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he felt how wet and ready you already were.
“Fuck… so tight,” he breathed.
It was fast and rough. His hips snapped against yours, the wet slap of skin echoing quietly in the small bathroom with every thrust. His balls tapped rhythmically against your clit, sending sparks of pleasure through you. You bit your lip hard, trying not to moan too loudly.
He reached up, wrapped your braid around his fist, and pulled your head back gently but firmly, arching your back. The slight sting made you dizzy.
When a moan threatened to slip free, his other hand covered your mouth, warm and steady.
“That’s it,” he whispered hotly against your ear, voice strained with effort. “Dont let them hear you.”
Your cunt clenched hard around him at his words.
He groaned, pace faltering for a moment before he drove deeper, harder, chasing both of your releases. The bathroom filled with the sounds of ragged breathing, your muffled whimpers, and the slick, obscene rhythm of your bodies.
His grip on your hair tightened, just enough to make you tremble.
“Come on,” he rasped, lips brushing your ear. “Come for me. I can tell you're close.”
The combination of his filthy praise, the relentless drag of him inside you, and the tight pull on your hair sent you spiraling. Your orgasm crashed over you hard, thighs shaking, walls pulsing around him as you cried out against his palm.
He followed right after, burying himself deep with a low, guttural groan, hips stuttering as he came inside you.
For a few long seconds, the only sounds were your heavy breathing and the faint hum of the flickering bathroom lights.
Cillian pressed a soft, almost reverent kiss to the back of your neck before slowly pulling out of you. You felt the warm trickle of him down your thigh as he carefully helped you pull your tights and underwear back up, his hands gentle now, almost protective.
You turned in his arms on shaky legs. He cupped your face with both hands, thumbs brushing over your flushed cheeks, and kissed you — slow, tender, and sweet. A stark contrast to the rough, desperate way he’d just taken you against the wall.
“You wanna go out to dinner?” he asked quietly, voice still a little rough as he zipped up his jeans.
You tried to fix your appearance in the small mirror, trying to look like you didn’t still feel him leaking out of you.
“Sure,” you said, your breathing finally settling.
“Eight’s fine.”
“See you then.” He gave you one last soft kiss, lingering just a second longer than necessary, before slipping out of the bathroom.
You waited a few heartbeats, checked yourself once more in the mirror, then hurried back toward the studio.
When you opened the door, the room was buzzing.
The girls had abandoned the barre and were clustered in small groups, chatting and giggling.
“Hey, come on. What’s going on here?” you called out, voice firm but warm.
The studio fell silent instantly. The girls scurried back to their places along the barre, looking appropriately guilty.
“Good. Now off the barre. Relevés on center, please.”
—————————————-
Dinner had been a romantic affair, filled with too much wine and endless laughter that left your cheeks aching. You had fallen into a comfortable routine these past weeks; late-night phone calls that stretched into the early hours, lazy makeout sessions on his couch, waking up tangled in each other’s sheets more often than not.
You were letting your guard down. Giving yourself a real chance. Trying, for once, not to overthink it, just to see where it would go. And it showed. Mel, another teacher at the studio who had slowly become something like a friend, had teased you about it just the other day.
“You look happier,” she’d said, nudging you with her elbow during a break. “Mystery man treating you right?”
You’d brushed it off with a laugh, cheeks warm. It felt good to have a friend. But the guilt gnawed at you. She trusted you with her messy dating stories, her insecurities, her life. And you still kept most of yours locked away.
Still, you couldn’t deny it felt good. Being held by him. Being kissed by him. The way he looked at you like you were something worth staying for. You tried to tell yourself it was just sex, just convenience, but that lie was getting harder to believe every day. You didn’t want to be kissed by anyone else. You didn’t want anyone else’s hands on you.
Over dinner Cillian commented that he thought Claire was suspicious about you two, after you showed up to pointe class wearing his shirt.
“So… you want to tell her?” you asked, taking another bite of your dessert, trying to sound casual.
“Yeah. But what if she gets mad at me?” He looked genuinely worried. “She’s been through enough with the divorce. I don’t want her thinking I’m replacing her mum or something.”
“I mean…” you pondered, kicking him lightly under the table. “She’s thirteen. She’s a smart girl. She at least suspects you fuck around.” You grinned.
Cillian rolled his eyes, but a giggle slipped out of him anyway.
“But seriously,” you continued, softer now. “I don’t think she’ll take it that badly if I tell her. She likes me. We have a good relationship.”
He studied you for a moment, thumb brushing over your knuckles on the table.
“You sure?” he asked, a little skeptical. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Yeah. I don’t mind,” you said, surprising even yourself with how much you meant it. “We have class tomorrow. I can talk to her after if you want.”
Cillian’s expression softened, something warm and grateful flickering across his face. He lifted your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
—————————————
You both were tipsy and giggly by the time you stumbled through his front door, the wine from dinner still warm in your veins. The second the door clicked shut, his hands were on you — impatient, greedy, pulling you close as your back hit the wall.
Your lips crashed together in a messy, laughing kiss. His fingers worked quickly down the buttons of your blouse while you tugged at his shirt, desperate to feel skin. The fabric whispered to the floor as you peeled it off him.
“God, I hope you never shave this beard,” you breathed, running your palms over the rough scruff along his jaw.
He smiled against your mouth, nipping at your bottom lip. “Do you like it that much?” he teased, voice low and playful as he trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses down the side of your neck.
“I love it,” you purred, the words turning into a soft moan when his beard scraped deliciously against your sensitive skin.
That was all the encouragement he needed.
Cillian grabbed the back of your thighs and lifted you effortlessly. You wrapped your legs around his waist, arms around his neck, still kissing him as he carried you through the house. Your shoes clattered to the floor somewhere along the way, both of you giggling into each other’s mouths when he nearly tripped over them.
He kicked the bedroom door open and threw you onto the bed with just enough force to make you bounce. You laughed, bright and breathless, as he crawled over you, eyes dark and hungry in the low light.
You wrapped your legs around his waist as he peeled off your blouse and bra, tossing them somewhere behind him. His mouth moved lower, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses down your stomach, teasing the sensitive skin just above the waistband of your jeans. He took his time sliding them down your legs, along with your underwear, until you were completely bare beneath him.
Your chest rose and fell quickly in anticipation, skin already flushed.
He took his sweet time, kissing and licking every inch of your hips and thighs, scraping his beard lightly against your skin, deliberately avoiding the one place you needed him most.
“Please,” you whined, arching your back, trying to chase his mouth.
Cillian smiled against your inner thigh, clearly enjoying how desperate you were. Only then did he finally give in.
He dragged his tongue in one long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit. You gasped, fingers twisting into the sheets. He did it again, and again, savoring you like he had all night. When your hips started twitching, he held them down with one strong hand and sealed his mouth over your clit, sucking gently.
Your moan of his name filled the room.
He worked you with devastating focus. tongue flicking, swirling, then moving side to side in that perfect rhythm he’d learned you loved. The wet sounds of his mouth combined with your broken whimpers made everything feel filthy and intimate at the same time.
You were already close when he slid one finger inside you, curling it upward to press firmly against your G-spot.
You came hard, thighs trembling around his head, crying out as pleasure crashed through you.
But he didn’t stop.
He added a second finger, thrusting them deep and steady while his tongue kept working your swollen clit. The overstimulation made your eyes water, your body twitching and jerking under his mouth, but he held you firmly in place.
“Cillian— fuck— I can’t—” you gasped, voice wrecked.
“You can,” he murmured against you, the vibration making you whimper. “One more for me, love. Come on.”
He curled his fingers again, sucking harder on your clit, and you shattered a second time, sharper, longer, almost too much. Your hands flew to his hair, tugging desperately as you rode out the waves.
Only then did he finally ease off, kissing your trembling thighs softly as you came down, gasping and oversensitive.
You looked down at him, eyes glassy, chest heaving.
“Please,” you begged, voice hoarse. “I need you inside me. Now.”
Cillian crawled back up your body, kissing you deeply so you could taste yourself on his tongue. His cock was hard and heavy against your thigh as he settled between your legs.
“Greedy girl,” he whispered against your lips, a hint of a smile in his voice. “You’ll get me.”
He stood up just long enough to push his pants and underwear down his legs, kicking them aside. Your teeth sank into your bottom lip at the sight of him, thick, hard, and already glistening at the tip.
Cillian planted his knees on the mattress and settled between your thighs again. He took his cock in hand and dragged the head slowly through your soaked folds, teasing your clit with lazy taps until you were squirming beneath him.
“Please,” you begged, hips lifting desperately. “Stop teasing.”
With one smooth, powerful thrust he buried himself inside you.
Your head fell back against the pillow, mouth open in a silent gasp as pleasure bordered on pain. He gave you a moment to adjust before he started moving, deep, steady strokes that made your tits bounce with every snap of his hips.
One of his hands held your thigh open wide, the other came up to cup your cheek. His thumb brushed your lower lip.
“Look at me,” he said, voice low and commanding.
You obeyed, eyes fluttering open to meet his. “Good girl” he rasped and you gasped as his praise.
He took the opportunity to slide his thumb into your open mouth. You sucked on it eagerly, tongue swirling around the digit as he fucked you harder.
The view was intoxicating; his broad shoulders hovering over you, hooded eyes fixed on the way your body moved beneath him. He pulled his thumb from your mouth, wet with your saliva, and used it to tease your nipple, rolling the sensitive peak until you clenched hard around his cock.
You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, wanting to watch where he disappeared inside you, slick and obscene, stretching you open with every thrust.
“God, I love your cock,” you moaned, voice wrecked.
He groaned at your words, pace faltering for a second before he drove in even deeper. His thumb moved down to circle your clit, firm and relentless. The pressure built fast and overwhelming.
Your elbows gave out. You fell back against the bed, nails digging into his thighs as another orgasm ripped through you, stronger than the last. Your cunt pulsed around him, squeezing him tight as you cried out.
Cillian didn’t stop. His hips kept their punishing rhythm, chasing his own release while dragging every last tremor from you. He planted one hand beside your head for leverage and rested the other lightly on your throat.
He applied just enough pressure to make your head spin in the best way. Your eyes rolled back, another broken moan slipping from your lips as your body tightened around him again.
“That’s it,” he rasped, voice strained. “Come on, love. One more.”
You shattered around him for the fourth time, cunt fluttering wildly as your orgasm dragged him over the edge with you. He buried himself deep, hips stuttering as he came hard, groaning your name while he filled you with pulse after pulse of warmth.
For a long moment the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the faint creak of the bed as he slowly relaxed on top of you.
He kissed you softly, almost reverently, before carefully pulling out. You winced at the loss, feeling the warm trickle of his cum between your thighs. Cillian noticed immediately and reached down, gently pushing some of it back inside you with two fingers, a possessive little gesture that made your stomach flutter.
He collapsed beside you, pulling you into his chest. His arms wrapped around you tightly, one hand stroking slowly up and down your back.
“Fuck,” he sighed, breath still ragged as he tried to steady himself.
“That was great,” you said, the words dissolving into giggles that made him huff out a laugh against your hair.
He looked down at you, eyes soft and warm, and cupped your cheek to steal a kiss that quickly turned deep and breathless. You gave in completely, tangling your fingers in his hair as he pulled your thigh over his hip. You could already feel him getting hard again against your skin.
You didn’t had any complaints, but it still shocked you how, at almost fifty, he could fuck you like this for hours if you let him.
Remembering you both had to wake up early tomorrow, you reluctantly pulled back from the kiss before it could escalate again.
“Come on,” you murmured, a little breathless. “We need to wake up early tomorrow.”
You sat up, trying to stand as gracefully as your shaky legs and sticky thighs would allow. Cillian made a low, protesting sound in his throat and reached for you, fingers brushing your waist.
“Come on one more,” he mumbled, voice husky.
You laughed softly and swatted his hand away.
“You already said that. I'm afraid there's no more.”
He grinned, unrepentant, and watched you walk toward the bathroom with heavy-lidded eyes.
He floated through the entire day on a quiet, unfamiliar high.
It wasn’t until you had spent the night in his bed that Cillian realised how deeply miserable he had become. The emptiness had settled in so gradually that he’d stopped noticing it, an endless, grey loop of days bleeding into one another.
Ever since the divorce, he had been lost. For the first month he could barely get out of bed. He told himself he didn’t need anyone. He had good friends, a loving family, and Claire, his little princess, the brightest light in his life. She was the only reason he got up some mornings, the only reason he pretended he was okay. For her, he went back to work. For her, he kept showing up.
With each new role came more recognition, until one night he stood on stage accepting an Academy Award. Everyone told him he had made it. That he had everything a man could want. But as the applause washed over him, he felt nothing but hollow. The statue felt heavy and meaningless in his hands.
He had his friends, his colleagues, his daughter. But at the end of the day he wanted someone to come home to. Someone who would ask about his day. Someone to take care of, and to be taken care of by. He tried dating a few times, forcing himself back into the game, but it never felt right. Nothing clicked. After a while he accepted it. He was getting older. This was probably it.
He could still fuck when the loneliness got too loud, but the relief was always temporary.
That was until you.
Now, he found that he was smiling more when he got to the set. Tim and Emily kept teasing him throughout the day, whenever he checked his phone to see if you had replied to his texts. He had rolled his eyes and tried to brush it off, but he couldn’t deny the quiet sting he felt every time he opened his messages and saw nothing from you. The silence hurt more than he wanted to admit.
But he had hope.
——————————
You had been ignoring him all week. As if not answering could erase the memory of his lips on yours, the quiet kindness in his eyes, the way he looked at you like you were something worth staying for.
You felt guilty for giving him that kind of hope. For letting him think there could be a chance for something normal here. Something healthy. You were convinced you would never be capable of that again, not with anyone, and certainly not with a man like him.
He wasn't pushy, trying to tell himself that you were just busy. He didn't text much or appeared at the bookstore. He was giving you space, and somehow that only made you crave him more.
You were lying on the couch under a blanket, rotting in the dim glow of the television. It had become your default spot when sleep refused to come in your bed, which was every night since that lunch at his house. You flicked through channels—apocalyptic news, cooking competitions, endless romantic movies where the handsome man loved the clumsy, imperfect girl exactly as she was. It didn’t matter if it was a dystopian romance, a superhero flick, or softcore porn. Everyone was in love. Or at least fucking.
