Before I could settle on anything, Ciarán came walking into the living room—all slow like he knew I was watching. His ever-present cocky-ass smirk sitting pretty on his face. No shirt, just smooth skin and tattoos, muscles flexing like he did that shit on purpose. My gaze, against all my better judgment, dipped south to the loose waistband of his basketball shorts. Every step, that fabric molded against his dick print, teasing me. My eyes shot back to the TV when I saw him noticing me watching him.
“You good over there?” he asked, stopping at the edge of the couch, staring at me.
“Fine,” I said quickly, trying to sound indifferent. But my heartbeat was in my pussy.
He grinned like he didn’t believe me, but he didn’t push.
“I got a surprise for you,” he said, not waiting for me to respond before heading to the corner where an old record player sat.
The needle dropped, and a soft crackle sounded before a woman’s voice—rich, aching, and from another era—filled the room.
“I waited too long… and now we’re apart…”
“LaVern Baker,” I said softly.
He smiled without looking at me. “You sound like her. You both have the same honey-dipped tone.”
“I know, I’ve heard it before,” I said, a little breathlessly. “But what do you know about her? Since when do you listen to music that wasn’t made on a laptop?”
He smiled sadly. “My mom used to play this when she cleaned the house. Said it was good luck to let love songs live inyour walls.”
The image of him cleaning, all small and cute, was so vivid, so tender and domestic, it annoyed me. This was a side of him I didn’t want to know. It made me care. I didn’t want to hear any more of his memories.
“Is this really a love song, though?” I asked.
He leaned a shoulder against the wall, crossing his arms. The movement made the ink on his bicep shift and my breathing speed up.
“Sounds like one. A woman singing about waiting, losing her man… what else would it be?”
I drew my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them.
“I don’t know. Sounds less like love and more like a warning. She waited too long, and now she’s alone. It’s about regret. About the cost of not acting when you had the chance.”
I met his gaze, the intensity in his dark eyes a tangible force across the room.
“It’s not a love song. It’s a ghost story.”
Ciarán was silent for a long moment, just watching me as LaVern’s voice swelled between us. It felt like we were sitting in a space of shared ache. The air grew thick, charged with everything we weren’t saying.
“You ever felt like that?” I asked. “Felt that sense of loss?”
He smirked faintly.
“Yeah. Once.”
I stared at him. “What happened?”
His smirk turned into a full-blown smile.
“The only woman I think I ever came close to feeling something akin to love for told me every time I tried… that she,” he paused, “loved her husband.”
His words landed with the weight he wanted them to. Something in my chest tightened.
The only woman I ever came close to feeling something real forreplayed in my head.
I should’ve looked away, but I couldn’t.
Finally, he pushed off the wall. He crossed back to the couch and sat beside me. The leather dipped under his weight. I could smell the expensive dish soap he used.
