Cillian awoke the next morning with a pounding headache, his mouth dry, his body heavy with the weight of last night's choices. The smell of stale whiskey clung to his clothes, and as he shifted in bed, the cotton sheets twisted uncomfortably around his legs. He groaned, rubbing his temples before reluctantly reaching for his phone. 

A handful of emails from his agent — potential scripts, auditions, obligations — flashed across the screen. He swiped them away, unwilling to let his professional life claw at him so early. Then he saw the missed calls.

All from Jenni, of course. 

His jaw clenched as he exhaled through his nose, willing away the irritation. He had no energy for whatever argument she was trying to pick. Instead, his eyes flicked to a single unread message. 

[AUDEN]: Hope you made it home safe. Thanks for the food.

Despite himself, he smiled. A quiet, private thing. He hadn't expected her to check in, but she had. That meant something, didn't it?  His fingers hovered over the keyboard, figuring out what to say before changing his mind and calling her directly.

Auden picked up on the first ring, her voice sending a jolt of energy through him, "Can I help you?"

He felt chuckle, "Thank you for getting me home last night. I'm sorry you had to deal with that."

"Yes well," Auden began, her voice weary, exhausted, "You're not the first drunk man I've had to take care of. I doubt you'll be the last."

"I wasn't intending to put you in that situation."

"You know what I've noticed?" Auden said, her tone slightly sarcastic, "There is a pattern developing, where I continually find myself in less than ideal situations with you."

She wasn't wrong. It seemed every time they were together, it was under circumstances neither of them had wanted nor enjoyed. He couldn't help but feel guilty.

His mind drifted back to the night before — the warmth of her arm around his waist as she steadied him, the scent of her hair – sparkling sandalwood and amber – so close it was dizzying. He remembered the way she moved, tucking that dark auburn hair behind her ear like it was second nature, the way her green eyes softened despite her exasperation. 

He wanted more of that softness. He craved it like an addict craved drugs – and that was a problem.

"Are you working late tonight?" he asked her quietly, listening to her soft breaths on the other end.

"I think so," Auden murmured, "We're overhauling the exhibits. It's taking longer than expected, since it's just me and Brigid."

"Let me come help you both," Cillian suggested, "It's the least I can do after everything."

Auden hesitated, mulling this over. "I don't know if that's a good idea."

"I am an expert at lifting heavy boxes," he added, attempting to sweeten the deal. On the other end, he could make out the high timber of Brigid's voice, though her words were unintelligible.

"Look, I have to go," Auden replied, but there was something behind her tone that caught his attention. It was soft and conflicted, as if she were fighting against herself. "I'll text you and let you know, okay?"

He nodded, only to realize that Auden couldn't see him.

"Okay," he said, before listening to the automatic beep of the call disconnecting.

Cillian sighed, tilting his head back against the pillow. He knew better. Auden was too young, too unaffected by the kind of life he had lived. He was still in the tangled mess of a divorce, his emotions pulled in too many directions at once. And yet, when he was around her, the chaos quieted. His mind quieted, even if it was just for a moment.

His phone buzzed in his hand again. He brought it to his face –  Jenni.

Fuck.

Irritation licked at his stomach but he answered. He had to. He had missed too many calls already. Cillian braced himself for the worst.

"You've been ignoring me," she said, skipping past any pretense of pleasantries. 

"Morning to you too, Jen," he muttered, rubbing his forehead, before pulling back his thin sheets in an effort to get moving.

"Don't do that," she snapped. "You can't just disappear whenever you feel like it. We have things to discuss —" 

"I needed a night," he interrupted, his voice rough with exhaustion.

"You always need a night," she shot back loudly, her voice rising in his ear.

He let out a spiteful laugh, his eyes staring at the cracks in his ceiling,  "Can you blame me?"

Cillian could practically hear her seething on the other end. It brought him some petty sort of comfort, "You're lucky I'm the one making sure our son doesn't notice his father spiraling." 

Guilt settled like a stone in his chest, and he sat up in bed defensively. "I'm not spiraling." 

"No?" Jenni scoffed. "Then where were you last night?" 

He hesitated. Telling her the truth — that he had been drinking too much, watching Auden from a pub window like some pathetic loser — was out of the question.

"Out," he answered vaguely. 

Jenni exhaled sharply, and for a second, she didn't speak. When she did, her voice was quieter. "I don't care what you do, Cillian. But you need to get yourself together. For him." 

The call ended with an air of finality, leaving him staring at the screen.

For him. For his son, Charlie. 

That should be his focus. That was his focus. But then why was he already waiting for Auden's message, feeling lighter at the thought of seeing her again? 

And just like that, his phone vibrated again. 