Hugh Grant was making love to Julia Roberts on screen, but you weren’t really watching. Your mind kept drifting back to Cillian. Frustrated, you turned onto your back and stared at the ceiling. With a sigh, your hand slipped under the blanket and beneath the waistband of your bottoms.
You closed your eyes and let the memories take over. Your fingers found your clit, circling slowly as you remembered the feeling of his tongue on your lips, your nipples, the inside of your thighs. Your mouth fell open in a soft gasp when you found the right rhythm.
You recalled the weight of his body behind yours, the deep, steady way he moved inside you. A low moan escaped as you remembered how his eyes never left yours, the quiet praise in his voice when you came around him. Your free hand slid up to squeeze your breast, hard, chasing the building heat.
Your thoughts drifted to that morning in his bed. The taste of him on your tongue—heavy, thick, slightly salty. The way his fingers had twisted in your hair, the slight ache in your jaw afterward. That memory was what finally pushed you over the edge. Your back arched slightly as you came with a quiet, broken moan, thighs trembling under the blanket.
Your breathing slowly evened out. A small, tired smile tugged at your lips when you realised what you’d just done.
You missed him.
It wasn’t just the sex, though that was a big part of it. It was the way he cared for you. The patience he showed when you pushed him away. The quiet proof, day after day, that he wanted you anyway.
As if sensing the thought, your phone pinged inside your bag on the floor beside the coffee table. When you saw his name on the notification, you sat up.
“Hi”
You plucked courage from somewhere you didn’t know you still had and replied instantly.
“Hi”
The three dots appeared almost immediately. He was typing.
“Can we meet? I miss you.”
Your stomach dropped. Could he have been doing the same as you? Lying somewhere thinking about the two of you, replaying the same memories?
In a move that felt completely out of character, you agreed and gave him the code for the building buzzer.
And now here you were.
He had barely stepped inside before the kiss started. A soft hello that quickly turned hungry. You peeled his coat off his shoulders as he settled between your legs on the couch, his body pressing you back into the cushions. His hands slipped under your top, warm palms sliding over your skin, while he rocked gently against your clothed core, already hard.
“I didn’t come here for this,” he murmured when he finally pulled back, breathing hard, forehead resting against yours.
You looked up at him, eyes half-lidded, a little defiant.
“Then why did you come over?”
He kissed the corner of your mouth, soft and lingering. “To talk.”
“About what?” you asked, voice a touch more serious now, even as your hands stayed fisted in his shirt.
“About us,” he whispered.
His lips moved to your jaw, then slowly down the side of your neck.
“Us?” you asked, voice catching as his nose kept nudging downward along your neck. The word landed like ice water. You knew exactly what he meant, but it still startled you, made your stomach drop.
He lifted his head to meet your gaze, eyes dark and steady. “You, me… and whatever this is.”
“Wait—wait, wait.” You pushed against his chest and sat up quickly, forcing space between you. “What do you mean?”
“This, Y/N.” He said gesturing the space between you and him. His voice was getting frustrated now, the heat of the moment cooling into irritation at your interruption. “Whatever the fuck we’ve got going on. We have lunch. We fuck. We have a great time. And then you disappear and don’t call?”
“Oh, what are you? A girl?” You scoffed, the words slipping out sharp and defensive.
You stood up abruptly, walking away from him toward the kitchenette, needing distance from the conversation you could feel coming.
You filled the kettle with water, flicked the switch on, and heard him approach from behind.
“You know? You can be a real cunt when you want to be,” he said, his voice soft but laced with clear anger and frustration.
You sighed heavily and covered your face with both hands for a moment, suddenly exhausted by the whole thing. You were already tired of this fight before it had even properly started, and you were beginning to realise that of course he hadn’t just come over to fuck. He wanted to talk.
“I know, okay?” you said, leaning back against the counter and running a hand through your hair. “I’m sorry. It’s just… I hate that you act surprised when I can’t give you something I never said I could give. You already know how I am. You know I’m fucked up. Why are you so demanding?”
The tears came then, hot and sudden. You were frustrated with yourself — because some part of you desperately wanted to give him everything he was asking for, but you knew there was only so much you could offer without hurting him in the process.
“Hey, hey, hey…” Cillian walked toward you immediately, pulling you into his arms. You let yourself collapse against his chest, face buried in his shirt as the sobs finally broke free. In his arms you felt like you could breathe for a second. Like only he could loosen the tight confines of everything you kept bottled up.
When you realised you were soaking his shirt, a small, embarrassed giggle slipped out through the tears. “Fuck, I’m sorry…”
You tried to wipe your face with both hands, but he caught them gently, holding them between you. He looked at you — so vulnerable, so raw — and couldn’t resist pressing a soft kiss to your lips. His heart ached at the feel of your tears against his skin.
“I’m sorry, okay?” he whispered against your mouth. “I’ll let you take the lead on this. Whatever pace you need.”
He kept holding your hands like he was scared you might run again.
“I just want you to open up to me,” he said, voice soft, almost a whisper. “Tell me what’s going on in there.”
If you only knew what goes on inside my head, you thought.
“You can trust me,” he added, almost pleading now, eyes searching yours for any small crack he could hold onto.
You didn’t have the words. Not yet.
So instead you gave in.
You leaned up and kissed him — slow, deep and passionate. It escalated quickly, resuming the passion from before.
His lips traveled down. His hand on the back of your head tilted it to the side so he could run his tounge up the side of your neck to give a nibble to your ear lobe.
Your hand was tangled in his hair. Tugging and running the hands through his soft locks. The feeling of his beard gave you a shiver that traveled from your neck to your throbbing cunt.
His hand tugged your top up and he admired your naked figure for a second before diving in. Licking, flicking and biting your tits. One hand was on the back of your head while the other one palmed your core through your thick pajama pants.
Applying presure your gound down. “Please” you sighed. He complied, going past the waist band of your pants and knickers to stroke your folds.
He groaned when he found you were dripping already. Quickly grabbing your hips to sit you on the counter he resumed his assault on your folds. With ease he entered a finger inside of you.
“How are you always so ready for me?” He asked, lifting your top further up and off and he resumed the teasing of your nipples as you kept him in place with your hand.
“I was touching myself before you texted” you confessed, dizzy from the way his middle finger rubbed that perfect spot inside of you.
He groaned and you could feel the twitch of his cock on your thigh at your confession.
“You were?” He asked, looking at you. His stare only adding to the pressure on your lower belly.
“Yes. Ive missed you too” you whispered and he entered another finger with a groan. It slit in with ease and you were in heaven.
—————————
You both had Friday off and stayed up until the light crept through the curtains again. Talking, kissing, fucking. Slow and lazy at times, urgent at others. The hours blurred together in the soft glow of your small flat.
True to his word, Cillian didn’t push. He let you lead every conversation, every touch. But it surprised even you how easily the words came. You told him about your childhood in Sligo, your mother’s sharp tongue and softer hands, the day you got your first pair of ballet shoes, the way books had always felt like safer places than people. He listened like every word mattered, laughing quietly at your stories, eyes warm in the low light.
He loved seeing you like this, unguarded, in your own bed, wearing nothing but one of his t-shirts, hair messy, cheeks flushed. At home. Real.
Eventually you fell asleep tangled together, his arm heavy around your waist, your back pressed to his chest. For once, sleep came easily.
—————————————
The loud ringing of your phone dragged you awake with an annoyed groan. Sunlight was already pouring into the lounge. You dragged yourself up, squinting, and grabbed whatever clothes were closest, your panties and his t-shirt, before padding out to answer it.
It was your sister.
“Hello?” Your voice came out raspy and low.
“Hiya,” she said, far too cheerful for whatever time it was. “How are you?”
“Fine,” you groaned, pulling the t-shirt down as you sat on the couch and tucked your legs under the throw. “You?”
“Uh… I’m in a bit of trouble,” she sighed.
“Go on.” You rolled your eyes. It was usual Rosie, every week a new problem to whine about.
“Y/N! Why were you asleep? It’s like eleven!”
“It’s my only day off in weeks, now spit it out.”
She sighed dramatically. You tucked your legs tighter under the blanket.
“I think I’m pregnant.”
“What? Didn’t you guys break up?” Your voice came out louder than you intended. You glanced toward the bedroom, checking if you’d woken Cillian.
“We did… sort of.”
“Rose.” You scolded her softly. Even after all your troubles, your little sister still managed to outshine you when it came to chaos.
“I know, I know. It just sort of happened. I’d taken the implant out and now I don’t know what to do.” Her voice was climbing, breath shaky.
“Well, have you taken a test?”
“No, I’m about to do it right now.”
“Well, do it!” You walked to the kitchenette and filled the kettle, needing something to do with your hands.
You heard plastic rustling, the toilet flush, the cap clicking shut.
“Never have sex unprotected, Rosie. At least have him pull out.”
“First of all, ew. Second of all, he did!” Another pause. “Now we wait.”
“Fuck’s sake.” You ran a hand through your messy hair.
“So how are you? How’s work?”
“No, don’t change the subject. Have you missed your period?”
“Ugh, yes. Like a week.”
“Probably just stress from moving. Anyway, I’m fine. Just busy and fucking cold.”
“Have you made any friends there?”
“No. Not yet.” Your tone sharpened.
“Have you tried?”
“Jesus, what’s with the twenty questions? No, I haven’t. I’m fine like this.”
“Fine! I was just asking.”
“Well don’t.”
A beat of silence stretched between you.
“I did meet someone though,” you said, a small, wicked smile slipping onto your face.
“A man?” Rose wailed, instantly perking up.
“Mhm.” You agreed, looking towards your bedroom.
“What’s his name?”
“Cillian.”
“How did you meet? You didn’t tell me you were dating again.”
“I’m not. We’re not. We’re just—”
“Fucking?” she finished wickedly.
“No, of course not.”
“Course you are. I can hear you giggling, you little minx.” Heat crept up your cheeks as you smiled despite yourself.
“Well what does he do? How did you meet?”
“He’s an actor.”
“Y/N, are you talking about Cillian Murphy?”
“Uh… I think so.” You knew so but you knew how she would react.
“WHAT?! How the fuck?”
“I teach his daughter.”
“Look at you, fucking an a-list actor.”
“We are not.”
“Whatever you say,” she laughed. “Is he a good fuck? He’s really hot—”
“Alright, waiting’s done.”
“Here we go.” She sighed.
“And?” You bit your lower lip nervously.
“Not pregnant.”
You both let out a long, simultaneous sigh of relief.
“Oh thank God,” you said, pouring hot water into a mug.
“Okay, that’s a relief,” Rose laughed, the tension draining from her voice. “So… are you guys serious? Does he know about—”
“No. And he will never know. It’s not serious, okay? We’re just… fucking,” you said sharply, keeping your voice low.
“You do deserve someone though. You can’t punish yourself forever.”
“I know,” you lied.
“So now what? Are you getting back together?”
“Fuck no. It was just a goodbye.”
“Good for you, Rosie.”
“Alright, I'm leaving. I'm supposed to be at my desk now my boss already hates me”
“You're at work?!”
“Yes and I'm supposed to be working!”
“Alright bye. I love you”
“Love you too”
You hung up and stood there for a moment, staring at your phone, the steam from your tea curling lazily upward in the quiet flat. The relief in Rose’s voice still echoed in your ear, but it did nothing to loosen the knot in your own chest.
You took a slow sip, the heat burning your tongue. Typical Rosie — always falling into chaos and somehow landing on her feet. You envied that. Your own messes never seemed to resolve so cleanly.
Behind you, the bedroom door creaked softly. You turned to see Cillian padding out, shirtless, hair tousled from sleep, sweatpants slung low on his hips. He looked soft and rumpled and unfairly beautiful in the morning light. When his eyes found you, a slow smile spread across his face.
“Morning,” he murmured, voice still gravelly.
“Morning.”
He crossed the small space and wrapped his arms around you from behind, chin resting on your shoulder. You let yourself lean back into his warmth, his bare chest solid against your back. For a second, everything felt simple.
“Who was that?” he asked quietly, pressing a kiss just below your ear.
“My sister. Rose. She’s… having a moment.”
He hummed, not pushing for details. One of his hands slipped under the hem of his t-shirt you were wearing, palm warm against your stomach.
“You okay?” he asked.
You nodded, even though you weren’t sure. “Yeah. Just family stuff.”
He didn’t press. Instead he turned you gently in his arms until you were facing him, searching your eyes with that intensity that saw right through you.
You swallowed hard. The urge to spill everything, the phone call, the guilt, the things you’d never told anyone, rose up so suddenly it scared you.
Instead, you rose onto your toes and kissed him, slow and deep, trying to lose yourself in the taste of him rather than the noise in your head.
He kissed you back, hands sliding down to your waist, pulling you closer. When you finally broke apart, foreheads resting together, he smiled again — that small, private smile that always made your chest feel too tight.
“Do you want a cuppa?” you asked softly.
“I’m fine, thanks,” he hummed, his hands slipping under the hem of his t-shirt you were wearing, palms warm against your cool skin. “You’re freezing.”
“Warm me up,” you whispered against his lips.
Without another word, Cillian scooped you up, hands sliding under your thighs as he lifted you effortlessly. You wrapped your legs around his waist, arms around his neck, and he carried you back into the bedroom, mouth never leaving yours.
And we’re back with these gorgeous lot that now will begin the journey of diapers, baby cries and a clingy dog 🐾♥️✨ for so long I wondered how this moment would be and it has been a joy to write this chapter, I hope you enjoy it!
“Be careful Cill.” Yael pleaded even though she felt Cillian was slowing down the vehicle.
The car ahead of them stopped completely and instinctively, Yael held the car seat with her hands, even though it was firmly secured. Their baby girl had fallen asleep ever since they started the drive back home.
Cillian looked at her through the rearview mirror and smiled softly, he hoped she hadn’t noticed the way his hands where holding the steering wheel, his knuckles almost white from the force. He found himself doing everything more carefully than he would usually do.
The moment he took his daughter in his arms, he noticed how everything else changed.
“How are you two ladies doing over there?”
Yael stole a glance towards the car seat next to her, the most beautiful and perfect little girl stretched one of her arms, her hand opened and closed as a bubble of droll formed on her lips.
“We’re doing just fine, daddy.” Yael empathized the last word, still not fully believing they had a baby.
