Faces of people from my hometown flash through my mind. Like Cillian, they'd believed in the promise of something better, something bigger, too young to wonder what the price really was. From the sidelines of social media, Belle and I had watched as obituaries rolled in over the years, losses to a machine I'd assumed mostly targeted poor kids in towns like ours. Realizing just how wrong I was is harrowing.
“How long were you in the army?” I ask.
“Marines,” he corrects. “Eight years.” He releases a shaky breath. “It's kind of ironic that by the time I got out, the last thing I wanted to do was play music much less get a fucking degree in it.”
“What changed?”
“The school thing never did—sitting in a room while people tell you how to create sounds miserable—but playing...I don't know.” I let the silence hang, giving him space to find the words. “Time, I think. I needed time to come back to it, to let myself find joy in itagain.”
“I'm glad you were able to find your way back to it.”
“Me, too.”
Words don't feel sufficient, so I press a kiss to his knuckles and rest my temple on his shoulder. Cillian nuzzles his nose into my hair, and we allow the silence to hold us for a few moments.
“How are you feeling?” He asks, voice soft as though he doesn't want to break the serenity.
“Better, actually.” My skin had lost the static ache of fever, and my lungs seemed a little less insistent on exiting my body.
Cillian rests his palm on my forehead and moves to press the back of his hand to the side of my neck. “You don't feel as warm.” His lips brush my hair. “Why don't you hop in the shower, and I'll heat you up some more soup.”
“I don't know if I should be offended by that suggestion.”
He chuckles. “Come on.”
The shower is life-altering,made even better by the shower-melt thing Cillian brought.
I linger, letting the steam soak into my pores, scrubbing my skin pink. Honestly, I take so long I almost feel bad for leaving Cillian alone. That is, until I come out of the bathroom to find him vibing to a record, completely content on my couch, all the blankets neatly folded, setting his mug of tea on a freshly assembled coffee table.
Admonishing him will clearly do nothing, so I opt to shake my head in dramatic disapproval as I pass by, shutting my bedroom door behind me.
“Soup is ready,” he calls, amusement coloring his voice.
I almost quip something back at him about not wanting soup, but the words get stuck behind the lump in my throat that forms the moment I see a familiar silk robe on my bed.My knees feel less stable than usual, and my heart beats that concerning rhythm again.
Maybe I'd stroke out right here and not have to deal with how fucking considerate this and every goddamn thing he's done today has been. I force myself to take several breaths, as deep as I can in the circumstances, and change.
“I'm going to need you to stop being so nice.” The silk of the robe is soothing against my skin.
Cillian grins, setting two bowls on the coffee table. “Don't worry, I'm sure I'll be an asshole in the future.” I was beginning to seriously doubt that.
“Where is my former coffee table?” I ask as I take a seat.
“Over there,” he thumbs to the collection of other half-unpacked boxes on the other side of the room. “Figured this would be better than a slowly collapsing box.”
“Maybe I liked my collapsing box.”
“Is that the aesthetic? Cardboard fort chic?”
“Unstable-core is all the rage.” I tuck my legs under me as Cillian joins me.
We enjoy our soup and more of that incredibly good baguette for a few songs before he asks. “Why haven't you unpacked?”
The spoon freezes halfway to my mouth. My nervous system malfunctioning at even considering the answer to his simple question.
This was why I didn't want to let him, or anyone else, in here. Outside of these walls, I could perform the role of someone who knew, at least a little, what she was doing. In here, the hurricane was impossible to ignore; in here it was all too clear what David meant when he said I was unreasonable.
“You really wanna know?” I ask.
