Auden felt a strange nervous energy as she approached the café, the one where she had first met Cillian. It was busier today, the crisp Sunday morning drawing in couples and friends eager to bask in the soft autumn sun. The hum of conversation filled the air, mingling with the scent of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries. 

Prepping herself, she stepped inside, scanning the crowd. No sign of Cillian. When she stepped up to the counter to order, the barista, Katie, greeted her with a knowing smile. 

"Ah, the American girl has returned! Mr. Murphy mentioned you'd be here." 

Auden's brows lifted slightly. "Come again?"

"He's in the back room," Katie continued, gesturing to an entryway covered by a blue and orange tapestry, white beads dangling from the frame. 

Auden eyed it warily. So, he really meant private. 

After placing her order and murmuring her thanks, she picked up her coffee and slipped past the beaded curtain, pushing aside the fabric. The space beyond was smaller but beautifully lit, with natural light streaming through a skylight above. Green plants cascaded from every corner, creating an intimate oasis away from the crowded café. 

But it wasn't just Cillian waiting for her. 

Auden faltered mid-step, her gaze landing on the man sitting across from him. 

He was younger than Cillian, with dark eyes and a sharper edge to his smile. His skin warm and golden, his black hair cropped close to his head. His British accent came through smoothly as he spoke. 

"Well, well," Patrick drawled, leaning back in the plush red vinyl booth. "You must be Auden." 

Auden shot a confused look at Cillian, who had noticeably tensed. His fingers gripped his mug a little too tightly, his jaw clenched as if holding back words. 

"This is Patrick Haynes," Cillian said, his voice flat. "He — wasn't supposed to be here." 

Patrick smirked at that, clearly enjoying Cillian's discomfort. "Ran into him this morning. Figured I'd say hello." He turned his full attention to Auden, reaching out a hand. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you." 

Auden hesitated before shaking it, taken aback by the warmth in his expression. "Likewise." 

Patrick's grip was firm, his gaze lingering just a little too long before he released her hand. "I've heard quite a bit about you," he added. 

She glanced at Cillian, whose face was unreadable. "All good things, I hope." 

Patrick chuckled, the sound rich and effortless. "That'll have to stay between me and Cillian." 

Something in the air shifted. 

Auden wasn't sure what she had walked into, but there was something unspoken, an undercurrent of tension crackling between the two men. She slid into the booth beside Cillian, who moved stiffly to make room for her. On the table sat a warm, inviting basket of assorted breads.

Patrick leaned forward, breaking the silence. "Have you tried the croissants here?" 

Auden's stomach betrayed her, growling audibly. She reached for one without thinking, tearing off a bite. The buttery, flaky perfection melted in her mouth, and she let out an involuntary groan of approval. She could feel the bread soaking up the alcohol, washing away her sins from the night before.

Patrick laughed. "Told you. Almost as good as in France." 

Auden's eyes widened. "You've been?" 

"A handful of times." 

She reached for another croissant just as Patrick did, their fingers brushing briefly. He didn't pull away immediately. Instead, he watched her with quiet amusement before finally relinquishing the pastry. 

Auden forced a small smile, but when she turned to Cillian, her stomach twisted. He was glaring at Patrick, his face composed but his posture rigid, knuckles pale as his fingers curled tiger around his mug. She half-expected the ceramic to crack. 

She cleared her throat, cutting through the tension, "I'm sorry. I wasn't expecting this to be a work meeting."

"It wasn't supposed to be," Cillian muttered, before shaking his head and bringing his mug to his lips.

Patrick simply shrugged, "When he mentioned where he was going, I thought I'd tag along. Why waste an opportunity?"

"Well," Auden hesitated, glancing down at the table as she tried to gather her thoughts. Her hangover was not helping. "I guess I wanted to talk to you about a potential exhibit at the gallery. I'd love to showcase more local artists, and your work would be a perfect fit." 

Patrick nodded, his eyes flickering between her and Cillian before settling on her. "I like the sound of that. I might have a few artists who'd be interested as well — if the price is right." 

Auden smiled. "We can work that out with my boss, Charles Byrne – but I'll make sure you're compensated fairly." 

Patrick shifted, just slightly, so his knee brushed against hers beneath the table. It was subtle, almost accidental — except Auden knew it wasn't. She hesitated for half a second before casually crossing her legs, putting distance between them. 

Patrick only smirked, giving no indication that he had noticed. "Why don't we discuss it over lunch this week?" 