“It’s just so crazy how everything changed in the last 24 hours huh?” He sighed thinking how the previous day they didn’t have a baby and now… they were driving back home with her.
Yael could only nod in agreement. Looking again at her baby girl, thinking how she was the answer to all her silent prayers, all of her thoughts and wishes. And now, she was real.
Cillian caught his wife staring adoringly at their daughter through the mirror and that simple gesture caught him off guard, nothing prepared him to the feeling of watching her arranging the blanket over her small body or to hear her talking to her so softly and with so much love in her voice and words that Yael noticed the way he was staring at her with those deep blue eyes evidently watered.
Her free hand came to rest on his shoulder. “Thank you, for keeping up with me in this crazy journey.”
Cillian chuckled softly looking for a second to his right, then he covered her hand with his before kissing her knuckles.
“Thank you… for not giving up. Some days it felt like we had everything against us.”
She was lost for words, couldn’t find the right way to describe her feelings right there.
But everything felt alright.
“Athena Murphy.” She proclaimed solemnly. “We’re going to fill your life with so much love.”
His heart started pounding inside his chest at the sound of his daughter’s name.
“We gotta take Athena to Athens some day.” He suggested crossing the bridge.
“That would be lovely.” She agreed immediately. “But first you have to meet your grandparents and big brother, Scout.”
“How do you think he’ll react? Scout, I mean.”
Yael sighted. “I’m a bit worried about the barking to be honest. He’s been alone for a while and with all the attention she's going to get… maybe we should think of finding a trainer.”
“Yeah… let’s see how it goes.” Cillian nodded focusing on the traffic again.
Yael couldn’t prevent the smile that was tattooed on her lips, ever since her arms wrapped around her baby’s body she hadn’t stopped smiling, it was an indescribable feeling.
Cillian took the carrier with ease, Yael following his steps holding some stuffed animals and a bag full of the goodies they gave them at the convent, but she stopped on her tracks to take in of the moment, the view of her husband carrying their daughter inside their home.
Her home now.
The place filled with pink balloons and a welcome home banner. Several flower vases decorated the table by the foyer, it smelled amazing.
Her mother was the first one to spot them, both hands flying to cover her mouth as happiness took over Isla.
“Oh my God, I can’t believe you’re here.”
Cillian’s parents followed.
Her Dad behind them.
Cillian placed the carrier in the middle of the kitchen island just as Scout rushed downstairs barking.
“Let’s get you to the basement.” He took Scout by the collar immediately, he was desperately trying to find a way out. “Oi!”
Meanwhile everyone had their eyes on the little baby now resting safely in Yael’s arms.
“Look at her.” Cillian’s sister Orla beamed.
“How did it go?”
Yael explained everything while they were at the convent.
Suddenly she took the beanie off Athena’s head and everyone gasped.
“She’s a redhead!” Isla comented with excitement.
“Oh God a Ginger!” Cillian’s mother agreed.
Cillian came back upstairs and found his parents taking turns to hold Athena.
“We’ve food in case you’re hungry.” Isla announced with a smile.
That’s when he noticed the counter was full of food trays and snacks served.
“This looks like a party.”
A loud bark and bang came from downstairs.
“Of course it is, because Athena is part of the family from now on. We’ve to celebrate.”
Yael’s heart was about to explode. She simply loved the fact that Bryan never mentioned that she was adopted. He was always so considered and really thought the impact his words would have. When Yael looked at him, she noticed his eyes were already watering.
Not that the adoption was wrong, but because it was the way he saw it; she was part of the family, it didn’t matter the baby wasn’t born from them. It meant more than she could ever express.
“Do you wanna hold her?” Yael asked him.
“Come here little one. I’m your grandpa, yes.” He then leaned closer to whisper in Athena’s ear but loud enough for Yael to listen. “Your favorite one.”
“Scout tore down the couch and scratched the door.” Cillian announced. “I gave him the blanket we used during the ride back home, hope that will settle him.”
“That’s good, so he can have Athena’s scent.” Yael approved.
“He must be thinking why am I locked down here?”
Issac, Yael’s brother chuckled picking some food.
“I just keep thinking of his size against Athena, she’s so small.”
“They’ll be just fine.” Cillian’s Mum assured her.
By the time Yael turned around, she found her father rocking slightly his granddaughter, she had settled perfectly in his arms, practically melted.
Cillian offered her a cube of cheese, then following her eyesight he realized why she had a big smile, anyone would think his daughter and father in law would’ve known each other for a long time… catching her eye, he winked at her loving how everything came out perfectly in the end. His hand went straight to the small of her back, allowing himself to enjoy the moment.
“Why are you making me that face? You don’t like the idea of camping? Then I’ll think of something else…” Bryan assured her.
“I think it’s time for a clean nappy.” Isla rushed to say and took the baby from her husband’s arms. “Right Athena? You want a new nappy?”
Yael took the diaper bag and went to the living room, Cillian following her steps.
“Give me a minute baby girl, yes, you give mama some time? Hmm?” Yael noticed then how her tone turned softer and sweeter for her daughter, earning a little squeal. “Guess I’m not doing it too bad? We’re learning okay?”
She then proceeded to explain Athena what she was doing, Cillian helping as much as he could.
“And you’re ready to go.” He softly held her hand. “See? All done.”
Athena let out another little sound and wriggled her legs whilst Isla disappeared to throw the dirty diaper.
Picking up her daughter, Yael rubbed her hand up and down her back, Athena leaning against her chest yawning happily.
“Oh baby, baby… you’ve no idea how much we wanted and waited for you.”
Cillian opened his arms. “C’me here you two.” Wrapping them and kissing his wife’s temple. Words weren’t enough.
And in that very same moment, it suddenly hit her; tears started blurring her vision, shoulders shaking slightly a gasp escaped her lips and Cillian held them tighter.
“She’s here, she’s our baby girl now. Hmm.” He looked to the ceiling, trying to not break down. “Everything is going to be alright. Look at her.”
Yael released her hand from his neck and moved her head down to look at the baby in her arms.
“She’s everything I ever wanted.”
“I know, I know.”
Athena now sleeping peacefully in her mother’s arms put on a little smile for her parents.
“She can’t even imagine how much we love her.”
What could he possibly say? For the first time in a very long time he was out of words, he was struggling to make a coherent statement, nothing prepared him to what he’d feel while holding his daughter in his arms.
“I love you so so much.” This time around, Yael’s words were directed to him, now that he was holding their daughter, Yael held his face between both hands and gave him a slow, tender kiss.
“Love you more.”
As they were about to join their families again, a loud noise came from the basement.
“I’ll bring him upstairs or Scout will take the door down.”
Yael nodded, he could be quite stubborn sometimes, but she suggested the leash to keep him controlled.
To everyone’s surprise, Scout crouched down and started crawling slowly towards the carrier. Tail wagging excitedly as he kept Athena’s blanket hanging from his mouth.
Yael held her breath as Scout started sniffing Athena’s foot.
“You like her?” Yael asked petting Scout’s head. “She’s your little sister.”
Scout touched her leg with his nose, a soft boop. Then turned his head to look around, as if he was extremely proud of himself.
“All done, now come on Scout…” Cillian tried to pull the leash but Scout weighed a hundred pounds suddenly. He turned into a statue.
“Looks to me like ain’t moving mate.” Issac stated grinning.
Cillian tried again and again. But Scout barely moved an inch.
“What’s going on with this one?” He asked looking at his wife.
Yael shuddered. “He has never been like this before.”
His nose again booped the baby.
“He’s acting like a guardian Angel.” Kathleen, Cillian’s Mum pointed out.
“Just leave him love, he’ll move… eventually.” Yael suggested touching Orla’s shoulder as she walked past her.
“She’s truly a blessing, congratulations.”
“Thank you! I can’t fully believe she’s here.” Yael beamed looking over at her daughter and Scout who brought her a stuffed carrot and in exchange he took off one of her socks gently.
“By the way, I washed all the clothes yesterday thinking you would be short of time.”
“Oh Orla!” Yael wrapped her arms around her sister in law, all of the love they were getting felt surreal. “I wouldn’t think of that, guess I’ve lots of things to learn.” She chuckled nervously.
Yael rushed upstairs to get her camera, she wanted to snap a couple of portraits of Athena’s first day at home and their families.
It took her just a couple of minutes to go back, but she rushed down the stairs when she heard her baby crying.
“What happened?” Yael asked alarmed, trying to figure it out.
“I think she’s hungry.” Isla offered.
“We’ve got the milk over here.” She proceeded to go to the fridge. “Mm the bottle, I need the bottle.” She babbled, feeling nervous suddenly. What if she couldn’t do it fast enough? “Give me a second, baby girl.”
“Here.” Her mother in law gave it to her. “It’s clean.” She added noticing Yael’s hesitation.
“Thank you.” She tapped on the counter as if that would warm the milk faster. Looking over her shoulder, Cillian was rocking Athena in his arms, buying some time while Scout paced around them like a hawk.
The nuns provided milk that had been donated by a group of mothers who volunteered at the orphanage, she’d need to keep track of the dates written in each bag that they had now in the freezer.
She wondered how that would work, how the’d carry it through the airport. God, she had a bunch of questions and now she really felt like everything was coming at her.
Checking the temperature on her hand to make sure it would be good for Athena, Yael offered Cillian the bottle, who had managed to get her cries to subside as he was talking to her, telling her the names of everyone who were there to meet her.
“There you go.” He encouraged soflty as his baby made little sounds of sucking.
Yael moved back quietly to take her camera to snap a candid picture of her husband feeding their daughter. Both grandmas in the background smilling pleased.
A knock on the door got their attention. Bryan offered to see who it was.
“She was hungry.” Brendan-Cillian’s Dad- joked.
“I wanna see the baby!” Sienna shouted from the door and rushed through the people. “Hello everybody!”
“Sienna keep it down.” Her mother instructed. “And come wash your hands first..”
“Wow…” she stepped closer to her uncle to have a better view, “hi baby, I’m your cousin.”
“Do you like her Sienna?” Her grandmother asked showing Athena some love.
“She’s so pretty!” The girl nodded twirling the skirt of her uniform.
“After I help her burp, you can hold her.” Yael suggested taking Athena in her arms, then she encouraged both families to have lunch, not wanting to have them waiting.
Taking Athena in her arms again, her heart felt so full of love, gratitude and so many things she couldn’t even name as she caressed her daughter’s head before moving her hand to her back to start burping her.
But as soon as she started, Scout jumped on the couch to sit next to her and put his paw on her arm to prevent her hand from touching Athena again.
“Hey, I’m not hitting her.”
Cillian stepped back from the kitchen to see what was happening.
“He thinks I’m doing something bad to Athena.” Yael explained, then petting the Labrador on the head she said to him; “it’s okay, you’re a good boy, hmmm taking care of your sister.”
“Do you want me to take him downstairs?” Cillian proposed.
Yael shook her head. “I don’t think he’s leaving her now.”
Cillian crossed his arms, wondering what he should do to help.
“I’m gonna put on some music, he likes it.”
Agreeing with her husband, Yael stood up and walked towards the garden, it was raining suddenly, she didn’t even notice when it started, Scout acting like a personal guard.
Athena’s personal guard actually.
But that seemed to do the trick, the breeze and sound coming from the rain distracted him enough for Yael to pat her daughter’s back.
She grinned at the dog looking from the garden to the baby from time to time. They’d probably need to do something in the porch, like adding a bench or a swing.
Cillian stepped behind them wrapping a small blanket over Athena, then his hands lingered over Yael’s hips, the noise and voices coming from their families in the kitchen playing like a soft background music.
He had wondered how this moment would be, how the dynamic with their baby would be, how they’d manage the feedings, the diaper changes… but now it was real and the was no room for doubts and second guessing.
“All done, now off to dream land my sweet girl.” Yael murmured adjusting the position of her arms slightly.
“She’s such a good girl.” Cillian praised with his eyes full of love.
Sienna walked towards them in complete silence, warned by her mother how was watching from the kitchen.
“Is she sleeping?” She asked quietly trying have peek at her cousin.
“Yes and look, she’s smiling.” Yael turned around and crouched down a little bit so her niece could take a look. “I think she likes you, come over to the couch so you can hold her.”
Sienna followed every instruction perfectly and stood like an statue as they placed baby Athena in her arms, Scout laying down by her feet.
“Stay right there Sienna I’m gonna grab my camera.” Yael walked away quietly, leaving Cillian in charge.
“Looks like we’ve got the perfect babysitter for later.” He winked at his wife as Yael joined them again.
Sienna looked at them in shock, Yael knew he was joking but the thought of leaving her baby with anyone made her feel sick.
Just as Yael snapped Sienna’s photo with Athena, Bryan stood next to her offering his daughter a plate of food. He wasn’t asking if she wanted to eat or if she ate already, Bryan knew she’d be focused totally on Athena.
“Thanks dad.”
Bryan kissed her hair gently. “Welcome pumpkin.” Then, he took Athena in his arms. “Now, come here mini-pumpkin.”
“Our lawyer just called, he placed the adoption order and we’ll have a hearing in about four weeks.” Cillian announced waving a folder.
Yael looked at him confused.
“It’s for the hearing at the General Register Office and to give us the new birth certificate, love.” He explained.
“Do they need something else?” She asked then.
Cillian shuddered feeling just as lost as her. “Guess the lawyer will let us know.”
Yael groaned wanting to have everything under control. “Have you heard anything from your flight yet?”
Cillian shook his head, a staff member texted him saying he was trying to get him on a flight back the next day to continue filming. Under different circumstances he’d get adoptive leave, but he couldn’t because he was the leading role of the upcoming series.
“I’m not trying to be mean, but I hope the flights are full.” Yael chuckled finishing her food quickly to wash her hands and hold her baby again.
Cillian’s Mum laughed as well and said something about how inconsiderate from the production it was to not give Cillian a couple of days.
“We’ll take some time off once the project is done.” He announced eyeing the chips, then he looked away not wanting to give into temptation.
Yael gasped, she needed to call her brother Arap and Lee-Anne as well to share the good news respectively.
Taking her phone from the table with her free hand and lulling her baby in her to her arm, she called directly.
“Hi you.”
“Hello stranger? Are you free tonight to have dinner?” Lee-Anne asked sushing her dogs and turning her attention again to see her friend.
