Auden stood in front of her full-length mirror, adjusting the cuffs of her black lace button-up. She had paired it with light-wash jeans and black heels — casual, but put-together. Appropriate for a friendly dinner with Patrick.

She sighed, her fingers lingering at the hem of her shirt. She wasn't nervous about the dinner itself — Patrick was charming, easy to talk to. She was nervous about the message it could send. 

Her mind kept wandering back to Cillian. Back to the weight of him in her arms in her office, the way his body had curved into hers. She had never in her life allowed herself to break like that in front of anyone before. But then again, he had been hurting too. The moment she saw his tears, she couldn't help herself either.

Her body couldn't shake the feeling of his arms tightening around her, like she was the only thing keeping him together. Or had it been the other way around?

He had looked at her afterward, thumb brushing away the wetness on her cheeks, voice hushed with gratitude — but then the moment was gone. Charlie had woken up, their bubble shattering. Cillian had walked away like nothing had happened. 

Since then, there had been texts — small things, nothing real. Cillian wasn't much of a texter. Probably an age thing, she thought. But that wasn't an excuse for the way he'd suddenly pulled back, kept her at arm's length. It had been days. The week stretched itself into the weekend, both yet again refusing to acknowledge what the hell was going on between them.

So here she was, forcing herself to go out with someone else. 

Because Cillian wasn't going to make a move. 

And she wasn't brave enough to do it for him. She wasn't used to being vulnerable. She didn't know how. It was easier to keep people at a safe distance, to let them assume she was fine, that she didn't need anything from them. It had always been that way — with her father, with her ex-boyfriend, with every relationship that had fizzled before it could ever become something real.

Because real meant risking something.

And Auden didn't do that.

But Cillian — he was different. He didn't seem to push, didn't pry, didn't demand anything from her. And yet, somehow, he still got too close.

He had already seen her grief, the cracks she worked so hard to hide. He had felt the way she held him that day in her office, the way she let herself be needed even though it went against every instinct she had. He had seen the way she had hesitated before pulling away.

And the worst part?

She almost wanted him to see her.

That was the part that scared her the most — the pull toward him, the slow, creeping fear that if she let herself lean into him, she would lose herself completely.

Because Cillian wasn't safe, not in the way she needed. Not in the way she could control.

There was a knock at the door that snapped her from her thoughts. 

She frowned, glancing at her phone — Patrick wasn't due for another ten minutes. Another knock. More urgent this time.

Beans, curled up on her bed, jumped down and trailed after her as she made her way to the door. Auden cracked it open, nudging the cat back with her foot — then froze.

Cillian stood on her doorstep, looking so casually beautiful it was infuriating. A white button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the top undone just enough to hint at his collarbone. His hair was a mess, curling around the edges of his ears and falling into his too-blue eyes. 

"Hello," he said, smiling. 

Auden's stomach flipped.

She stepped outside, pulling the door shut behind her before Beans could escape.

"What are you doing here?" She glanced down the street, suddenly paranoid that Patrick would turn the corner any second. 

Cillian's smile faltered, a flash of disappointment behind his gaze. He clearly had been hoping for a better response.

"I—" He hesitated, eyes flicking over her outfit, the way her hair was curled. His gaze softened – or maybe darkened? She couldn't tell. But the way he was looking at her made her feel like gravity had shifted beneath her feet.

"I just came to see you," he finally said, "Maybe see if you wanted to do something."

Auden swallowed hard, a nervous seed planting deep into her stomach. This wasn't good.

"Now's not a good time," Auden responded, fidgeting with a ring on her middle finger, "I'm heading out."

"Oh?" he questioned, just as his expression changed. Auden watched his jaw tighten, his shoulders stiffening as his stare drifted past her shoulder and down the street. 

Auden didn't need to look to know why. 

"I see," Cillian muttered to himself.

"Shit," she sighed under her breath, allowing herself to look behind her to find Patrick walking up the street. He wore a denim jacket over a gray sweater, his usual relaxed confidence radiating off him. Auden turned back to Cillian, her cheeks burning with an unplaced shame. This felt entirely wrong. But why did it?

Cillian's eyes narrowed to her face ever so slightly as Patrick strolled up to the pair, hands in his pockets. He smiled widely, "Hello."

Neither of them responded, their attention locked on another in a fruitless staring contest. It only made her angry. Why should she hide what she was doing anyway?

For whatever reason, part of Auden wished he would say something – to cause a scene so she would have an excuse not to join Patrick for dinner tonight. She could spend the evening arguing with Cillian instead, because at least then she could get some answers. Maybe even figure out why she couldn't seem to shake him off.

Cillian could sense she wanted a challenge. She could see it – the inkling of amusement behind his stare as his mind churned over this idea and the possibilities it could present. But he stayed quiet.

Patrick's eyes flicked between them, amusement dancing at the corners of his mouth. "Am I interrupting something?" 

"No," Cillian said flatly, tearing his attention from Auden to look at Patrick. His voice was calm, but the sharp edge beneath it was unmistakable. "I was just leaving." 