Auden blinked. Lunch? That wasn't standard practice. Meetings at the gallery, yes. A formal sit-down with Charles, absolutely. But lunch? 

Before she could respond, Patrick's phone buzzed against the table. He glanced at the screen, frowning, slightly annoyed.

"Unfortunately, I need to take this." He slid out of the booth, giving her one last smile. "I'll be in touch." 

Auden exhaled as he disappeared through the curtain. She turned back to Cillian, studying him closely.

"What was that all about?" Auden asked, feeling as if she had just been thrown to a cock fight, "You could've called me to let me know he would be there."

"Like I said, he wasn't supposed to be here," he repeated coldly.

Auden puffed her cheeks, "Where did you even run into him?"

Cillian didn't respond. His gaze was fixed on the breadbasket, his face carved from stone. 

Auden shifted in the seat, letting out an exasperated sigh. "Cillian?" 

His jaw flexed, but still, he said nothing. 

Now this was odd. "Okay, seriously, what's wrong with you?" 

Cillian finally looked at her, something dark flickering in his expression before he masked it. "Nothing." 

Auden pursed her lips. "Right." 

She sat back crossing her arms, waiting for him to elaborate, but he didn't. Instead, he picked up his tea, swirling the liquid absentmindedly, as if trying to ground himself. 

"Look," Auden said quietly, "Maybe I should just go. We can rain check this whole thing."  

That snapped him out of his daze. His head shot up, eyes searching hers. "No, stay, please." 

"It's fine," Auden reiterated, "All is forgiven. You don't owe me anything anymore."

But he pushed anyway, eyes bright with a silent plead, "I insist."

She frowned, "You don't really seem like you're in the mood."

Cillian relented, glancing back to his cup with a slight shake of his head, as if to confirm this sentiment. "At least let me walk you home. I dragged you all the way out here."

"I thought you were keep things discreet?" Her voice was laced with sarcasm, a reminder of the boundaries he had set as she gestured around the private room.

Cillian rolled his eyes, his irritation slipping through. "Forget it, then." 

She wasn't sure what was happening. She was grumpy – she knew she shouldn't have pushed him. But she was done trying to decode whatever mood he was in, especially after he had failed to warn her about Patrick's arrival. Huffing in frustration, she slid out of the booth, grabbing her bag. 

Cillian caught her wrist before she could step away. 

Just like before, a bolt of something electric shot up her arm at the contact. 

She looked down at his hand, then back at him. His grip wasn't tight, but it was firm enough to make her pause. The moment stretched between them, thick with something she couldn't make out.

Then, as if realizing what he was doing, Cillian let go. His fingers curled into a fist as he pulled away, his expression guarded. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. 

Auden studied him. He looked exhausted — dark circles beneath his eyes, tension carved into his shoulders. He wasn't just irritated. He was hurting. 

She exhaled, running a hand through her hair. She just didn't understand why. What was it about Patrick that irritated him so much? And why was she being dragged into it in the first place? They were questions she could bring herself to ask, and part of her didn't want to leave him like this either.

She sighed, rolling her eyes in annoyance with herself as she remarked, "If you want to walk me home, I can't stop you." 

Cillian's shoulders relaxed just slightly, the weight on him lifting, if only a little. 

"Thank you."

Without another word, they made their way out of the cafe together.

The streets had quieted. Auden had been extra cautious, leading Cillian through side streets and alleys to ease his paranoia about being recognized. 

"Do you take this route often?" he asked, smiling slightly to himself as she took another unexpected turn. 

Auden exhaled smoke from the cigarette she had let herself enjoy for putting up with his behavior. "You'd be surprised how useful it is to know the back routes of Dublin." 

Cillian chuckled, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets. His mood had improved since they left the café — lighter, more relaxed.

"So," Cillian drawled, attempting to fill the quiet between them, "What kind of music are you into?"

Auden shot him a curious look, an eyebrow cocking, "You're asking about my taste in music?"

Cillian shrugged, his cheeks coloring, "Yeah, why not?"

She couldn't help but narrow her eyes. God, he was confusing.

"I listen to a lot of nineties," she revealed carefully, "Grunge mostly. My dad loved Pearl Jam, so I was kind of raised on it."

"I remember the nineties well," he mused with a light chuckle.

Auden inhaled sharply on her cigarette, holding the smoke in her lungs a second longer than she should, before releasing it into the air. "Alright, old man."