“I’m in Ireland actually.”
Lee-Anne frowned, giving her friend a confused look. “Thought you’d be busy here.”
Yael smiled in Cillian’s direction as he joined the videocall.
“Been a bit busy, yes. Look.”
She then changed her phone focus to show her friend the baby in her arms.
That’s when Lee-Anne lost it and started cheering happily.
“I can’t wait to meet her!”
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The morning light was soft and pale, filtering through the half-drawn curtains in Cillian’s bedroom like it didn’t want to disturb anyone. You woke slowly, aware first of the weight of his arm slung low across your waist, then the solid press of his chest against your back. He was holding you tightly—almost too tightly—like he was afraid you’d vanish if he loosened his grip even a fraction. Your heart gave a quick, startled thud. Instinct screamed too close, too much, run, but then the night before flooded back in fragments: the way he’d looked at you across the dim basement glow, the slow drag of his hands, the way he’d groaned your name like it was something sacred when he came inside you again, deeper this time, slower, like he was trying to memorize every second.
It had been strange. Intense. Almost overwhelming. But pleasant. God, so pleasant. No frantic escape, no shame spiral afterward. Just skin on skin, breath on breath, and for once the quiet after didn’t feel like a void. You had stayed. You had slept. And now his heartbeat was steady against your spine, warm and real.
You exhaled slowly, letting your body settle against his. The freak-out receded, replaced by something quieter, something curious. When you let the self-loathing fog lift, even just a little, you could feel it. The pull toward more. More mornings like this. More nights where the world shrank to just the two of you. More of him. More of life that didn’t feel like punishment. He made you want to stop hating the woman in the mirror long enough to see if she could be happy.
You turned carefully in his arms.
He was still asleep, face slack and unguarded in a way the Google images never captured. No sharp angles for the camera, no practiced half-smile. Just him: prominent cheekbones softened by the scatter of freckles across his nose and cheeks, the salt-and-pepper scruff you used to think looked too rough on other men but on him only made your stomach flip. It suited him. Made him look lived-in, tender, domestic. His hair was a beautiful mess, chestnut threaded with silver, falling across his forehead. About 20 years older than you, and instead of feeling like a gap it felt like gravity. He carried it like experience, like quiet certainty, and fuck if that didn’t turn you on more than any polished magazine spread ever could.
You stared for a long moment, tracing the lines of him with your eyes. Then the urge hit. Simple, insistent, undeniable.
You leaned in.
You kissed his lips once, soft and lingering. He stayed deep in slumber as you moved to his jaw, then his neck, tongue tracing slow, wet paths along his collarbone. He stirred with a low hum, body shifting, rolling onto his back and taking you with him. You straddled his hips naturally, knees sinking into the mattress, the sheet slipping down to pool around his thighs.
“Morning,” he murmured, voice wrecked with sleep, gravelly and thick.
“Morning,” you whispered back, already sliding lower.
You kissed down his chest, following the faint trail of hair, feeling the muscle jump under your lips. When you reached his stomach you paused, nosing along the sharp line of his hipbone. He was already hardening, thick and heavy against his thigh. You wrapped your fingers around him, stroking once, slow, firm, from base to tip, thumb circling the head to spread the slick bead already there.
His breath hitched. One hand found your hair, fingers threading gently at first.
You looked up, meeting his half-lidded gaze. Dark, hungry, still soft around the edges from sleep. Then you took him into your mouth.
The first slide was deliberate, tongue flat along the underside as you sank down until your lips stretched wide around him. He groaned low, hips twitching up instinctively. You hummed in response, the vibration pulling another rough sound from his throat.
His hand tightened in your hair. Not pulling yet, just gathering it back from your face, twisting it loosely into a makeshift ponytail at the nape of your neck. The simple act made heat pool low in your belly. You liked it. The gentle control, the way it made you feel claimed without being forced.
He noticed.
He tested it. Guiding you down a little deeper, slow at first, letting you adjust. When you didn’t pull away, when you moaned softly around him instead, he grew bolder. His grip firmed, holding the ponytail steady as he began to move your head for you, up and down in a steady, unhurried rhythm.
“Like that?” he rasped, voice low and rough, watching your lips slide over him.
You couldn’t speak, but the way your thighs clenched together, the soft whimper that escaped around his cock, answered for you.
He kept the pace controlled, not rough, just firm enough that you felt every inch of him dragging against your tongue, every pulse against the roof of your mouth. Your hands braced on his thighs, nails digging in slightly as the heat built between your legs. You were soaked already, aching, but this, this was about him, about the way he was discovering exactly what made your breath hitch and your eyes flutter.
He bobbed your head a little faster, guiding you deeper until your nose brushed the coarse hair at his base. You relaxed your throat, taking him all the way, holding for a heartbeat before he pulled you back up. Slow, deliberate, letting you feel the drag. Saliva slicked him, dripping down to coat your fingers where they wrapped around what your mouth couldn’t reach.
“Fuck… good girl,” he breathed, the praise slipping out like he couldn’t help it.
The words hit you like a spark. You moaned louder around him, sucking harder on the upstroke, tongue swirling relentlessly against the sensitive ridge. His hips jerked once, helpless, needy, and his grip on your ponytail tightened just enough to make your scalp tingle in the best way.
He was close. You could feel it in the way he throbbed, the way his abs tensed under your palm, the broken curses spilling from his lips.
“Gonna come,” he warned, voice strained. “You want it?”
You answered by taking him deeper, faster, letting him guide you through the final strokes, head bobbing in his fist, lips stretched, throat working around him.
He came with a low, guttural groan, hips stuttering as he spilled hot and thick across your tongue. You swallowed every pulse, milking him slow and gentle until he was trembling, oversensitive, gasping. Only then did he loosen his grip, fingers stroking through your hair almost apologetically as you pulled off with a soft, wet pop.
But you weren’t done. Not even close.
The lust hit you like a wave. Raw, consuming, turning you into someone else entirely. The quiet, guarded woman from the night before vanished, in her place was heat, need, a fierce want that burned away every doubt. You felt sexy, powerful, in charge. Your core throbbed with it, slick and empty, demanding more.
You crawled up his body like a predator, straddling his hips again, your soaked folds pressing directly against his spent cock. He was still half-hard, sensitive, but you didn’t care. You rocked once, slow, deliberate, grinding your clit against him, feeling him twitch and swell beneath you.
“Fuck, Y/N—” he gasped, hands flying to your hips, but you batted them away lightly, pinning them to the mattress with your own.
“My turn,” you whispered, voice low and husky, eyes locked on his. You leaned down, nipping at his lower lip, sharp enough to sting, before kissing him deeply, letting him taste himself on your tongue.
He groaned into your mouth, body arching up toward yours. You felt him hardening fully again, thick and ready against your entrance. Without breaking the kiss, you reached between you, guiding him inside, sinking down in one smooth, deliberate motion until he was buried to the hilt.
The stretch was perfect, filling you completely. You moaned against his lips, breaking the kiss to sit up fully, hands braced on his chest for leverage. His eyes were wide, dark with awe and fresh hunger as he watched you, tits bouncing slightly, hips rolling in slow, teasing circles.
You were in control now. Sexy, unapologetic, lost in the lust that made your skin burn. You rode him hard, lifting almost all the way off before slamming back down, grinding your clit against his pubic bone on every downstroke. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room, mixed with your breathy moans and his low, wrecked curses.
“Christ, you feel so good,” he rasped, hands gripping your thighs now, nails digging in as he met your rhythm with upward thrusts. But you set the pace, faster, deeper, chasing the heat coiling tight in your belly.
You threw your head back, one hand sliding up to cup your breast, pinching the nipple hard enough to make you gasp. The other stayed on his chest, nails raking faint red lines over his freckles. He bucked harder at the sight, hitting that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids.
“Come for me,” he growled, voice thick with need. “Take what you want.”
You did.
The orgasm crashed over you like a storm. Walls clamping down around him, body shaking as pleasure ripped through you in waves. You cried out, loud and unfiltered, riding him through it until he followed. Hips stuttering, spilling deep inside you with a broken groan of your name.
You collapsed forward onto his chest, both of you panting, slick with sweat. He wrapped his arms around you immediately, holding you close as the aftershocks faded.
“Fuck,” he whispered against your hair, voice awed. “You’re gonna ruin me.”
You smiled into his skin, still buzzing, the lust slowly ebbing back to something softer. But in that moment, you’d been fire. Consumed, in charge, alive.
And he’d let you burn.
You crawled back up his body, lips swollen, chin slick. He pulled you down immediately, arms banding tight around you, face buried in your neck.
“Good,” you whispered against his skin. “I like you ruined.”
He laughed. Low, breathless, and held you tighter.
“Coffee?” you asked as you sat up, nonchalant as if you weren’t still savoring the taste of him on your tongue.
“Sure,” he said, running a hand through his hair, eyes still dark and heavy as he watched you pad to the ensuite bathroom.
You could hear the soft clatter of cabinets opening, mugs knocking together downstairs. You slipped into the t-shirt he’d worn yesterday. Soft, dark, worn-in cotton that hung just under the curve of your bum, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs. It smelled like him: faint aftershave, clean sweat, last night’s sex.
When you found him in the kitchen he was leaning back against the counter, coffee in one hand, chest bare and freckled, only black briefs covering the rest of him. The morning light caught the silver in his hair and the faint stubble along his jaw. He looked wrecked in the best way. Relaxed, sated, eyes tracking you like he still couldn’t quite believe you were here.
“Sleep okay?” he asked as you took the mug he offered, leaning beside him so your arms brushed with every sip.
“Better than okay,” you said, smiling shamelessly over the rim.
He took you in, tousled hair, swollen lips, his shirt barely covering you, legs looking impossibly long in the soft light. His gaze lingered, appreciative, hungry again already.
“You?” you asked.
“Best in ages,” he murmured.
You glanced around at the mess of dishes and cups from last night, the faint scent of garlic and wine still hanging in the air.
“I should help you clean up,” you said, already reaching for the nearest stack of plates.
He caught your wrist gently, stopping you mid-motion.
“Don’t worry,” he said, voice low and amused. “I’m used to living like this anyway.”
You giggled. Soft, genuine, the sound surprising even you. You could picture it so easily: him rattling around this big house alone, dishes piling up for days, records left out on the turntable, Scout’s toys scattered like landmines. The image was oddly endearing, not chaotic or careless, just lived-in. Human.
“So what’s on schedule today?” he asked, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed over his bare chest.
You puffed out a breath, running a hand through your still-tangled hair as you mentally scrolled through the day. “I have to be at the studio by 10,” you said. “Run through what I’m gonna teach for the afternoon classes. Make sure the playlist doesn’t suck, warm up the room, the usual.”
He nodded, eyes steady on you. “And after?”
“Classes till about seven, maybe seven-thirty if the little ones are extra chatty. Then… nothing, really.” You shrugged, feeling strangely light saying it out loud. “No late shifts at the bookstore today.”
“And you?” you asked, tilting your head. “What’s your glamorous actor day look like?”
He gave a small, self-deprecating huff. “Script meeting at eleven, virtual, thank Christ. Then a fitting for the next shooting at three, and if I’m lucky I’ll be done by five. Claire’s with her mum this week, so… quiet night. Unless you want to make it less quiet.”
The invitation hung there, casual but deliberate. You felt that familiar flutter. Wanting to say yes immediately, wanting to keep this thread of connection from snapping.
You bit your lip, glancing down at yourself: still in his t-shirt from yesterday, legs bare, hair a wreck, tasting faintly of him. “I should go home first. Shower. Change. I can’t show up to teach pliés smelling like… this.”
He stepped closer, hands finding your hips again, thumbs brushing slow circles over the cotton. “You smell like me,” he murmured, nose grazing your temple. “I like it.”
You laughed, pushing lightly at his chest. “Yeah, well, the parents might have questions.”
He grinned—crooked, boyish—and pressed a quick kiss to your mouth. “Fair. Let me drive you.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” His voice softened, just a touch. “Gives me an extra half-hour with you.”
You searched his face. Those blue eyes steady, no pressure, just quiet want, and felt the last of your resistance melt.
“Fine,” you said softly. “But you gotta get back. You need a shower too.”
He rolled his eyes, but a smile stayed on his face as he followed you down the hall to dress yourselves. You put back on your jeans and boots, and he slipped into jeans and a hoodie. He laced up his trainers while you rummaged through your bag and checked your phone.
The drive was short, quiet streets, early morning sun slanting through the windscreen, his hand resting on your thigh the whole way. Not possessive, just there. Warm. Steady.
When he pulled up outside your small flat, he killed the engine and turned to you.
“Text me when you’re done with classes?” he asked.
You nodded, leaning over the console to kiss him, slow, lingering, tasting coffee and him.
“I will.”
He watched you climb out, watched you walk up the path.
You felt his eyes on you the whole way to the door.
You paused on the step and glanced back as you dug in your bag for your keys.
He was still watching, smile small, eyes soft.
You waved once, small and shy.
He waved back.
Then you slipped inside, heart thumping and a smile stretching from ear to ear.
When you turned the doorknob of your flat, you somehow expected it to be completely different, the flat of a woman who had finally figured it out. A place that looked like someone who could hold onto good things without breaking them. Warm light, maybe a plant that hadn’t died yet, the faint sound of music instead of silence. A life that matched the way you’d felt this morning. Alive, wanted, almost whole.
But when you opened it, it was the same as before. Grey walls, grey light, grey everything. Empty fridge humming like an accusation, laundry spilling out of the hamper, bathroom sink streaked with toothpaste, bed still unmade from last week. The air smelled faintly of stale smoke and yesterday’s coffee. Reality seeped back in like damp through the cracks, cold and familiar.
You stood there for a second, keys still in your hand, smile fading. Then you walked to the bathroom.
In the mirror, your reflection stared back: hair tangled from his hands, lips swollen, skin flushed in a way that looked wrong here, like borrowed light that didn’t belong in this room. You looked like someone who’d been happy for a few hours and was already paying for it.
You felt disgusting. Not just the faint ache between your legs or the lingering scent of him on your skin. Deeper. The kind of disgusting that sat in your chest like old guilt, heavy and familiar.
You turned on the shower, letting the water run hot while you stripped off his t-shirt and your jeans. Steam filled the small space, fogging the mirror, but you could still see yourself in fragments, too thin, too tired, too much of everything you hated.
