Cillian

The sky over Stoneybatter had been a bruised, heavy purple all afternoon, finally giving way to a relentless Dublin deluge that turned the red-brick terraces into shimmering, dark monuments. Cillian trudged up the slight incline toward his front door, his broad shoulders hunched against the wind and his leather satchel groaning under the weight of three seventeenth-century folios he’d smuggled home for restoration. His glasses were a fogged-out mess of droplets, and he held a stack of loose-leaf parchment tucked tightly under his arm, shielding it with the crook of his elbow like it was a holy relic. He was exhausted, the kind of bone-deep weary that usually demanded a quiet house and a very large whiskey, but the sight of the slumped figure huddled against his doorframe brought his entire world to a staggering, heart-thumping halt.

There she was, a rain-lashed vision of absolute catastrophe that made his breath hitch in his throat. Even with her hair plastered to her forehead and her clothes clinging to her frame in a way that made his protective instincts roar, she remained the most stunning thing he had ever laid eyes on—a cruel, beautiful constant in his life that he was never quite prepared to face. He knew that look; it was the hollow-eyed stare of a woman whose latest "forever" had just turned into a "never again," and the realization sent a jagged, conflicting surge of electricity through his veins.

A dark, treacherous part of him wanted to punch the air, a shameful spark of triumph lighting up his chest because she was free again, even if it was only until the next shiny distraction caught her eye. Yet, almost instantly, the guilt followed, heavy and suffocating as the wet wool of his sweater, because he hated that her pain was his opportunity. He felt like a scavenger lurking at the edge of her misfortune, a fraud who offered tea and sympathy while secretly wishing he could bar the door and keep her trapped in the safety of his adoration forever.

He shifted the heavy stack of books to one arm, nearly fumbling a precious volume in his haste to reach her. His heart hammered a frantic, uneven rhythm against his ribs, sounding to his own ears like a stampede of hooves on wet stone. He didn't say a word at first, simply stepping into her space to block the wind, his shadow falling over her like a heavy, protective shroud. He looked down at her, his jaw tight with the effort of keeping his voice steady, his blue eyes searching hers with a desperate, quiet intensity.

"C’mere to me before you catch your death standing out here in the spill," he murmured, his Dublin lilt rougher than usual, thickened by the sheer weight of his suppressed longing. He fumbled with his keys, the metal jangling loudly in the quiet street as he managed to kick the door open, gesturing for her to precede him into the warm, book-scented dimness of his hallway. He was already mentally cataloging the towels in the hot press and the bottle of Jameson in the cupboard, ready to be whatever version of a man she needed—the friend, the anchor, or the fool who would settle for just one day of her presence if it meant he didn't have to watch her walk away again.

The sky over Dublin had turned a treacherous, bruised grey, dumping a "soft" rain that was anything but gentle as it soaked through Cillian’s thin black T-shirt. He stood tucked into the shallow alcove of The Stag’s Head, shifting his weight from one foot to the other while the damp chill of the pavement seeped through the soles of his shoes. In his left hand, he clutched a sodden, bunched-up mass of navy-blue wool that had once been his favorite Aran sweater, now reduced to a heavy, dripping burden that smelled pungently of wet sheep and wounded pride. He felt raw, exposed in a way that made his skin itch, having finally succumbed to the reckless dare she’d laid at his feet the night before.

The beard was gone, and with it, the only shield he’d had against the world for the better part of a decade. His hand rose habitually to scratch at a chin that was no longer there, his fingers instead meeting the cold, hard reality of a square, stubborn jawline that he absolutely loathed. It was his father’s face staring back at him from every shop window reflection—a ghost of a man he’d spent his whole life trying to outrun—and without the familiar weight of his glasses, which he was currently rubbing uselessly against his wet sleeve, the world was nothing but a smear of amber streetlights and rain-streaked stone.

His heart gave a violent, seismic thud against his ribs when he spotted her moving through the crowd, an umbrella tilted against the wind as she navigated the puddles with that effortless grace that always made him feel like a clumsy, earthbound creature. He straightened up, his breath hitching in his throat, ready to endure whatever joke or gasp of surprise she had prepared for his new, naked face. He braced himself for the impact of her gaze, his thumb tracing the bridge of his nose where his frames usually sat, but the moment of recognition he’d been dreading—and secretly craving—never came.

She walked right past him, her shoulder brushing his damp arm as she scanned the entrance of the pub, her eyes sliding over him with the polite, empty indifference one reserved for a total stranger. There was no flicker of warmth, no sudden laugh, not even a second glance at the man standing shivering in the rain with his heart pinned to his dripping sleeve. He froze, his hand dropping to his side as he watched the back of her head disappear toward the heavy wooden doors of the bar, the silence between them suddenly feeling louder than the roar of the Dublin traffic.

A cold, hollow pit opened up in his stomach, far more biting than the Irish rain, as he realized she truly hadn't seen him at all. Without the glasses to sharpen his vision and the beard to hide the pale, freckled expanse of his face, he felt utterly monstrous, convinced that his true self was so unremarkable or perhaps so jarringly different that he had become invisible to the only person who mattered. He stood there like a discarded shopping trolley in the Liffey, blurred and half-submerged in his own insecurity, wondering if he should just turn and run into the fog before she realized the stranger she’d ignored was the man who had been loving her from the shadows for years.