Auden returned to work that Monday to find Charles had left her with an overwhelming number of pieces to organize. Fall was creeping around the corner, and in his usual dramatic flair, Charles had decided that the gallery needed a complete seasonal overhaul. 

"Auden, we need warmth," he had declared that morning, gesturing wildly with a cappuccino in one hand and a printout of an 18th-century oil painting in the other. "Rich reds, deep ambers, something that screams sophistication — not this dull arrangement we've got now. What do you think?" 

Auden had muttered something about warm tones and contrast before retreating to her work. 

Now, she sat in the center of the gallery, surrounded by paintings, sketches, and sculptures waiting for placement. Next to her, Brigid lazily flipped through a thick booklet of potential exhibits, rattling off ideas about spatial arrangements and aesthetic balance. She was good at this — far better than she let on. But Auden wasn't listening. 

Brigid narrowed her eyes. "You're spacing out again." 

Auden hummed in response, not even looking up. 

Brigid sighed dramatically and slapped the booklet shut, making the sound echo through the high ceilings of the gallery. "Alright, out with it," she said, crossing her legs. 

Auden blinked, startled. "Out with what?" 

Brigid scoffed. "Oh, please. You've been in a trance all morning. You've agreed to move the neon welcome sign next to our one and only original Monet, which I'm sure is ground for firing in Charles's eyes." 

Auden groaned, pressing her palms into her eyes. "I don't know, Brig. I just — I keep thinking about Sunday afternoon." 

Brigid perked up instantly, her lips curling into a delighted smirk. "Oh? Do tell." 

"When we met for coffee,"  Auden hesitated, feeling unsure regarding how much she should say, "That Patrick guy was there — you know, the artist he suggested I meet." 

Disappointment fell across Brigid's face, "That's odd."

"Right?" Auden brought her bottom lip between her teeth, picking the skin as she thought about it more, "Cillian said he hadn't planned on Patrick being there, but that he ran into him on his way over."

"Maybe they live near each other?" Brigid suggested with a shrug, "It sounds like they're friends."

But Auden shook her head, "I don't think they are. He acted so weird when he took me to his studio, like he almost didn't want to be there. And then, when I showed up at the cafe, it was tense. Cillian was definitely upset."

Her friend's freckled nose crinkled in confusion, her eyebrows furrowing, "Did he tell you why?"

Auden just shook her head. She didn't want to say more. Brigid had a tendency to talk, and Auden wasn't trying to make assumptions. But there was clearly some history she didn't know about.

"Whatever. It's probably nothing," Auden sighed, stretching her arms wide in the air to relieve some tension in her spine, "Anyway, afterwards he walked me home, we talked, and that was that." 

Brigid narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "Talked about what?" 

"Music, mostly," Auden recounted, "He mentioned how old he was."

Brigid was smirking. "And?"

"That's it."

"Really?" her grin widened, "Because you're blushing."

Was she? She touched her cheeks instinctively, the skin beneath the pads of her fingers warm to the touch. She let an uncomfortable laugh slip at the realization.

"It's just that he..." Auden started, searching for what to say. Her mind flashed back to the moment on the stoop. Her stomach twisted, that breathless feeling threatening to return. How could she explain that without sounding totally crazy?

"He just said that there was something about me," Auden replied lamely.

Brigid's head tilted to the side, her eyes glistening as if she had just heard the juiciest secret. "Something... about you?"

Auden exhaled sharply, quickly looking away and back at the task at hand. She shifted her body, propping her weight onto one hand as she fixed her eyes on the wall in front of her, pretending to stare at a canvas on the floor. She felt stupid, like a little girl at the playground talking about a crush. And the knowing look on her friend's face was not helping.

"It was just a walk, Brigid. That's it. Let's not read into it."

Auden felt Brigid's body heat as she leaned in. "You want my professional opinion?" 

"No," Auden replied pointedly, "Not really."

But of course, Brigid ignored her. "He wants you." 

Auden groaned, allowing her body to fall back against the wooden floor, her eyes fixing themselves on the overhead lights above. 

Brigid cackled next to her, flipping the exhibit booklet back open. "Alright, alright. I'll let you be in denial for now."

Auden grumbled incoherently. She wasn't in denial. 

Was she?

Auden wasn't sure what unsettled her more — the way Cillian had looked at her yesterday, or the way she wanted to look back. It had been a long time since she'd felt that flicker of possibility, that strange, aching awareness of someone else's presence. And yet, there it had been, hovering between them, unwelcome and persistent. 

She didn't trust it. 

Not because he wasn't sincere — if anything, his quiet attentiveness, the way he observed her like he actually wanted to see everything, made it worse. It made her want to give something back. And Auden wasn't sure she even could.