“God, Y/N,” you whispered, voice cracking against the tiles. “What have you done?”
The words hung there, small and frustrated. You should have run this morning. Should have stayed in your lane, kept things simple, kept him safe from whatever mess you carried. He was good, steady, kind, with a daughter and a life that made sense. You were… this. A woman who’d ruined good things before. Who’d proven, over and over, that she couldn’t be trusted with them. The fear clawed up again: that you’d do it again. That you’d take this fragile, beautiful thing and twist it until it broke. That you didn’t deserve mornings like the one you’d just had. Didn’t deserve the way he’d looked at you, the way he’d held you like you were something worth keeping.
You stepped under the spray, letting the hot water scald away the physical traces. But the guilt stayed. The whisper in your head stayed.
You couldn’t do this. Not really. Not without fucking it up.
And yet the smile from earlier lingered, faint and stubborn, like it refused to die completely.
You closed your eyes under the water, torn between the pull of what you wanted and the certainty that you’d only ruin it.
A Gift from the Sidhe (Human!Cillian Murphy x Fairy!reader)
A/N: I know he’s the one that looks like he should be a fairy but let me live my dreams for a minute ok?
(Also sidhe is pronounced /shee/ according to google)
Summary: Cillian gets injured on a routine dog-walk in the woods, but when he wakes up, there’s no sign that anything even happened. He’s convinced that something mystical is afoot, and returns to the scene in search of something. He’s not at all ready for what he finds…
Word count: 7,759
Trigger Warnings/Tags: she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, slight angst, not many warnings for this one tbh (please let me know if I missed any)
Disclaimer: This is written purely for fictional purposes and for the sake of writing. No disrespect is intended to the real people portrayed/concerned in this scenario. I do not own any pictures used, nor do I claim to do so.
Always appreciate comments, likes, and reblogs :)
Cillian took a deep breath of the clear, icy air. He watched Scout pad about in the dead leaves, sniffing at a puddle before walking on. They had left the path behind a while ago, perhaps not the smartest decision, but he had been wandering these woods since he was a child. Except that one odd day when he was about twelve or thirteen… but he hadn’t thought about that in a long time.
It wasn’t really a thing in the first place. He had been traipsing about almost in this exact place, poking at things with sticks and chasing the old family dog. He had lost his way off the path but was unpanicked, childish naivete that everything would turn out alright. It was only when the sun had slowly begun its descent that he began to feel the desperate yearn for home and his mother and everything everyone must be doing by the cozy warmth of the heater while he was away.
He had wandered until the sun was almost level to the ground, long fingers of orange light creeping through the thickets of dark brown, bare, wintery trees. It was only now hitting that it would be dark soon, that he wasn’t allowed to be here in the dark.
But when he turned back, turned left, then right then in a full circle for good measure, he couldn’t recognise where he had come from. He walked first one way, then the other, then realised he had passed the same tree at least three times. Or maybe it wasn’t the same tree but a similar tree… The dog was happy to simply follow him around rather than be useful and help lead him back.
Hopelessness began settling on his chest like the weight of an illness, inescapable. He could feel the sudden need to cry, the burning behind the eyes and the cloying thickness in his throat. It all became too much when the dog suddenly began to bark.
He was staring where the woods were darkest, already losing themselves from the sun’s grasp. He was barking so loudly and aggressively that Cillian remembered stepping away from him. When Cillian looked at the spot in the woods, he noticed a little shimmer in the air. It was almost nothing at first, just a little glimmer in the air that could have been his own eyes blurring in the icy breeze. But the longer he looked, the more it occurred, shimmering colours appearing in shades of pale purple, blue, and tinges of green.
When he looked at it, he could almost hear music, as if playing somewhere far away so only the dregs were reaching him. Hauntingly beautiful music like nothing he had ever heard before or heard since. Like all types of flutes melding together, but also not. Like an ethereal voice humming and singing in a language he had never heard, but also not singing any words.
He had stared at the shimmer for a long time, listened to the music a while before he took a step toward it. The shimmer became stronger, more solid, as if it was a ripple in fabric, but when he took another step closer, it disappeared. He stood as if in a trance, shocked, unbelieving, but also peaceful, and in almost a dazed stupor.
The dog began barking again, loud and growling in between, and this time, just to the left of where the shimmer had been, Cillian saw a cat sitting politely. Its front paws were tucked neatly in front of it as it sat up, watching him with its head tilted, as any cat might do. Except it was unlike any cat he had ever seen.
It was huge, larger than any normal cat should be, with a long shaggy tail flicking up behind it. The weirdest thing about the cat was its colour. It was a dark green, so dark it was almost black. The green shone as its tail flicked back and forth and the light changed.
Cillian stepped closer, mesmerised by the beautiful creature that almost seemed to create its own light in the darkness. It stood onto all fours and began walking into the woods. It looked back just once, staring at Cillian, as if beckoning him to follow. He began walking after it, momentarily forgetting the dog still growling in the cat’s direction. He paused and grabbed the dog’s collar before continuing to follow the cat.
The creature led him through the woods and back to the path. It kept with him all the way to the edge, until he could run through the neighbourhoods and back into his own house to his worried mother so she could scold him.
At first he had told as many people as he could, about the shimmer and the cat, but everyone told him it was a trick of the light, a reaction to the stress, a normal cat that had coincidentally led him the right way and nothing more.
His Nan had been supportive. She had told him she believed him, that she was sure it had been the work of the Sidhe, perhaps a Cat Sí or a Púca. But over time the story had fizzled and so had the memory. He was only thinking about it now because of the location, nothing more.
Cillian looked around the woods once more, at the dark bark of the trees and the dry, dead, leafless branches reaching towards each other like a last grasp before death. He looked at the brown muddy ground and the wet, mulchy leaves, and realised he couldn’t see Scout anymore.
“Scout!” He called, hands beginning to tremble, head swivelling this way and that as he tried to catch a glimpse of her black fur anywhere. Only the wind whistled in response.
Cillian clutched the leash tightly in one hand and ran the other through his hair. He began on a swift jog forward, looking here and there, calling out for Scout with no response. He went deeper and deeper into the woods, where the trees became thicker and clumped together so he had to slow down into a walk to avoid slamming into them.
“Scout!” He was yelling desperately now, voice tearing at his throat. He was huffing and puffing, freckled cheeks turning red and lips dry. He was sweating under his thick waterproof coat, black hoodie and t-shirt, but he kept on forward.
He didn’t realise until he was mid-slip that he had begun to fall. His foot went squelching onto the mud, glided over the top, and took his leg out from under him.
“Ah!” He yelled as he hit the forest floor, loud and pained as he felt the cold from the dirt and mud begin to seep through his joggers. Twigs and sticks dug into his back and arms. He was winded, dazed, incapable of movement. His limbs felt mushy and numb. His back throbbed like… like he had just been whacked onto the floor.
He blinked his eyes once, twice, but the sky still spun and blurred above him. Black began tinging the edges of his vision, tempting him to the sweet release of sleep. He blinked hurriedly, groaning as he twitched with all the pain. His hip pulsed, and he clenched his eyes shut.
For just a moment, one splash of a moment, before the sweet suddenness of sleep bathed him, he thought he heard the music again.
Cillian woke with a gasp. His eyes shot open and he sat up, the way people in movies return from the dead. His heart was racing, he could almost feel it against the bones of his ribcage.
It was dark outside, so dark he could almost mistake his surroundings for being the backs of his eyelids. But the mood was out, bright and clear, creating the silvery edges and outlines of the trees. The air was icy and felt wonderful and rejuvenating in his lungs.
He could feel Scout snuffling against his legs, slowly moving her way up his body to gently nudge at his face. He pressed his cheek against her, wrapping his arms around her and sighing in relief. She was safe, alive.
It took only another moment for him to freeze in shock because… he felt no pain. Not a sting, not a twinge or an ache. Nothing! If anything, he felt fresher than he had done before the walk, like he had the perfect amount of rest. He stood up, testing for shakiness but feeling nothing except the sureness of his limbs. He patted himself down, brushed down his joggers, only to realise he was completely clean. No mud on his jacket, no brush of dirt or even a twig in his hair.
But… but he had slipped in mud. He had felt the cold splash of it on his shoes, socks, ankles. He had felt cold of it seep into his back, smear against his neck. He had felt the twigs tangling his hair. Now he looked rather well put-together.
Cillian frowned into the dark, straining his ears but not knowing what he was listening for. He clipped the leash back onto Scout’s collar and gripped it tight. He looked in the direction of the moon then checked the little compass on his watch. If he kept North, he would soon hit the edge of the woods and he could follow the perimeter back to the carpark.
Cillian paused for only a moment more. He squinted in the opposite direction of his route. He had seen a light, a little throb or flash, as if emitting from the ground-up. But nothing appeared again and he shook his head as if shaking off the distractions, and began steadily northward.
He wasn’t quite sure what he was doing back here. Though he had felt this intense need to go back, perhaps curiosity or something worse, tugging at his insides, telling him to return to the woods, to return to the deep quiet and explore something untouched that he had seemed to graze briefly, he had also told himself that he would not.
He was a responsible, mature, sane adult. It was dangerous to be traipsing about deep in the woods all alone. While Ireland didn’t have any dangerous wild animals (other than the occasionally errant deer or brave fox), many other things could go wrong and leave him for dead. As it had almost done. Before some thing had intervened. And he desperately needed to know what that thing was. It had to be something worse than simple ‘curiosity’ sitting in his bones.
So here he was now, back at the place where the path ended, at first light, the entire day ahead of him to explore. Most likely to find nothing. But maybe… just maybe.
The sun was only just beginning to rise. Everything was still bathed in that gradient from dark shadow to grey, watery, just-before-dawn light. He sipped from his tumbler of coffee, sighing happily as the hot bitterness warmed him through. Though he still felt fresh from the evening before (somehow), he knew he would need the boost.
He was on a blind mission, searching for something he didn’t know nor understand, something he had the vague sight of, the vague sound of, nothing more.
Cillian walked slowly through the forest, watching the sun slowly come up and creep through the branches, first orange like tiger lilies, then yellow like daffodils. It was a beautiful day, clear skies of blue and a slightly milder temperature than the day before.
Cillian traversed slowly as the day dragged on. He had a backpack stuffed with food, water, a blanket for when he wanted a rest, and even a book if he was feeling particularly bored. He paused once, close to midday, to have a bite to eat and rest his legs, but he walked as long as he possibly could.
He had reached the thicker trees at some point in the afternoon. The places where humans had rarely been, where one had to twist and turn to get over roots and between trees. Where the sunlight struggled to enter and left the floor cold and perpetually wet.
In all that time, he had seen nothing. Heard nothing. No shimmer, not even a glimmer. He was surrounded by brown, occasionally blinded by the sun with a dazzle of colours, but it was not the same, not tinged with that otherworldly quality. Not a single flute or ethereal sound carried over. There was barely even the sound of a bird, just the occasional chirp that made him sigh with disappointment.
He was beginning to feel stupid. Embarrassment at having bothered with this childish endeavour burned at his cheeks and the intense desire to turn around and leave almost succeeded in its influence over him. He was already beginning to berate himself over such a waste of a day.
Without realising it, he had reached the deepest part of the woods, just past the place where he had slipped and fallen. The gnarled branches of the trees were so entangled here that they created a terrifying latticed canopy overhead, trapping whomever and whatever into the forest. Not even the birds dared venture here.
The sun had begun to set, little dapples of orange light swimming through the canopy where they could. He began blinking his eyes, as if the dark had set upon him like a surprise attack, and he paused. He clutched the straps of his bag and took a moment to look around.
He couldn’t see very far, but the trees looked somehow… fresher here. Though they were still bare and leafless, they seemed to thrum with life. When he leaned against one for a moment’s rest, it was almost warm to the touch. He pulled back and stared at it, reaching out and pressing his hand to it once more. He was right, it was warm, like the base was filled with lit coals and left to gently heat up the entire tree.
A flash of light at a distance beyond the tree caught his eye and he peeked around it. The flash had been rapid, quicker than even that of a camera. But he remembered it from the night before, the pale purpley blues, the rise as if it came from the ground up. He pressed himself tighter to the tray and watched.
The flash came again, and he was certain of it now. He had seen it with his own eyes. A mushroom ring in the distance, somehow bright and perfect even in the dead of winter, seemed to light up from the centre for barely a moment, a pulse. Then there was a gasp behind him. Cillian whirled around, eyes wide, and pressed himself back against the tree. Right in front of him stood… you.
Everything about you was… otherworldly. He could only describe it as a glow. You glowed. You created your own light in the deep dark woods, a soft something that emanated from your skin. Your hair was thick and shiny, your eyes sparkled, and you were dressed in clothes that couldn’t have even been executed by the most high-end of fashion houses.
But your eyes were wide in shock and terror, and one of your hands was clasped over your mouth as if to silence yourself. And though you didn’t shake, you looked like you could flutter away with a strong gust of wind.
Cillian couldn’t breathe. He felt light-headed as he pressed himself back against the tree and panted, continuing to simply stare at you. His hands rubbed roughly against the treebark and a sheen of sweat had appeared over his body.
“You cannot be here!” You gasped out, rushing over to him and gently grasping his shoulders. He shook in your grip as you pulled him away from the tree and began dragging him deeper into the woods but farther away from the glowing ring of mushrooms.
You were strong somehow. You weren’t grasping him too tightly, nor putting much pressure on him, and you looked so delicate, but somehow he was being whisked along quickly with you, his feet barely able to keep up. He looked down only to find you barefoot.
Once the glowing had become distant, you stopped and whirled on him. You reached out with both hands, almost as if you would touch him gently with your palms, but then you clenched them and pulled them back into your chest. You began to pace back and forth, shaking your head and muttering to yourself in a quiet voice.
“You cannot be here. How are you here?” You finally asked him, staring at him as if he was the odd creature and not you. Cillian gulped, wetting his lips a little as he stared at you.
“I came looking,” he answered simply, still breathless. “After yesterday.” You stilled and stared into his eyes, so intense and unnerving, but then you began to pace again, shaking your head and chewing on your knuckles a little as you mumbled.