[AUDEN]: Fine. Brigid convinced me. I'll let you know when to come by. Probably in the next two hours. But you have to bring caffeine, since you kept me up too late.

Cillian smirked, ignoring the voice in his head warning him against this. This was enough to get him out of bed and ready for the day. As his bare feet touched the carpet, he felt rejuvenated in a way he hadn't felt in a long time.

But it didn't last long.

He maneuvered his way through his home, going about the process of making tea and toast, showering and attempting to scrub away the smell of alcohol seeping from his pores. He did this all without focusing too much on his surroundings, rather he occupied himself with the idea of seeing with Auden without any distractions or barriers in his way.

It wasn't that Cillian couldn't handle being alone. But his townhome was a space caught between past and present, a limbo of half-packed boxes and lingering familiarity. It was nice – too nice for a man who lived by himself, like it had been chosen for a life he no longer cared to occupy. It was expensive, sure, with clean lines and large windows that let in the gray Dublin light, but there was an emptiness to it, a feeling that it was more of a waiting room than a home. 

His living room, for example, had a sleek, modern couch and a flat-screen TV, but there were no personal touches — no framed photos, no friendliness. A stack of books and unopened mail cluttered the coffee table. A half-drunk whiskey glass rested on the arm of the couch, the amber liquid constantly catching the light.

Near the entryway, boxes were haphazardly stacked, some labeled, others left blank. He had started unpacking the contents of his old life but hadn't quite decided where to put it. A few of Charlie's toys peeked out of one — small plastic dinosaurs, a half-finished coloring book. He hadn't had the heart to move them, because it was just a reminder that Charlie was no longer a constant either.

The kitchen was functional but impersonal, the kind of place where meals were reheated rather than cooked. A few dirty dishes sat in the sink, evidence of late nights spent avoiding proper meals. A bottle of wine — half-empty, cork shoved back in — stood on the counter next to an unopened takeout container. 

The second bedroom was meant to be Charlie's, and it was the only place that felt somewhat lived in. A few of his son's clothes were folded on the bed, a stray stuffed animal tucked into the pillows. But there were gaps. A room in progress. A life still figuring itself out. Charlie wasn't here enough to make it feel like home.

And when he returned to his room, fresh out of the shower and wrapped in a towel, Cillian found himself staring at the master bedroom.

It was a mess. The bed was unmade, covers tangled from restless sleep. The nightstand held a collection of mismatched things — his phone charger, loose change, a half-read book that he hadn't picked up in weeks.

Everywhere, he suddenly realized, were signs of transition. Of a man who had left something behind but hadn't fully stepped into whatever came next. It sent a lump to his throat, emotions clawing at the surface, begging to be recognized.

Blinking rapidly, he crossed the room quickly, retreating to his closet before he could think too hard on why he felt the urge to cry. He moved at a gentle pace, rifling through soft, cotton shirts and denim jeans. He took his time, ensuring that whatever had just spurred within him was gone before he allowed himself to slip on a long-sleeved, cable-knit sweater and black pants. When Cillian was certain that he was okay, he returned to his messy bedroom, no longer thinking about how closely the state of his surroundings mimicked the inside of his mind.

On his bed, the phone buzzed again. It was Jenni.

He considered ignoring it — he was still nursing the dull ache in his skull from their last conversation — but he knew she'd keep calling. He sighed and answered. 

"What now?" His voice came out rough, weary. He sounded as tired as he felt, "Can't you just text me instead of blowing up my cell with calls?"

"Don't forget about later," she said, her tone tight, ignoring what he said.

His stomach sank, and he glanced at the alarm clock on his bed. It was nearly noon – did they have meetings scheduled with their lawyers today?

Whatever it was, he knew his next question would find him in the hot seat: "Forget about what?" 

"Charlie," Jenni retorted, "It's your night with him, Cill, and I have plans this evening." 

Cillian closed his eyes, guilt tightening in his chest. "Shit." 

"Yeah. Shit." Jenni let out a humorless laugh. "He gets out of school in couple hours. Will you be there, or will I need to find a babysitter?"

Cillian pinched the bridge of his nose. He should drop everything and go. That's what a good father would do. But Auden's text still sat inbox, waiting. He could see her in his mind — tired, pushing herself too hard at the gallery, needing help but never asking for it. And here he was, caught between two obligations, two lives.

"I just need a few extra hours," he said. "I'll be there by the evening." 

Jenni sounded unimpressed. "You need a few extra hours for what, exactly?" 

Cillian hesitated a second too long. 

"Oh, for fuck's sake," she muttered. "I'm not an idiot, Cillian. Patrick mentioned her."

He attempted feigned ignorance, knowing it was a waste, "Who?"