Grief had hollowed her out. The loss of her father was still too raw, too vast, like a wound she hadn't dared examine. It had been easier to keep moving, to focus on work, on Brigid's latest escapades, on Charles's endless, glittering social calendar. Anything to avoid the stillness where sorrow waited. 

And now there was Cillian. A complication she hadn't anticipated. 

She thought of her last relationship, the one that had ended with her ex's tired voice telling her right before her father's funeral, You never let me in. I don't even know if you wanted to.

Maybe she hadn't. Maybe it had always been easier to hold people at arm's length, to admire intimacy from a safe distance rather than risk stepping into it. That's what her father had done with her, and it's all Auden knew about love.

She should put distance between them. It would be the sensible thing to do. But sensibility had never felt quite so lonely before.

Auden thought about this as she flicked off the lights to her office, yawning as exhaustion settled into her bones. She had stayed too late to work on dismantling the current exhibits with Brigid, who had left only a few minutes earlier. Charles's demand for a seasonal overhaul had turned the gallery into a war zone of displaced canvases, bubble-wrapped installations, and endless rearrangements. 

And she had to be back in less than eight hours. The thought made her groan. 

She moved through the darkened gallery, locking up the back rooms before stepping into the main space. It looked eerie at night — half-empty, silent, the ghostly outlines of sculptures casting shadows against the walls. The sound of her heels clicking against the wooden floor was the only noise breaking the quiet. 

By the time she reached the front door, she was already fantasizing about collapsing into bed, wrapping herself in blankets, and maybe — just maybe — managing a full night's sleep for once. 

But the moment she stepped outside, a sharp voice cut through the quiet. 

"Hey!" 

Auden startled, nearly dropping the gallery's keys onto the pavement. Her heart kicked up in her chest as she turned, her eyes adjusting to the dim streetlights. 

A figure stood across the road, half-hidden in the shadows. Slim, dark, swaying slightly. 

Then he stepped forward into the light. 

Cillian.

Auden's brows knitted together. "Cillian?" she called out,  "What the hell are you doing out here?" 

He was gripping a lamp post, as if he needed it to stay upright, his head tilted against the cool metal. Even from across the street, she didn't need to smell the alcohol wafting off him to know.

Oh, for fuck's sake. 

"I been waiting," he slurred back. 

Auden's stomach tightened — not just with concern, but a flicker of something else. Annoyance, maybe. Why had he been waiting for her?

She quickly locked the gallery door and crossed the street, stopping just in front of him. "You're drunk," she accused, unable to help the amused smirk curling at her lips at the sight of his disheveled state.

Cillian furrowed his brows. "Am not." 

Auden let out a sharp laugh. "Oh, really? Because you look like you're about to lose a fight with that lamp post." 

He tried to wave her off, gesturing vaguely toward the bar down the street. "Only had a few pints." But when he attempted to stand up straight, he wobbled, gripping the post tighter. 

Auden sighed, rubbing her temple. Jesus. She had no idea where he lived, no way to get him home — and she definitely wasn't about to let him wander the streets alone. 

She reached for her phone, "Let me see if I can get someone to call Patrick—" 

"No." 

His voice was sharp, too sharp, his hand suddenly grabbing her forearm.

Auden froze. 

His touch wasn't painful, but it was firm, grounding, and when she looked up, his blue eyes were dark, intense. "Do not get that asshole involved, okay?" 

Auden's heart kicked into a faster rhythm, though she wasn't entirely sure why. His face was close now, his messy dark hair falling across his forehead, his breath warm and laced with whiskey. 

"I was waiting for you," he murmured, "But you worked so late."

Auden inhaled sharply. Fuck. 

She could feel the weight of his hand on her forearm, sliding down lazily to wrap around her wrist, the warmth seeping through her skin. If this was intentional, he didn't show it. But her body responded before her mind could catch up — a slow heat curling in her stomach, that stupid, reckless part of her wondering what it would feel like if he leaned in just a little closer. 

Nope. Nope. Not happening. 

She cleared her throat, shaking off the moment. "Well, I'm off now." Carefully, she pried his fingers from her wrist and steadied him by the shoulders.

"I owe you one coffee, remember?" Cillian held up one finger to emphasize this point.

"Is this about yesterday?" Auden wondered, unsure if he would actually answer this question. His eyelids drooped low over his eyes, as if he were about to fall asleep. She touched his shoulder gently, whispering his name to grab his attention.

Cillian's eyes shot wide open, startled. Auden couldn't help but giggle.

"You need to sober up," she announced, "I know just the place."  