“I should not be here, you should not be here. I will be caught, I will be exiled, I will be… ruined.” You clenched your eyes shut and took a deep shuddering breath in before looking at him. You looked beautiful even in your terror.
“I found your pup last evening,” you told him quietly, knowing that this must be why he was here. For answers. “Or rather, your pup found me. I had been sent for some winter herbs, and the poor thing came whining and snuffling up to me. I was worried for him. But when I laid a hand on his head, I saw you, lying in the mud, eyes closed. He led me to you, practically dragged me, the demanding thing.”
You rubbed at your cheek as you told him the story, continuing to stare into his eyes with unnerving intensity. Cillian had begun to relax a little where he stood, shoulders slumping and breath returning to a normal pace.
“For a moment I thought you were one of us.” You stepped a little closer, cautious, and reached up as if to press your palm to his heart, but stopped a few inches away. “Are you… one of us?” Your brows furrowed as you asked, as if you didn’t expect him to say yes but there was the chance he might. But Cillian shook his head, feeling incapable of speech. “Hm, I thought so,” you said quietly, shaking your head again.
“I may not be the strongest of my kind, but I can heal better than any,” you told him confidently, and finally pressed your hand to his chest. His chin dipped so he could stare down at your hand, but he was overcome with a feeling of warmth.
It was like waking up without an alarm to the coziest and warmest bed, feeling refreshed and awake and alive beyond belief. Not even a fresh cup of coffee could induce this feeling. He stared at you, dazed yet not, aware and alive but not buzzing. You smiled, pulling your hand away and clutching it close to yourself.
“I was worried at first. How did a human manage to come so deep into our woods? It’s not unheard of but it is not common either. We… we are not supposed to have contact with your kind,” you quietened at the last part, dipping your head in embarrassment, as if he would scold you for confessing this. “But I could not leave you there, cold and hurt.” You looked up at him again, eyes soft and concerned. “I simply could not. So I healed you and left you to rest so that you would only wake come morning, and you would not see me nor our land.”
You gnawed at your lip, fiddling with your fingers as you peeked around the tree and looked back in the direction of the glowing mushroom ring.
“You should not know. No, no, no. You should not know about the ring entrance, nor should you know about us. No, no, no,” you were mumbling to yourself again, now fiddling with the hem of your skirt. Then you glanced up at him again. “Where is your pup?”
“Back home, at my house I mean,” he answered, stumbling over his words a little. He still couldn’t stop staring at you.
“She is pretty,” you told him simply, nodding your head as if to confirm it. “And she is a good pup,” you added.
“Yes she is,” and he smiled a little at your kind words. Now it was your turn to stop and simply watch him. You were enraptured by his smile, and you stepped a little closer, almost beginning to invade his space. You reached up and gently touched his cheek where it pulled in for his smile. He must have sidhe blood in him somewhere. It could not be that a plain human was so… captivating.
“Are you sure you’re not one of us?” You asked breathlessly. His cheeks turned pink as he shook his head again, slowly this time so he wouldn’t dislodge your hand from his face.
“Quite sure.” And you nodded again but didn’t move away.
“I should wipe your memory,” you whispered, “and I should ensure you leave here and never come back.”
Cillian straightened at that, eyes widening as he shook his head. He reached up and grasped your wrist softly. You were trembling under his grip, but looking at you, no one would have been able to tell.
“Please don’t do that. I won’t tell anyone, I promise.” You just continued staring at him, hand pressed against his cheek. He sounded so sincere, but were you willing to take the risk? “Please.” He was whispering now, eyes blazing as he met your gaze.
“Why?” You asked quietly, brows furrowing, and you pulled your hand away from his face and stepped back, watching him with both curiosity and wariness. And then Cillian told you about that night so long ago, so similar to the one he had experienced the day before, where one of your kind rescued him. Your eyes seemed to change as he told you, shining even more somehow, and your lips pulled into a soft smile as you nodded. You looked proud.
“Alright,” you finally breathed out when he had finished his story and the two of you had elapsed into silence. “You may… you may be allowed to remember.” You were hesitant, but your words were final. You could not take them back now, and you could not take back the responsibility you had accepted in allowing a human to know. “But-but you may not come back here!” You added quickly, staring into his eyes again with that unnerving intensity. “I cannot allow such a risk.” He nodded and you fell into a shared quiet again.
Then, after another moment had passed, you stepped closer. So close that your front pressed firmly to his and the both of you shared the same air. Both of your hands came up and you gently caressed the spaces under his eyes with your fingertips, delicate and almost ticklish. Wherever he had freckles, you gently pressed, as if each little fleck was a button.
Cillian trembled, breaths shaking as they pressed out against your face. His hands were clenched at his sides, but they itched to grab you, to press you even closer. He felt like his head was submerged, and everything had this weird glowy and hazy quality. He wondered if this was what people on LSD saw. It was only now that he realised you smelt like flowers. Like fresh beautiful flowers straight from spring. He was intoxicated.
“But,” you whispered then, gulping a little, your breaths brushing his lips as you spoke. “If you wished to see me again, you could… you could come to the boundary. The place where the woods thicken.” He was warm all over even in the depth of winter.
“Yes,” he breathed out. “Yes, please. Could I come again tomorrow?”
You grinned, bashful yet excited, and nodded. Then you leaned up and pressed a kiss to his cheek, soft and lingering. Then you pulled away and disappeared in the blink of an eye, and with you, the distant glow in the woods.
Cillian stood leaning against the tree as reality began to set back in. He stared around him as if he couldn’t quite believe he was alive, and patted himself down to make sure there was no life-threatening injury that was making him hallucinate. But… nothing. He felt fresh, alive, and forever changed.
At sunset the next day, Cillian was standing at what you had called the boundary. He could see it now, the place where the trees became thicker and tangled, as if warning people not to venture further. It would have been easy to overlook if one was distracted, but now that he was searching for it, it was clear as day.
He didn’t bring a bag this time, just himself wrapped in a scarf, and he paced back and forth as he waited for you to appear, his hands shoved in his pockets and cold puffs of air turning into clouds in front of him. Though he had seen you yesterday, seen the mushroom ring aglow, he needed you to come back. A part of him still didn’t believe it, and your presence would prove to him once and for all that what he had seen was the truth.
And if nothing else, he wanted to see you. You, this otherworldly creature that he couldn’t quite wrap his head around. You seemed to have no sense of physical boundaries, invading his space when you wished, touching his face as if you two were intimate lovers. But you were also so nervous, twitchy, apprehensive in every bone of your body. A walking contradiction tinged with magic. He needed to see you again if it was the last thing he did.
When only the last rays of the sun touched the sky, he felt a tap on his shoulder. There you were, shy and looking around him to the forest beyond the boundary. You had a shawl draped over your shoulders this time, a shiny silky thing that somehow looked even more delicate than silk itself.
“I have never stepped foot out of the boundary,” you told him quietly, gazing over his shoulder to the place where the trees distanced themselves a little. You didn’t venture past the thick roots, and instead stepped further back into the dense trees. “If we stay here, no one should find us.”
Cillian nodded, and all he could do was stare at you. You held the edges of the shawl in both hands and wrapped it close around you, rubbing the edges together as you looked at him from under your eyelashes.
“Why did you agree to this?” He finally asked, rubbing at his cheek as he watched you. You paused for a moment before speaking, looking into the distance before refocusing your eyes on him.
“I am curious,” you said it in a hushed way, as if you had uttered something wrong. “Just as you do not see us, we do not see you. We are not meant to interact with you. But… but you are the first human I have ever met, ever seen, and I wish to know more about you and your kind.”
You then leaned over and gently rubbed your fingers over his coat. You did it again, frowning at the material before trying to pinch it between your fingertips. “What is this that you wear?”
“A coat?” He looked down at you quizzically, but you just continued frowning at it.
“But… why?” You were poking and prodding him now, pressing as far as you could until you felt his firm body underneath.
“For the cold,” he answered in a huffing laugh.
“You get cold?” You asked, tilting your head like a confused puppy. Cillian’s eyebrows raised as another incredulous huff of laughter left him.
“Yes, very.”
“Huh,” you nodded, running your finger up the line of the zipper. “I suppose we have ‘coats’ too,” you shrugged, “but none as puffy as this one.”
“Do you not get cold?” He asked, watching your hands discover his pockets. You delved into them without a second thought, giggling a little when you felt his hands in there as well.
“No, never!” You said hurriedly, looking at him with wide eyes as if he had something insane. “If one of us gets cold, it means our souls are beginning to leave this life for the next.”
“Oh,” he answered simply, nodding then falling silent as you picked an old receipt out from under where his hands were cosily tucked. You unfurled it, rubbed it between your fingers, then crumpled it again and pressed it back where it had been. Cillian couldn’t help but chuckle. You looked up at him with a little smile, as if you were confused why he was laughing but you simply wanted to laugh with him too.
“What’s your name?” He asked quietly as you continued standing that close to him (despite not having your hands in his pockets anymore).
“Y/n,” you responded, looking up at him again and gently running the tip of your index finger down the length of his nose. “Do all humans look as pretty as you do?” You asked softly, then watched as a red flush began spreading up his neck. He laughed nervously, looking away from you as he reached up and scratched at the back of his head.
“Heh, um, I’m not sure,” he answered awkwardly, blinking quickly before looking back down at you. But you were smiling that beautiful smile of yours and it almost hurt to look at you, like looking directly into a star.
“You did not say your name,” you told him after a moment of silence, stepping back and watching him take a deep breath in. You swung onto your toes then back onto your heels again and again.
“Cillian,” he responded, and he watched you pause mid-swing, lips parting as you stared up at him.
“Oh,” you sighed, “that is a pretty name. That is a sidhe name.” You shuffled closer again, as if you couldn’t spend too long being farther than a hand’s breadth from him.
“It is?” He asked in a whisper.
“Yes,” you reached up and gently stroked his hair, “one of our kings from long ago was named Cillian.” He nodded a little, not enough to disrupt the motion of your hand on his head. It was calming, and if you did it for much longer he would fall asleep at your feet like a cat.
“Will you tell me more about your land?” He asked softly, and now it was his turn to stare deep into your eyes. Though you were looking up at his hair, you smiled and nodded.
“Our people say you have stories about us. Is that true?” You asked, draping both your arms over his shoulders and simply standing there.
“Yes, many, from all over the world,” he nodded along with his words, smiling a little as he thought of his own childhood, his grandmother sitting by the fire, him and his siblings all curled up under a blanket and listening to her tell stories about the sidhe. “But no one really believes them. Children, maybe, but they grow out of that too.” You hummed softly and nodded.
“We have stories about you too, about how your people only want to use ours for what we can do. How we must stay in hiding to protect all of us.” Cillian frowned a little at that, but your expression didn’t change and his melted back into that expression of quiet awe he carried since meeting you.
“Why are you not afraid of me then?” He whispered, gently reaching up to caress your hair in return. You closed your eyes at the feeling, humming a little. The glow around you seemed to pulse at that a little and he did it again just to see it.
“I… I’m not sure really,” you responded, eyes still closed. “But you do not look like you want to harm me.”
The lightest sound reached his ears then, like a twig snapping so far away the sound was distorted to a little blip by the time it reached his ears. But your head snapped to the side instantly, your eyes wide and fearful as you whirled around and froze right in front of him.
“I must go,” you whispered sharply, turning again to look at him. “If I do not return soon the birds will tell. And no one must know I am here.”
“Will you meet me again?” He asked quickly, gripping onto your shawl to stop you from going. You paused, turned back, and offered him a nervous little smile.
“Sunset once more,” you whispered, and when he let go, you ran off back into the woods, your silky shawl slipping through his fingers.
“We do not mind touching each other,” you explained, shrugging your shoulders a little as you strolled along the boundary at Cillian’s side. “A hug, a pet, it is not something to frown on or shy from. It just is.”
It had been weeks of this, of sunset walks along the boundary as the two of you discussed your worlds. You with your mystical words and unexplainable explanations somehow watched him with wonder as he explained the most mundane things to you. You were shocked that his people could not communicate with animals or that most of his people did not have a wide knowledge on herbs and plants.
Time had begun to blur for Cillian. He was no longer sure of the boundary between sleep and wakefulness. Life had become a rose tinted haze, and all his thoughts were consumed by you and the woods. If he was not with you, he could only think about being with you again.
“But we do not take kisses lightly,” you told him gravely, looking ahead of you with a very serious expression as you narrated to him. “Kisses mean… everything. Giving someone a kiss means choosing them. Choosing someone is…” you trailed off and looked up at him, blinking slowly as he shyly smiled at you. “Choosing someone is not to be taken lightly.”
You carefully threaded your arm through his as you continued walking, sighing softly as you snuggled up against him. He simply reached up with his other hand and laid it lightly over where you clutched his arm. He would never tire of this.
Cillian had been extremely lucky thus far, though he was caught so deep in his daze that he did not realise it. He was lucky that he was on a break between filming projects, no commitment forcing him away to places you would not be able to follow. He was lucky that no one had noticed his escapades, no family wondering where he was off to at nights, no curious strangers wondering why he had been to the woods every night for weeks. And he was immensely lucky that no one from your world had found the two of you together.
But as the old saying goes, luck always runs out…
It was a fresh clear day in spring. The sun stayed out later and later, and the weather got warmer and warmer. You and Cillian met even before sunset now, during that golden hour when everything was bathed in orange and yellow and the world felt smooth and calm.
Cillian was a little later than usual to meet you, and he worried that if he didn’t show up on time, you wouldn’t show up at all. He lived in constant fear that one day you would disappear as suddenly as you had appeared, and the only thing to assuage that fear was your hand gently tapping the back of his shoulder, and your beautiful smile as he turned around.
Cillian rushed out of his car and into the treeline, not realising that someone was already parked nearby. Someone who had seen the actor and wondered what possible reason the man could have to be rushing into the woods alone this close to sunset. Someone who got out of the car and quietly began following him at a distance, hoping to catch the next big scoop…
Cillian sighed with relief as he reached the boundary, bending in half, hands to his knees as he tried to catch his breath. A single moment hadn’t even passed before he felt your hand on the back of his shoulder. He opened his eyes but he couldn’t rise just yet. He stared down at your bare feet and the floaty hem of your dress swishing around your shins. Have you always been barefoot?
“Are you alright?” You asked quietly, rubbing his back as he nodded, giving you a thumbs up before continuing to heave. A minute later, he stood up to his full height again and smiled bashfully at you.