Cillian's gaze met hers one last time, and for a split second, she saw it again — the hurt, the anger, desire to retaliate. 

And when he turned to walk away, Auden's throat constricted, his name getting caught in her throat and threatening to escape. But she swallowed it back, watching him retreat further from her view without taking another glance in her direction.

Patrick turned to her cheerily, "Ready to eat? I'm starving."

It was almost comical. She kept her eyes on Cillian's silhouette growing smaller by the second.

"Ready as I'll ever be."

Despite the awkward start, dinner was easy. In fact, it surprisingly was nice.

Patrick had taken her to a trendy pizzeria with dim lighting and excellent wine. He had been careful not to mention the moment outside her apartment, steering their conversation toward work, art, Dublin's cultural scene.

It was a breath of fresh air. There was no heavy silences or emotional baggage attempting to unpack its way into the conversation. Talking to Patrick was easy. It was safe. Everything that Auden knew she could handle. She even found herself laughing – more than she expected to. Patrick was easy to be around, his energy and confidence practically contagious. And she couldn't deny — the more wine she had, the more attractive he became.

He was handsome. Sharp jaw, mischievous grin. Patrick and Cillian were opposites in every way that mattered. 

Patrick was lighter with easy laughter, sunlit charm, a warmth that didn't demand too much. There was something inherently youthful about him, not just in age but in the way he moved through the world. He carried himself with confidence, with the kind of certainty that came from never having been truly broken. Patrick was possibility, momentum, something fresh and unburdened.

Cillian, though, held himself in the way that old things carry weight. He had lived, had lost, had seen too much of life to believe in things the way Patrick did. Where Patrick was all golden ambition, Cillian was deep water — steady, but unknowable, occasionally treacherous. He didn't wear his charm on his sleeve; it was something quieter, something you had to be close enough to feel. He was aged whiskey, late nights, the kind of presence that lingered long after he was gone.

Patrick belonged to the future — he spoke in plans, in what could be. Cillian belonged to the past — a man untangling himself from old wounds, still half-haunted by the life he used to have. 

And Auden? 

She was caught in between. 

Patrick was safe, uncomplicated. A door she could walk through without second guessing it, without having to look back at the parts of her soul that remained unfixed. He would keep her steady.

Cillian was dangerous in the way all deeply felt things were. A slow pull into something she wasn't sure she could survive. He could ruin her.

And she still wasn't sure which one she wanted more.

"What are you thinking about?" Patrick suddenly said, breaking her silent struggle.

"What?" Auden responded a little too loudly, the wine making her mouth fuzzy and brain hazy as she came back down to reality.

Patrick chuckled lightly, "You looked like you were daydreaming."

"Oh," Auden smiled sheepishly, moisture sticking to the back of her neck, "Sorry. Must be the alcohol."

Patrick nodded, as if this explained everything, "I was just wondering," he mused, taking a sip of wine. "If you noticed Cillian's dislike for me yet."

"It may have come up," she replied slyly, attempting to remain cool, "Why is that, by the way?"

She was met with a passive look, "Cillian has issues."

Auden scoffed much louder than she intended, causing some heads to turn. But she barely noticed.

"Cillian has a lot of issues." 

That was too harsh – too petty. Auden knew it came from a place of confusion and frustration, and she regretted it the second she said it.

Patrick only chuckled. "That's probably why his wife left him." 

Auden blinked, caught off guard by the casual cruelty of the comment. It seemed different, coming from Patrick, only because she knew their history stretched deeper than hers.  

"That was kind of rude," she said, frowning. 

Patrick shrugged, reaching for another slice of pizza. "Honestly, I am surprised he's putting up with me at all."

He paused, biting into his pizza, and leaving Auden with a million questions.

Putting up with him? What did that even mean? And why would –

Patrick cut in again, swallowing before saying, "Did you know his wife had an affair?" 

Auden, who had brought her glass of Sauvignon Blanc to her lips, nearly choked on the contents. "She what?" 

Patrick shrugged. "Yeah. While he was away filming Peaky Blinders. At least, that's what I heard." 

Auden's stomach twisted at the thought. Patrick had told her so casually, like it was nothing —  a piece of gossip passed between drinks, a careless shrug as he said, She cheated on him while he was away filming Peaky Blinders.

She had almost laughed at first, not because it was funny, but because it didn't make sense. Cillian carried so much guilt about his marriage ending, so much blame. But an affair? That changed everything. That wasn't just falling out of love.

That was betrayal.

And yet — he had never said a word about it.

Why?

Auden tapped her nails against her glass, staring blankly at the flickering candle between her and Patrick. He was still talking, something about a new piece he was working on, but she wasn't listening. Her mind was stuck on Cillian. On his quiet sadness, the way he always seemed like he was carrying something too heavy for one person.

Patrick had said it so simply, like it was an afterthought.

But it wasn't.

It was a crack in the foundation of everything she thought she understood about Cillian. And worse — it explained so much.

The way he struggled to let people in.

The way he always seemed like he was bracing for disappointment.

The way he had looked at her outside her apartment, hurt flashing across his face like a wound reopening.