"Auden." She said the name carefully, like she was rolling it around in her mouth, trying to decide how much she hated the taste of it. "He said she's young. And very pretty." 

Cillian's grip on the phone tightened. "What's your point?" 

"My point," Jenni continued, her voice laced with poignant jealousy, "is that I know you, Cill. You like distractions. She must be a nice one."

"Jesus, Jen," he scoffed, "You know, that's really rich coming from you. And not that it's any of your business, but she's just a friend."

The words felt hollow even as he said them. 

Jenni let out a slow, knowing hum. "I'm sure that's the case."

"This is none of your business," he reiterated.

"I still have connections," Jenni continued, "Just because I left that place, doesn't mean I don't hear about what goes on."

Cillian closed his eyes, anger rising deep from within him. This was how it was always going to be between them now – constantly butting heads, never making progress no matter how hard he tried.

"Is that a threat or something?" he asked her, his voice matching his lack of concern regarding her remark.

"I just think she's a little too young for you," he could visualize her face as she said this, her brown eyes narrowed, red-painted lips frowning in judgement.

But then there was a pause, thick with things neither of them wanted to say. The unspoken truth that lay between them like broken glass — the simple fact that age hadn't stopped her when they had been married, when it was someone else lying in their bed when Cillian came home one day.

Jenni sighed — even she understood the hypocrisy, because her voice shifted, turning soft in a way that made his stomach twist. "Charlie really wants to see you."

Cillian's jaw clenched. He wanted to see his son, too. He needed to be there. 

But he would see Auden, too. Just for a little while. Just to prove to himself – and Jenni – that he could do whatever he wanted now.

"I'll be there," he said finally. "I'll be there to pick him up." 

Jenni was quiet for a moment before she said, "Just don't be late, Cill," and hung up. 

Cillian let the phone drop onto the mattress. He could have both. He could be a good father and follow his desire. Why not?

And when the time rolled around to pick up Charlie, he thought of himself ten years from now, alone in the same living room he dreaded, and reached for his keys without another thought.

So why then, did he still find himself hesitating outside of the gallery, nearly fifteen minutes late? He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, staring at the dashboard clock.

What was with me today? Why can't I make a decision?

Charlie sat in the back seat, swinging his legs absentmindedly, his small hands fidgeting with the zipper of his jacket. He wasn't impatient yet, but he would be soon.

Cillian inhaled slowly, feeling the expansion of his lungs in an effort to calm down. He was gripping the wheel, a little too tightly now. He should drive straight home, order Charlie's favorite takeaway, and spend the evening being the kind of father he kept promising himself he'd be. That was the right thing to do.

And yet, he had told Auden he'd help her. His eyes slid to the coffees, nestled safely in their carrier in the front seat next to him.

He could picture Auden now probably wondering where the hell he was, only to decide he wasn't worth the bother. If he didn't show up now, it would be official. They both could walk away clean, and Auden would just view him as an odd celebrity encounter she could tell at parties to impress people.

She would let him leave. He started to like that about her, that sense of stubborn independence she carried, but it also made him want to step in. Not because he thought she needed saving, but because — fuck. Because he wanted to be there. 

He glanced at Charlie in the rearview mirror. He was ten years old, enough to pick up on tension but young enough not to understand it. Would it be so bad to bring him? Did Auden even like kids? And Charlie... Charlie would probably like her. 

But then there was the risk. 

If he brought Charlie, it would mean something. To Jenni, to himself. It wasn't just dropping by to help a friend anymore. It was introducing worlds that shouldn't overlap. Not yet, anyway.

And what if Jenni found out? She'd twist it, use it against him. She already suspected something, already had that sharp-edged curiosity in her voice when she said Auden's name. If she found out he'd brought Charlie along, it would become something ugly. Something it wasn't.

Except... what was it? 

Cillian ran a hand over his face. Maybe he was overthinking it. Maybe this wasn't as complicated as he was making it. Or maybe he already knew that was a lie. 

And then, his mind had another thought. A wonder about his ex-wife, the sort of 'plans' she claimed to have this evening. Cillian wasn't stupid — Jenni understood that much when she said it — and Cillian had learned the hard way that 'plans' had meant something else entirely. It had always been code for her double-life. Except now, she didn't have to hide it, not matter how nonchalant she tried to be.

So, fuck it.

He turned in his seat, forcing a smile. "Hey, bud. Feel like helping move some paintings?" 

Charlie's eyes lit up. "Like an art heist?" 

Cillian huffed a laugh. "Something like that." 

And yet, as he pulled the key out of the ignition, he couldn't help but feel that unease return — the twisting knot in his stomach that warned him that the moment he stepped inside the gallery, he no longer would be able to turn back. If he walked inside now, with Charlie, he wouldn't be able to walk away from Auden at all.