Becoming an art curator hadn't been a part of Auden O'Donovan's life plans. 

Then again, neither had her father's death. 

It had been months, yet grief still lingered, stretching its fingers into every quiet moment, every sleepless night. The only way she knew how to cope was to run — to throw herself into something unfamiliar, something far enough away that the loss couldn't reach her. 

So, she fled. 

When Charles Byrne, the esteemed director of Dublin's Whitmore Gallery, offered her the role of assistant curator, Auden didn't hesitate. She packed up her life in Chicago, leaving behind the cold, empty apartment she once called home, the university hallways where whispers of sympathy had followed her like shadows, and the city that now only reminded her of what she had lost. 

In Dublin, she was simply Auden — not Dr. Auden O'Donovan, not the grieving daughter. Just Auden. And that was exactly how she wanted it. 

Now, one month into her new job, she was tasked with organizing the gallery's most significant event of the year: the annual banquet celebrating Ireland's art and cultural benefactors. It was an exclusive affair attended by musicians, filmmakers, artists, and the city's most influential donors. 

Failure wasn't an option. 

The problem? Dublin was still a mystery to her. She barely knew the art scene, let alone how to navigate the intricate web of social connections she was now expected to manage. To make matters worse, being an American made her stick out. People noticed her accent, the way she fumbled with Irish phrases, her awkward missteps in local etiquette. She was the outsider. 

But Auden worked tirelessly to ensure the banquet's success, throwing herself into weeks of meticulous planning. She spent late nights researching event management, scrutinizing seating arrangements, and agonizing over lighting choices. Anything to keep her mind occupied, to keep the grief at bay. 

In two days, her vision would come to fruition

"I think I may actually just pull this off," Auden remarked over the phone to Brigid, her boots tapping against the damp pavement. A brisk autumn wind swept through the Dublin streets, making her pull her coat tighter around her.

Brigid Kelley — assistant to Charles Byrne — had, against all odds, become Auden's closest friend. A fiery-haired, no-nonsense Irishwoman, Brigid was loud, often exasperating, and entirely too blunt for her own good. But her unwavering loyalty and sharp wit had somehow chipped away at Auden's carefully guarded walls. 

Auden didn't mind, though. Behind the otherwise intolerable qualities, Brigid's carefree attitude contrasted Auden's anxiety in a way that brought comfort. The young woman's loyalty dulled the loneliness that followed Auden daily – and that was enough for her.

"I believe you did," Brigid replied, her Irish lilt smooth and warm. "In fact, the caterer just confirmed everything for tomorrow night."

"Well, speaking of food, I'm stopping by that café on Wicklow Street. I'll bring you a treat — hopefully you're not too hungover from last night."

"Please," Brigid scoffed. "I have a constitution of steel. Oh, and remind me to tell you about this delicious man I met."

Auden chuckled as she stepped into the café, the smell of freshly brewed coffee wrapping around her like a comforting blanket. "I can't wait."

Their conversation ended, and Auden slipped her phone into her bag. The café was mostly empty, save for a few scattered patrons nursing their morning drinks. Auden approached the counter, greeted by an impatient-looking barista. 

"'What can I do for you?" the barista asked, her fake, warm smile hardly reaching her eyes.

She requested two vanilla lattes and a box of danishes. As the barista packed the pastries, Auden suddenly realized she hadn't thought about how she'd carry everything. "Could I get a drink carrier?" 

The barista nodded, gracefully moving around as she prepared the lattes. The machines rumbled, the rich smell of coffee becoming more poignant. Auden's stomach rumbled as the barista placed the lattes carefully into the cardboard carrier.

"Keep the change," she said, slipping the box of pastries into her bag. 

The barista hesitated, then raised an eyebrow. "Tip?" 

Auden blinked. 

"Oh. Right. You don't tip here." 

The girl smirked, handing back her change. "Americans." 

Heat rose to Auden's cheeks. As the barista fished out her change, Auden carefully stuffed the coins into her jeans pocket, before grabbing the box of breakfast items. Sweat pooled at the base of her tailbone, the warm air in the cafe becoming a bit overwhelming. The shifting autumn weather made dressing difficult — mornings were cold, afternoons warm — so she'd opted for dark jeans and a loose-fitting sweater, hoping to balance the extremes. 