“I ran here,” he told you, still a little breathless, and you laughed a soft little giggle. You reached up, and gently pressed both palms to his chest, one over each lung, and that familiar warm pulse began to flow through him. He was instantly rejuvenated, his limbs strong and his breath returned. He looked down at you with an awe that still refused to leave him, amazement only renewed at every new piece of you he acquired. “I’m still not used to that.”
You just smiled and giggled again. You were wearing the shawl again, the silky material draped over your shoulders, and you gently cupped his cheek, stroking your thumb over his cheekbone.
A twig snapped behind the both of you. Simultaneously, your heads shot to the side, looking at the man who sheepishly emerged from behind a tree, his phone held up and ready. Though he had revealed himself, he was in awe, staring at you the way Cillian often did.
Your eyes were wild with panic, and Cillian was frozen in his spot, trembling there. The three of you all looked between each other, and no one moved for a moment. But then, swift as lightning, so swift Cillian hadn’t even seen you move, you were next to the man, your fingertips softly touching his temple. He crumpled on the spot, eyes rolling back in his head as he fell to the floor, little snores leaving his mouth.
“No, oh no,” you whispered, staring down at him then back at Cillian.
Your panic was palpable. The air around you seemed to thicken, and for a moment Cillian thought he couldn’t breathe. Your glow had dimmed a little, darkened more than he had ever seen it, and everything he felt seemed to only be a response to you. You were staring at him again, lip trembling and eyes full of tears.
“What… what have you done?” Cillian hadn’t noticed him until then. He, like you, seemed to move on the air. And he was just like you. Beautiful, ethereal, otherworldly.
The man was standing at the boundary, but he could not have been a man. He glowed like you did, wore clothes made of the same material as yours, and his hands were clenched into fists as he took in the scene before him.
You were shaking more now, mouth dropped open as you looked between the human on the floor, Cillian, and your brother, glowering at you.
“What are you doing here?” You asked quickly, swallowing as your voice stuck in your throat.
“I was sent for a collection, and I could feel your distress from a mile away. You are lucky it was me and not anyone else who found you. I have known of your little escapades, but I did not think you to be so careless.” The man was seething, Cillian could tell, and he moved himself closer to you, slowly shuffling so that he stood between you and the other sidhe.
“Brother, please,” you pleaded, and Cillian turned to see crystalline tears collect at the corners of your eyes. Even your tears were beautiful, little gems that trickled down your cheeks as you trembled. He could feel your distress in his gut, and he would do anything to alleviate you from it. “I did not mean to be careless. Please.”
“You are finished now, Y/n,” he ordered, standing up straight and walking over to you. He leaned down and pressed his hand to the side of the man’s chest, and a little light flashed for a moment. Your brother pulled his hand away and began walking back to the boundary, not even acknowledging Cillian for a moment. “He will not remember, and come nightfall, he will wake up and leave.” You nodded, sniffling a little as you clutched both hands to your chest, shivering in a way Cillian had never seen.
“Now come,” he ordered, holding out his hand, “you are not to return here again. You will not leave our world again.”
Your head snapped up and you stared at your brother. Then your gaze travelled to Cillian, still standing there in shock, looking at you with pained eyes as the moment dawned on him. No… this could not be the end.
“Brother-”
“I will not hear any nonsense out of you. You have had your fun, but it is over now.” Your face crumpled further, your body shaking with unreleased sobs. His face and voice softened. “You know as well as I do that this could not last.” Your tears streamed freely now, your lips pouting and trembling. You nodded, but you could not make yourself move. Your brother looked between you and Cillian and sighed, shaking his head a little before straightening up again. “You may have a moment alone. If you do not return as the last birds chirp, then I will find you myself.” And then he left just as swiftly as he appeared.
You were in his arms, throwing yourself against him and wrapping your arms around his torso. You sobbed loudly, violently, crying into his jumper as you trembled like a leaf. All Cillian could do was hug you in return, holding you so tight he worried he might crush you.
It had all happened so fast. Everything had changed in the blink of an eye. One moment he had you. For one brief moment everything had shined the way it was supposed to. And then it was all ripped away.
You pulled back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. Your own were puffy, red, still leaking tears as if they would never stop. You looked… human. He let out a watery laugh, holding both your cheeks in his hands as he looked at you. You tried to smile, but you couldn’t.
“It’s ok,” he whispered, “it’s alright,” but all you could do was shake your head, biting harshly on your lip.
“Please,” he finally got out, “please let me remember.” And your eyes seemed to fill with more tears as his own finally spilled over. “Please let me remember all of this, all of you.” You somehow shook and nodded your head at the same time, dropping your forehead to his chest and continuing to sob for a moment longer.
You finally took a deep breath in and steadied yourself. You looked up into his eyes, caressed his cheekbone, and pushed yourself up to kiss him. You pressed your lips gently to his, softly, like caressing the petals of a flower. You leaned back and whispered, “I choose you. I would always choose you.” And then the world turned to black.
Cillian woke with a start, sitting up in bed, drenched with sweat. The same dream again, haunting him for years. He could feel your lips still, your grip on him, the silky material of the shawl under his hands. It was the most vivid dream he had ever had.
He knew he would not feel the same for days now. Each time the dream reoccurred, always at the start of winter, then again at the start of spring, he felt off for days. Something about it unsettled him in his bones.
He had tried going to those very woods, the woods of his childhood, to see if something in his memory would jog. He asked his family if he had ever had a head injury, some bout of amnesia, but they always looked at him like he was crazy and brushed him off for being silly.
It wasn’t real. It couldn’t have been real. Then why did it feel like that?
“Are you alright, darling?” It was his wife’s voice, groggy and concerned next to him. She reached up and gently rubbed his shoulder, looking at him through squinted eyes.
“Yeah, fine,” he huffed out, allowing himself to fall back into bed. But he would not sleep. He shuffled up again and turned on the lamp on his nightstand, glancing back to make sure his wife didn’t wake again. Then he pulled open the drawer, and gently grasped the bundle of cloth that was folded up inside. He brought it onto his lap, and stared at it as he caressed the fabric.
It was a shawl, beautiful and shimmery and unlike anything he had ever seen anywhere else in the world. Just like the one in his dream.
It was hundreds of years later when you felt the cold begin to creep up on your limbs. You had once thought you felt that same cold the night you had let your human go. But this time you knew it was real, that it had come for you.
You lay in your bed, shivering just a little. A blanket was draped over you, tucked in at your sides and neck, but the cold was bone deep, licking at the backs of your eyelids. You sighed slowly, and closed your eyes.
You could still see his so clearly. They blazed blue in your mind, like two gemstones. Sometimes you saw them red lined and brimming with tears, and sometimes you saw them squinted, the distant sound of his laughter just touching your ears.
If you thought hard enough, you could feel his touch. His hands caressing your hair, your face. His arms wrapped around you, firm and warm. Yes… you thought… you had chosen well…
Downstairs, the room opened up into a cozy den — a big leather couch, framed art, and an entire wall of vinyl records. Beside them, a record player and a small desk with papers scattered everywhere.
He moved to the player and put on a Radiohead record. The low hum filled the room, and you sank onto the couch beside him.
“That’s a huge collection,” you said, scanning the shelves. “I’ve never seen so many in one place.”
“Yeah, I’m a bit obsessed,” he admitted.
“Do you mind?” you asked, pointing to the vinyls.
“Go ahead.”
You knelt in front of the shelves, running your fingers along the spines, talking as you browsed — about music, movies, work, anything. It felt easy. You didn’t have to fill the silences; they just existed comfortably between you.
You spotted some classics, a few obscure names, and then one that made you light up.
“Oh my god, I love them!” you said, pulling out a signed Fontaines D.C. vinyl — your favorite album. “They’re like… what a boyband would be if they were actually cool.”
He grinned. “They’re one of the coolest bands I know. I can get you a signed copy if you want.”
“Really?” you asked, half-laughing. “You know them?”
“I’ve met them a few times. They’re brilliant live.”
“Okay, I know I’m supposed to say no, but I’d really like to take you up on that offer,” you giggled, setting the record back gently.
He smiled, that slow, crooked thing he did when he was amused but trying to hide it. “Then it’s settled.”
You stayed crouched by the vinyl shelf for a second longer than necessary, pretending to look through more albums. He was leaning against the desk behind you, wine glass in hand, eyes on you — you could feel it, that quiet kind of watching that wasn’t creepy, just… aware.
When you stood up, you were closer than you’d realized. His arm brushed yours as you turned, and the air suddenly felt heavier, quieter — the kind of silence that makes your pulse skip.
“Thanks again for lunch,” you said softly, because it felt like something you should say.
“Don’t mention it.” His voice had dropped a little. He took the empty glass from your hand, set it down on the desk — but didn’t step back.
You felt his eyes on you, steady and unguarded, and it made your skin burn. His pupils darkened as his fingers brushed up your arm, a barely-there touch that still sent a spark through you. You panicked at the feeling — the rush of want, sharp and dizzying. You wanted him so badly it scared you.
The back of his fingers traced along your cheek, light as breath. The record crackled softly in the background; upstairs, rain tapped against the windows. Everything else seemed to fall away.
When his hand cupped your jaw, thumb sweeping over your lower lip, you shivered. A shaky breath escaped you, and you tilted your chin up — just slightly. That was all it took.
His lips met yours, stealing the air from your lungs. His hands framed your face, big and warm, holding you like he was afraid you'd disappear. The kiss was slow and searching, and for a second, you let yourself forget everything—the fear, the noise in your head, the reasons you always ran.
Soon, the kiss deepened, and his hands were everywhere. Your body was pulled impossibly close to his as his tongue explored your mouth. Nothing else mattered then. His hand moved from your hair to your hips, giving your ass a light squeeze that pulled a moan from you.
Your hands, which had been clutching his hair, moved to his shoulders to pull back and catch a much-needed breath. You were too overwhelmed by the feeling to say anything. The mix of his lips, his hands, and the rough, grounding feeling of his beard sparked something deep within you. You didn't feel the sudden urge to run. You wanted him close; you wanted him to touch you, and you wanted to touch him. This wasn't escapism; it was the most honest you had been to yourself in a long time.
He panted a bit too before grabbing your legs, lifting them around his waist, and turning you around, making you squeal. He settled you onto the desk and kissed you again. If you thought the kiss couldn't get hotter, you were wrong. Your hands roamed his back as his hands slipped underneath your shirt, touching from your knees up to your waist. He pushed his hips into yours, making you feel him through both of your clothes.
You both moaned into each other's mouths, and you began to paw and peel his jumper and shirt with urgent need. He helped you too. You kicked off your boots when he unbuttoned your jeans, and you lifted up your hips to let him slide them off. He settled back in between your legs and you pulled his lips to yours again. His hands felt the skin of your legs, tracing them up until reaching your panties, where his fingers teased your clothed core as you became more and more needy.
He was impossibly hard against you, and your hands that had once been on his back and hips were now massaging the significant bulge inside his jeans. You both panted and looked at each other, your eyes wide, the only sound the soft crackle of the record player. You hadn't said a word, both afraid that speaking might somehow fuck it up. Cillian couldn't believe this was happening; honestly, he was waiting for you to panic and run away, but the moment never seemed to come. It had been a while for both of you, and he knew that if he really wanted this to last—to be more than just a quick fuck—he needed to put a stop to this before he creamed his pants.
He began kissing your neck, making you gasp. He peeled the t-shirt off before resuming his nibbling and licking on your neck, traveling lower to your chest, teasing your nipples over the fabric of your bra. You were getting wetter and wetter and were savoring the foreplay, even though it was taking all of his willpower not to bend you over and sink into you right there.
His hand unclasped the bra, and he slowly removed it. He looked at you for a moment, simply admiring you. Your chest heaved up and down, and just as your mind began to spiral, frantically trying to read his expression, he pushed his lips to yours.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered against your mouth, leaving you breathless.
His mouth trailed down again. The way his tongue circled your nipples and the slightly rough, exquisite feeling of his beard against your skin made you moan. His hands slowly began to slide your panties down your legs, pulling them off entirely, leaving you completely naked.
You felt small and self-conscious all of a sudden, acutely exposed. You were deeply insecure about your body; you felt too skinny and bony, lacking the curves you thought he might desire. You tensed, the old shame and self-loathing threatening to crash the moment. But when you met his eyes again, you saw something that eased everything: there was no lusty conquest, only deep, quiet adoration.
He knelt in front of you on the plush carpet of the basement, his eyes still locked on yours. He kissed your knee, then your thigh, tracing the inside of it. He took his time, and then, slowly and softly, his mouth found your core, and he licked a long stripe up your center, the shock of his tongue making you gasp and arch your back as you looked down at him. The exquisite, slightly abrasive feel of his beard against your sensitive skin dissolved the last of your remaining defenses.
You buried your hands in his thick hair, urging him closer. Any residual fear was gone, replaced by a desperate, focused need. His mouth was tender and deliberate, creating a slow, agonizing pleasure that dissolved the last of your defenses.
He was attentive and patient, exploring every inch of you, his focus absolute. The pressure built, wave after intoxicating wave, forcing a sound from your throat that was pure, unfiltered ecstasy. You could only grip his head, whispering his name—a plea, a grateful prayer. The tension coiled tight in your stomach, reaching a dizzying, unbearable point.
Just as you thought you might shatter, he lifted his gaze to meet yours, his tongue continuing its fierce, steady rhythm. His eyes pierced yours, dark with demanding intensity and triumph. The shock of that sudden, vulnerable eye contact, combined with the relentless pleasure, was the final breaking point. You cried out, a loud, ragged sound of release that echoed faintly in the basement. Your body convulsed, your hips slamming back against the desk, a blinding, total orgasm washing over you, leaving you shaking and completely undone.
He stayed there for a long moment, keeping his mouth pressed against you until the tremors fully subsided. He finally pulled back, his eyes dark, satisfied, and triumphant. He rose to his full height and kissed you deeply—full of need. Your teeth clashed, and you hummed into his mouth when you tasted yourself on his tongue.
Forcefully but gently, he lifted you off the desk, and you immediately locked your legs around his waist, clinging to him as he walked out of the basement and toward the bedroom.
