A couple of hours later, Cillian's soft singing tugs me back toward consciousness. I don't immediately move to get up or even open my eyes. His voice washes over me, beautiful and warm.
Just like him.As if in protest, a cough breaks through my comfort.
The singing stops, and Cillian appears at my side. “Hey.” He gently pushes a few stray curls from my forehead. “How're you feeling?” Those steady green eyes study me.
Too beautiful. The way his eyes seem to suck in the light, causing them to glow like precious gemstones.
“Maybe a little better,” I rasp, throat ragged from sleep and coughing.
He nods, “That's good.” The corners of his mouth tick up, crinkling the fine lines at the cornerof his eyes in a way that causes my heart to do things I should likely seek medical attention for.
Fuck.
“I'm gonna make you some tea.”
That's surprising enough to pull me from my hazy stupor. “Tea?”
“Yes. Tea.”
“You brought tea into my home?”
He rolls his eyes. “I did. And you're going to drink it.”
“I do have boundaries.”
“And I'll respect most of them.” He stands, forcing me to roll onto my back in order to glare at him. “Humor me.”
I sigh, too tired to argue further.
I snooze a bit more, the music and the sounds of him in the kitchen a surprisingly powerful lullaby.
The record finishes as he steps back in with two large steaming mugs. “Any requests?” He asks.
“Anything you'll sing to,” I blurt, cheeks heating.
Cillian pauses, looking over his shoulder, a crooked little smile on his lips. “Was I singing?” I nod. “I hope that didn't wake you.”
“It was a nice way to wake up.”
He chooses a Hozier album, swaying a bit with the opening notes wafting through the room.
“Hozier fan?” I ask, remembering the band had covered several of his songs when I saw them play. I sit up, making space for him on the other side of the couch.
“Yeah.” He takes the seat, his back against the arm, and passes me a mug. “The man writes great music.”
I breathe in the steam billowing from the tea. Instead of the tannic notes I expected, a warm spiced scent cuts through my congestion. “Oh.” I take another breath. “That smells kinda good actually.”
Cillian watches in anticipation as I take a wary sip. Honeyand cinnamon and ginger and other things I can't quite clock soothe their way down my throat.
“And?” He asks.
“You win.” I take another sip. “This isn't bad.”
“But not great,” he teases.
“Not bad is the highest praise I can give tea.” I sip once more, trying to suss out the contents entirely and failing. “What is it?”
“A turmeric blend. I had it the last time I was under the weather, worked wonders.”