He had been the one left behind. And yet, he still acted like he was the one who had failed.

Auden took a slow sip of wine, her gaze flickering back to Patrick. Why did Cillian hate him so much?

She had assumed it was just tension — jealousy, maybe, or some clash of personalities. But now... the feeling in her chest tightened.

What if it was more than that?

Patrick had known about the affair. That much was clear.
But how?

And why did she get the feeling that he wasn't telling her everything?

She eyed him as he stretched, then grinned at her, satisfied and content.

"Anyway — I know a great spot for dessert. You up for it?" 

Auden forced a smile. "Sure." 

Inevitably, the night had gone later than expected. Auden was hoping Patrick would feed her curiosity more, just enough to dull the gnawing in her brain that told her something wasn't right. It's why she let dessert turn into more drinks at a pub, and why somewhere between the second and third round, she had stopped thinking about Cillian.

Patrick had been... fun. It's the part she hated most about the night. She found herself stumbling up her front steps, too tipsy to be graceful. As she dug around for her keys, the buzz of alcohol making her bold and reckless, all she wanted was a cigarette and her soft mattress.

No men. No emotions. Just the soft cradle of being drunk and drifting off to sleep. 

She was halfway through digging in her bag when a voice appeared behind her.

"How was your date?" 

Auden nearly jumped two feet in the air, dropping her purse. Her heart slammed against her ribcage as she whipped around.

There, Cillian stepped into partly into view from somewhere, his face masked by the shadows of the streetlamp above.

Her pulse spiked with irritation.

"What the fuck, Cillian?" she hissed, clutching her chest. "What are you doing here? Again?" 

He didn't answer. 

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head in disbelief as she bent down to grab her purse. "Have you just been waiting for me like some creep?" 

Still, silence. 

Auden straightened, folding her arms over her chest. "Well? Are you gonna say something?" 

Cillian stepped closer, the shadow over his face falling from view. His expression was blank, but his eyes — bloodshot, unfocused— betrayed him. 

He was drunk again.

"If you're looking for someone to take care of you tonight," Auden replied sarcastically, "I'm out of commission."

"How was your date?" he repeated again.

"It wasn't a date," she said sharply.

His legs moved again. Auden's heart was still pounding, the sound thumping in her ears, pulsating. He was closer — too close, his scent overwhelming. Cedarwood and whiskey. She wanted to bottle it up and take it to bed with her.

"This is none of your business," she continued, poking him to say something — anything — to her.

Cillian tilted his head, looking at the starless sky. She watched a ghostly smirk form across his lips, "Is that so?" 

She was reeling, the alcohol fueling her anger. Why was he acting so nonchalant? Why did he think he could just show up, unplanned, and expect everything to be okay? And why hadn't he called her?

"Why the fuck are you playing games with me," she snapped. "What are you trying to do?" 

"Me?" Cillian gawked, his mouth falling open as he returned his gaze to her, "What could I be doing to you?"

"You're messing with my head," Auden's voice rose, "You gave me this big spiel about fucking professionalism and being discreet but then you show up to my place of work and - and my apartment like a psycho."

It was a stupid explanation, but it's all she could manage in the moment. Her thoughts were moving too quickly for her to think straight.

And then she said the one thing that had stuck with her since the beginning.

"What's going on between you and Patrick?" she blurted out.

He scoffed arrogantly, his own anger bubbling to the surface. His jaw hardened, his eyes narrowing. "Why? What did he tell you?"

"Nothing," she lied so smoothly that she almost convinced herself it had been true, "We didn't talk about you at all."

Cillian stared at her — long, hard. Then, finally, he exhaled, voice dropping to a whisper. 

"Do me a favor," he said slowly, "and open your damn eyes to what's in front of you." 

"My eyes are open," Auden retorted, her voice oddly calm, "And all I see is a fucking asshole."

Cillian didn't react — not at first. He just stood there, his expression unmoving in the dim light, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. 

For a moment, Auden thought he might fire back, throw something sharp and cruel her way like she had just done. But he didn't. He just stared at her. 

And then something shifted. 

It was in the way his jaw slackened, the barely-there hitch of his breath, the way his shoulders suddenly looked too heavy for his frame. His defenses, so carefully constructed, cracked right in front of her. 

And Auden — God, she hated it — but she felt it. The hurt buried beneath the anger, the exhaustion, the way he was fighting to hold himself together. 

She had seen glimpses of it before, in the quiet moments, the fleeting expressions he never let linger too long. But now, he wasn't hiding it.

And that terrified her. 

Cillian opened his mouth like he was going to say something — but then he stopped. Whatever words he had died on his tongue. 

And without another glance, he nodded goodnight, and walked away. 

And just like earlier, he didn't look back. 

Auden stood frozen on the stoop, her breath caught somewhere in her chest. The streetlights cast his retreating figure in long shadows, and with each step he took, she begged him to come back. But he didn't.

Because for the first time, she realized — Cillian wasn't leaving because he was angry.

He was leaving because he couldn't do this.

Because whatever was between them — it wasn't a game anymore. It wasn't anything.