She turned to leave, only to realize she'd left the coffee carrier on the counter. 

"Oh, shit," she sighed, pivoting quickly — just as the café's front door chimed. She placed the box back on the counter, setting the carrier onto before turning back around. In her rush, she hardly noticed the man standing behind her until she collided with him, forehead crashing into soft black fabric. 

Pain flared down her chest as scorching lattes spilled from the carrier, seeping through her sweater and burning her skin. 

"Fuck," she hissed, her hands instinctively pulling at the ruined fabric. 

"Are you alright?" a deep voice asked. 

"Yeah, I think so," Auden lifted her gaze, an apology already forming — only to promptly forget how to speak

Striking blue eyes. Sharp cheekbones. Tousled dark hair streaked with the beginnings of gray. He looked oddly familiar. 

She stared, trying to place him. 

Why do I feel like I know him? Auden thought to herself, just as the barista rushed over from behind the counter, thrusting napkins at Auden before turning to the man. 

The barista's sharp inhale broke her thoughts. "Mr. Murphy, are you okay?" she asked, flustered. 

The name hit Auden like a freight train. Her breath caught in her throat. Her mouth went dry. 

Not just an actor — the actor. More importantly, the most coveted supporter of the Whitmore Gallery. His name was whispered in every meeting she attended, his influence shaping nearly every major financial decision at the museum. Every artist she encountered wanted to know if he would be at their exhibit. 

And now, he was standing in front of her, covered in coffee, looking at her with mild concern

"I'm fine, really," Cillian assured the barista before turning his attention back to Auden. His brows knitted with concern. "Are you sure you're alright? That coffee looked hot." 

For a long, awkward beat, Auden just stared. Frozen. Her brain short-circuited. 

Cillian arched a brow, clearing his throat. 

That snapped her back. 

"Um — yeah. I'm fine," Auden swallowed thickly, voice unsteady.  "Thank you. Are you okay?"

He nodded, his gaze sharpening with curiosity. "You're a long way from America." 

""Are you..." Auden blurted at the same moment he spoke, the unfinished question hanging between them. 

The barista shot her a warning look, as if she'd committed some grave sin by acknowledging his name.  

Cillian shifted awkwardly but let out a soft chuckle, understanding her inquiry entirely, "Yes."

Then, turning to the barista, he said, "Remake those drinks. I'll pay for them." 

The girl perked up, practically skipping to the otherside of the counter, "Would you like your usual?" 

Cillian nodded in return before turning back to Auden. 

Her Midwestern politeness kicked in. "Oh no, really, you don't have to. I can pay for them again. I'm the one who ran into you." 

Cillian watched as she dabbed at her ruined sweater, the fabric hopelessly stained. He bent down, retrieving a napkin she had dropped. Their fingers brushed as he handed it to her. 

"It's the least I could do."

Auden swallowed hard, gripping the napkin as if it might steady her nerves.

"I'm seriously so sorry," she repeated, tossing the used napkins away. "Are you sure you're okay?" 

Something flickered in Cillian's expression — amusement, maybe.

"I'm fine." He studied her for a beat longer. Then, as if deciding something, he extended a hand. "What's your name?"

She paused as she reached for her pastry box once again, feeling caught off guard. She took it, noting the roughness of his palm against her own.

"Auden." 

Cillian's lips quirked into a smile. 

"Auden," he echoed, as if testing the name. "Pretty name."

Heat crept up her neck. 

"Thank you."

Cillian picked up his cup, giving her a lingering glance before turning toward the door. 

"See you tomorrow, Katie," he said to the barista before slipping out onto the street. 

The moment the door closed behind him, Auden let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding.  Brigid was going to lose her mind when she found out about this.

As soon as Auden arrived at the office that morning, Brigid had inquired about the stains on her sweater, but the pair were interrupted by Charles. And in the hecticness of last-minute planning, Auden had quickly forgotten about her encounter with Cillian Murphy.

The next morning, on her way in, she thought about stopping into the cafe to grab coffee, only to remember that Cillian had mentioned he would be there again. For now, all Auden could think about was avoiding that café for the foreseeable future.