Cillian's eyebrows shot high on his forehead, "Old man?"

Auden nodded, "You heard me."

"I'm not that old," he countered defensively, running a hand through his hair, "I'm forty-six."

Forty-six. Her mind quickly did the mental math. He was eighteen years older than her. It was enough of a gap for her to question what the hell she was doing.

As if he could read her thoughts, he ventured another question – only this time he seemed more reluctant to ask it.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-eight," she responded, avoiding his eyes as she said this, "I'll be twenty-nine in May."

"My birthday is in May too," she caught him grinning out of the corner of her eyes, but it was a false attempt at trying to be blasé about the generation that separated them.

When Auden didn't respond, he moved to something more innocent — a question that should've been harmless.

But it wasn't.

"What did you do in Chicago? Before all of this?"  His hands gestured to the open space in front of him.

Auden coughed against her sudden discomfort, flicking her smoke as she covered her mouth. "Before I moved, I was teaching at a university – an intro course over Art History." 

Cillian's head turned toward her sharply. "You're joking." 

She shook her head, tossing the cigarette onto the pavement and snubbing it out with the heel of her Converse.

"Nope. Believe it or not, I have my doctorate," She forced a smile, shifting away from her old life and back to her new one. "I can prove it to you, if you like. My diploma is shoved in a cabinet somewhere in my apartment." 

Cillian had laughed, but something dark flickered across his face, something unreadable. For a second, Auden had let herself imagine what it would be like if he did come over, if he stood in her tiny kitchen, drinking her cheap wine, flipping through her books. 

"Unbelievable," he had murmured, bumping her shoulder slightly as they walked, "That's something to be proud of." 

Auden gave him a gentle nod, but didn't push the subject further. It was opening the door to something else – a side of her that she had meticulously kept locked away just to get out of bed in the morning.

But Cillian, of course, wanted to know more. 

"What made you leave?" 

Auden's fingers griped the fringes of her shirt, her mind flashing to her father's grave, his tombstone covered in a myriad of flowers from everyone but his actual family. Her mouth ran dry.  

"There are just some things I want to forget," she replied, her voice sharper than intended. 

Cillian had glanced at her, his expression questioning, but he didn't press. Auden, though, was tired of the inquiries – so, she posed her own.

"What was that back there?" Auden asked him, "Between you and Patrick. I felt like I walked in on something."

Now it was his turn to feel awkward. His shoulders tensed, his mouth drawing to a harsh line.

"I just would have rather it been us," Cillian finally said after a moment, "But I shouldn't have acted like that."

"Do you not like him or something?" she wondered. Around them, birds chirped against the ruffling of fallen leaves. She shivered instinctively, pulling her jean jacket tighter against her body for warmth.

"I guess you could say that."

She flicked her eyes towards him, "You said that last time – when I asked you if you had met him through your wife."

Cillian let out a harsh laugh, shaking his head frantically, "You're something else."

By then, they had reached her apartment. She stopped and turned to him, one foot on the front step of the stoop, the other on the metal railing.

"What do you mean by that?"

Their gazes locked, resting on one another's faces for a long second as Cillian searched for what to say. It was a shared silence, both minds working through what it was that kept them wanting to come back to one another. Their silent thoughts both met by distant voices from children at the park down the street.

Cillian's head cocked slightly to the side, his features softening, his bright blue eyes lingering a moment longer before he murmured, "I dunno. There's just something about you."

Auden felt breathless suddenly, like her lungs had forgotten how to perform the gentle rhythm of filling and releasing. She felt herself blush, inadvertently looking away as if doing so would allow her to slip into the concrete and disappear from the intimacy behind Cillian's observation. She wasn't used to being complimented, let alone seen in the way that he suggested.

And, for a fleeting moment, Auden thought he might say something else, might even take her up on the unspoken invitation she had offered earlier.

But when she looked at him again, he hesitated, his doubt sticking just long enough for the air between them to feel heavier than before. 

"Well," she murmured, reaching for her keys, her mouth feeling oddly fuzzy, "thanks for walking me home." 

Cillian's lips parted, as if there were more words he wished to say. But he didn't — instead, he nodded slowly and she twisted away from him, her backside shielding the way her fingers slightly trembled as she lifted her key to the lock.

"Enjoy your afternoon, Dr. O'Donovan." 

Auden had turned sharply at the sound of her title, a protest forming on her lips — but he was already walking away, the sound of his footsteps molding themselves to sounds of the city.