When he laid you on his bed, the soft mattress yielding beneath your back, you looked at each other for a long moment. You felt an unexpected sense of ease and devotion. The anxiety was gone, replaced by a pure, focused acceptance. He could do whatever he wanted to me and I'd let him, you thought, realizing the depth of the trust you had placed in him.
He stripped off his remaining clothes—his jeans and briefs—until there was no longer any barrier between the two of you. He stood over you for just a second, magnificent and ready. His whole frame was covered in freckles and faint hair, trailing all the way down to his thick, beautiful cock, which stood proudly against his lower belly. He pumped himself slowly on his hand before settling his heavy frame between your legs, pulling you against the heat of his skin.
He didn't waste a second, and as if to muffle your moans, he kissed you deeply as he entered you slowly. You were so wet, and even though the stretch stung slightly, you wanted it more than ever. Slowly, he began to move, and you held his face in place with your hands, moving your legs up around his waist to let him sink deeper into you. You held him tightly against you. Your arms in his back as he kissed your neck and shoulder.
You genuinely smiled at the feeling. You felt so whole and were suddenly intensely emotional. It felt so good and so right, as if someone had finally found the missing piece of the puzzle. You felt so understood, like you didn't have to hide anything. He began to thrust deeper and faster, his groans mixing with yours as you moaned while tears rolled down your face.
He felt you getting closer and looked at you, only to stop when he saw the tears. "Hey, what's wrong?" he asked, looking into your eyes as he gently wiped the tears away.
You shook your head, grabbing his face and clashing your lips with his. "Nothing. It's fine," you insisted, moving your hips desperately, urging him on.
Confused, he resumed the pace, and your moans grew louder. He pushed your knees to your chest, and your orgasm exploded when you felt him deep inside of you. Tears rolled down again when he chased his own release, pounding harder into you and making you scream his name.
"Do you want me to pull out? Aw, fuck," he groaned, his voice thick with pleasure as you clamped your walls, squeezing his cock.
"No. Come inside, please," you pleaded. He was perfect, deep inside of you. You felt his balls slap against your ass with each powerful thrust, and you felt like you were in heaven.
"Yeah? You want me to come inside?" he teased, trying to draw another wave of pleasure out of you, which he successfully did.
"Fuck yes!" you gasped and moaned as you both came. Your walls were milking him for all he had, and you felt his warm cum shoot inside of you. Rope after rope, he came down from his high, collapsing against you, kissing your neck and shoulder. A deep, shuddering sense of release settled over you.
When he finally pulled out, more tears silently fell down your face.
A strange mixture of emptiness and bliss filled your chest. The physical craving was silenced, but the emotional void remained, only amplified by the contrast of his genuine presence.
He sat up on his knees, his hips still anchoring your legs around his waist, and looked down at you. He was breathing hard, tenderly caressing your thighs. He watched your messy hair, your tired expression, and the way your chest moved up and down, trying to steady itself. His gaze shifted, lingering briefly on his softening member and your abused cunt, red and swollen with a mixture of your releases dripping out. He couldn't believe it, but he was falling for you, and tonight definitely proved it.
“You sure you’re alright?” he asked tenderly.
“Oh yeah,” you said, snapping out of your trance and quickly wiping down the tears on your eyes. “Sorry. It’s fine.”
He leaned down and kissed your lips softly. “You can tell me,” he said in a low voice, almost whispering.
“It’s fine, don’t worry. Not even I know what’s wrong with me. But it’s fine, honestly.” You kissed him softly, needing the contact to anchor yourself. “It’s fine,” you whispered again, trying to convince yourself as much as him.
Cillian gently lowered your legs, sliding his hands down your thighs before resting them on your knees. He didn't move away, but he created space. The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken questions.
"No," Cillian said finally, his voice cutting through the quiet. "It's not fine. I need to know you're not going to push me away after this, like you have before. I really like you, Y/N. I need to know how this is going to go. I need you to let me in."
His demand for assurance snapped your trance. You pulled yourself up and off the bed, walking away to gather your clothes. "You're asking too much," you said loudly, walking naked toward the dimly lit stairs leading out of the basement. "You're a stranger. You don't get to ask for all my broken pieces."
Cillian quickly pulled on his briefs and raced to the basement door, catching you halfway.
"Are you seriously telling me I'm a stranger?" he demanded, his voice tight with disbelief. You ignored him, gathering your clothes and swiftly pulling on your underwear. "Well, I may be a stranger, but I have tried, okay? Day after day, and you just can't accept that someone likes you and wants to be with you."
His hands were clenched, his frustration visible. As you slid on your jeans, you looked at him with a flash of cold hatred. He didn't have a clue what he was talking about, you thought.
"You've got issues. Like serious ones." he stated, trying to articulate the obvious wall you kept erecting.
"Yeah, no shit," you interrupted him, pulling the zipper up your jeans. "Look, I'm fucked up, okay? You think I don't know that?" You walked over and sat down on the leather couch to zip on your boots. "You cannot expect me to tell you all my shit just because we fucked, okay? I like you too, Cill. A lot. But clearly, i cannot give you what you want here"
He walked closer, standing directly in front of you. "What do we do then?" he asked sternly, the question hanging heavy in the low light.
"I don't know," you retorted, meeting his gaze. "What I do know is that you need to be patient, okay? We have been seeing each other for like a month, so relax." You zipped your boots and stood up, reaching for the t-shirt you'd worn earlier. "Let's just slow down and stop analyzing everything.”
“Y/N, that's how normal relationships work, okay?" He was getting visibly frustrated, but he was slowly yielding ground.
"This clearly isn't a normal relationship. That much I'm sure of," you scoffed. "You know what your problem is? You are trying to fix me. And that's not your job. Just focus on being my friend, or whatever the fuck we are now."
There was a beat of strained silence. It felt surprisingly good to finally let out some of the bottled-up feelings. You glanced at your phone for the time. It was late. "I need to go." You walked toward the door.
“No, don't go, please." Cillian rushed forward and gently grabbed your arm. "I'm sorry, okay? You're right. I'm sorry I pushed you."
You smiled, the heat of the argument dissolving the second he gave in. Stepping closer, you kissed him — soft, deliberate — a quiet apology, a promise to pick this up later.
“I know,” you murmured against his mouth, “but I really should go. I’ve got to be at the studio early.”
“Stay,” he said, hands finding your waist again. “I can drive you tomorrow. I’ve got to be in town early anyway.”
“Okay” you mumbled, smiling as you met his lips for a deep kiss that instantly set the room alight again.
“Let’s go back to bed,” he murmured, brushing his lips against yours.
“Mmhmm.” You nodded, teasing. Your voice now low and sexy. “But let’s make a deal.” His pupils widened. “I’ll promise to behave—” you gave him a quick peck “—if you keep that monster of a dog away from me.”
He laughed, squeezing your hip. “Hey, his name is Scout. It’s not his fault you don’t like dogs.”
“Cillian, he nearly knocked me over. That’s Cujo behavior.”
“Enough,” he said, still laughing, before scooping you up over his shoulder as you yelped, pounding your fists playfully against his back.
The weekend had been soft and easy—full of laughter and too much food—and you’d slept most of the drive back to Dublin. You were in the late stages now, stupidly tired all the time, every step pressed down by the weight of the baby. A month and a half until it would be safe; you kept telling yourself maybe a C-section if the little one didn’t want to cooperate.
Cillian dropped Niall off at his mum’s and when you got home he collapsed straight onto the couch, bone-dead and flicking through channels. You, restless, tidied up in a haze of exhaustion and whatever nesting energy was left. In your pajamas you dragged the birthing ball out from the nursery into the living room and started the midwife’s routine: hip circles, gentle rocking, the stupidly boring breathing exercises. Your placenta was fine—thank God—and you wanted it to stay that way so you could try for a natural birth. Prenatal yoga, raspberry-leaf tea, Ash’s little tips—you’d tried them all.
It became habit: both of you home, dinner, the news playing in the background, then some vocational movie Cillian pretended to enjoy. You had begged for The Sopranos and lost—you’d learned to stop asking after he’d played Tommy Shelby for a decade.
You feel him watching before he says anything. It’s the little look Cillian gives when he’s trying not to smile — like he’s memorising you for later, slow and a little greedy. You get self-conscious for a second, hips stilling mid-circle. “What?” you murmur.
“Nothing,” he says, voice low. “You just look… proper unreal.”
You roll your eyes and go back to the exercise, because that’s what you do: make a face, move your hips, breathe like a yoga instructor told you to. He flicks between channels with the remote, pretending to care about the news, but you know the way he’s not watching the screen. You’re doing his favourite thing: being domestic and accidentally sexy at the same time.
He padded over and leaned the whole of his weight against the back of the couch, watching you like you were the whole evening’s entertainment.
“Cillian,” you scolded, half-laughing, half-serious. “I’m supposed to be focusing on my breathing right now. You are distracting me.”
“I’m not doing anything!” he protested, all fake innocence.
You turned your head and gave him a look that could’ve stopped traffic, though deep down you loved how unashamed he was about finding you beautiful. “It’s distracting,” you repeated, slow and warning.
He grinned. “You’re distracting.”
“CILLIAN.”
He held up his hands in surrender, still smiling. “Fine, fine.” He dropped onto the couch again, legs spread, eyes stubbornly fixed on the TV. But every few seconds, you could feel his gaze flicking back toward you.
You sighed and tried to ignore him, rolling your hips carefully on the exercise ball, breathing like the midwife had shown you. He shifted noisily behind you, flipping through channels. A second later came a dramatic sigh.
“Do you have to breathe so loud?” you snapped over your shoulder. Annoyance invading your features. he just enjoyed how irritable you were and keep egging on your frustration.
Your eyelids grew heavy; the evening had been slow and sweet and the soft warmth of the flat made everything feel small and private. Cillian’s stare was a low, steady heat down your spine. You finished the last circle with the birthing ball, set it aside, and he followed behind you as if the next step was already obvious.
As soon as you walked through the bedroom door, you were all over each other. Your earlier fatigue and frustration gave way to a sudden, eager need. His kisses were deep, loving, and tender, but you were impatient, and you knew he loved to tease.
You practically flopped onto the mattress, and clothes disappeared in a rush. The first challenge was finding a comfortable position. His hands were a comforting weight, moving all over your body—your face, breasts, back, and legs. Then he found the core of your need. It felt like an eternity, but your cunt grew wetter and more demanding with every touch. This dance was familiar, but it never got old. You were desperate for him inside you. When you looked down and saw his cock, hard and poking against your thigh, the tip leaking with precum, you were ready to snap.
“Cill, please,” you cried, begging again and again, but he seemed determined to push you over the edge with his fingers first. He kissed you hard, a possessive demand, just as his middle and ring finger bent upwards and out, fast and perfect, making you gush wildly over his hand.
He didn't think he could be any more turned on, but the sight of your pleasure was all it took. He quickly pumped himself in his fist and, with a sudden, forceful urgency, entered you fast, beginning to rock back and forth without letting you adjust.
He quickly found the necessary angle. With one leg draped over his shoulder and the other curved around his hip, he moved them, trying to draw you closer with each trust. You were propped half on the mattress and half on a pillow so you were on your side but also looking at him. The perfect position that made you want to stay there forever.
His gaze was intense and conflicted. He didn't know where to look: the way your face contoured with pleasure, the soft sway of your breasts bouncing with each push of his hips, or the sight of his cock, shiny from your wetness, sliding in and out with punishing ease. His strokes were quick and steady as he used his hands to push your body by your thighs closer to meet him, connecting your bodies fully as he felt you getting closer to the edge.
He wanted to stay there, suspended in that rush forever, but his body had other plans. He felt his orgasm building, a heavy surge he couldn't control, and his hips began to move faster, an involuntary, desperate rhythm. The slick, rhythmic slapping of your skin against his, combined with the sharp clenching sound every time he drove deep inside, invaded the room, making the environment feel even naughtier and heated.
“Oh Cill, I’m going to come,” you gasped, your brows knitted together with the intensity of it.
“Me too,” he admitted, his voice a low, rough sound. He suddenly changed the rhythm, pulling out until only the tip of his cock remained inside you, before pressing himself back deep, all at once.
You cried out and moaned, your nails digging into the skin of his arms, leaving pale, desperate marks. “Oh yeah, Cill, come. Come inside of me, please,” you begged, looking up at him.
“You want my cum?” he teased, his eyes dark with the final push of pleasure, already knowing the answer.
“Yes, please,” you confirmed, locking your gaze with his—a look that flipped his stomach every single time.
Plowing his cock in and out, hard and fast, he came with a shuddering force, making you reach your own climax at the same time. Your walls seized him, milking every last drop of cum he had left. You were still moaning and breathing loudly, your body slowly descending from the high.
Looking down at you, he smiled and leaned down awkwardly, bracing himself on his elbows to avoid squashing your belly, and kissed you. It was soft, slow, and languid. You trapped him with your legs, and when he tried to pull back, you tightened your grip, pulling him back onto your lips. Your chest was filled with a dizzying rush of love; you never felt more devotion for him than in this moment of raw vulnerability.
“Are you alright?” he asked when he finally pulled back, his face still close to yours.
“Mm-hmm,” you nodded, immediately kissing him again. “I just love you so much,” you whispered against his lips, and you both resumed making out—licking, sucking, and pecking. You felt utterly whole.
You wished you stayed that way forever and hoped things wouldn't change that much after the baby came.
—————————————-
Lately, you'd been getting more contractions, and you were struggling to differentiate the false alarms from the—okay, let's start timing these down—ones.
The days had gotten sunnier, and as you grew more and more bored, you decided to fully embrace your nesting phase by repotting plants and flowers from the garden. You spent most days like that. After there was nothing left to clean or organize inside, you focused on the outdoors, cultivating bright hydrangeas and sturdy snake plants.
Livvy came over one of those sunny afternoons, and you lounged on the terrace, admiring your newly created urban jungle. She was rambling about a disastrous date and a killer hangover—details about the single life you certainly weren't missing right now.
You were coming back from the kitchen with a tall jar of water to refill your glass and a fresh rose for Livvy. You began to think about how incredibly different your life was now compared to just one year ago, back when you and Cillian were still sneaking around and- you felt it. Just as you got through the glass door. Not a slow leak, but a distinct gush—like a bucket of warm water down your legs. You looked down and saw a big, clear puddle forming on the floor.