Somehow, she managed to haul him into her favorite late-night diner — a tiny, hole-in-the-wall spot tucked into a quiet street. It was, perhaps, too American for Dublin, all checkered floors and vinyl booths, but Auden had always loved it. 

It reminded her of home. 

Of late-night study sessions in grad school, of greasy breakfasts with her dad, of early-morning diner runs with her ex, when love had still felt simple. 

Swiftly, she pushed that aside. That didn't matter now. Instead, she helped Cillian into a booth, and he let out a deep, tired groan as he settled in. Once she slid into the seat across from him, he rested his forehead against the cool tabletop.

"This feels great."

"You're so dramatic when you're drunk," she giggled.

A voice boomed from the kitchen. "Ah, she's back." 

Auden turned to find Joe, the burly, black-bearded owner, grinning at her. He was built like a lumberjack but had the heart of a grandmother. 

"My favorite customer, here again?" he teased, wiping his hands on his apron. 

Auden smiled softly. "Couldn't stay away from you too long, Joe." 

He let out a belly laugh. "No, you don't come here for me. You come here to make love to those damn pancakes." 

Cillian's head shot up. "Who's making love?" he slurred, blinking sluggishly. 

Joe arched a brow but wisely said nothing. Instead, he turned to Auden with a pointed look, the friendly nature in his tone gone entirely. "Make sure he doesn't puke all over my table." 

Auden gave him an apologetic smile and she nudged Cillian's leg under the table. "You have to stay awake if you want food." 

"Yes ma'am," Cillian jerked upright, his back straightening in an unnatural way. "I am awake." 

Joe didn't seem convinced at all, but the lack of business this late at night convinced him to allow Auden and Cillian to stay. He turned to Auden, releasing a long sigh. "The usual?" 

"Two of them," Auden said. "And two coffees." 

Once Joe left, Auden reached across the table, brushing her fingers over Cillian's hand to get his attention. He blinked, looking down at the contact, his expression shifting slightly. 

"Hey," she murmured, tilting her head. "How're you feeling?" 

Cillian exhaled. "Drunk." 

Auden snorted loudly. "No shit."

But when she went to pull her hand away, she felt it — the slightest twitch of his fingers, curling inward as if chasing the warmth she had just taken away. 

The lungs in her chest tightened.

"How long were you waiting for me, anyway?" Auden ventured, attempting to think about literally anything else.

"Too long," Cillian admitted, shooting her a loop-sided, lazy smile.

Auden's gaze rested on his face gently, studying the way the alcohol had relaxed him entirely, "Why didn't you just call me? That would've been much easier than setting yourself up for a killer hangover tomorrow."

His shoulders shrugged lightly, as if this was the only explanation he could give, and he shifted his weight in the seat. Beneath the table, Cillian's knee bumped against hers. 

Auden swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware once again of every single touch. She didn't move this time, letting her knee feel the gentle warming of the material of his jeans against hers.

Just then, the coffees arrived. As Joe placed them onto the table, Auden pulled her knee away, forcing herself upright.

She seized the distraction, dropping sugar into her cup and maneuvering for the cream on the table. But Cillian just stared at his mug, the steam rising and dissipating across his face. 

"I hate coffee," he muttered. 

Auden raised an eyebrow as she poured in the room-temperature cream. "Then why are you always at that coffee shop?" 

"Because, Auden," Cillian leaned forward dramatically, gripping the edges of the table as if revealing a deep secret. "I am a civilized man," he declared, "who drinks tea, and they have the best tea." 

Auden rolled her eyes, biting back laughter and pushing the mug toward him. "Well, tonight, you're drinking coffee." 

Cillian groaned but took a reluctant sip, grimacing. 

Auden mimicked his movements, smiling against the rim of her mug as she took a sip as well. Finally, their food arrived — massive stacks of golden pancakes, dripping in beautifully organic syrup. 

Cillian gawked at his plate, his eyes wild with shock. "This is the biggest plate of pancakes I've ever seen." 

Auden took a bite, before dancing slightly in her seat delightfully. "Yes and it's so good." 

Cillian eyed her, unconvinced. But he cut into his, still skeptical — until he tasted it. She watched the way he lifted the fork to his mouth and nearly blushed at the view of his lips sliding gracefully over the metal spikes. Quickly, she turned her attention back up to his eyes.

His brows shot up as he swallowed. "These are bloody delicious." 

Auden giggled. "Told you." 

They ate in companionable silence, the only sounds coming from the clanging of their cups against the table, the scrapping of their forks as they tried to soak up every last bite. Auden realized, for the first time in a long time, that she wasn't thinking about how quiet it was. Her mind had completely forgotten that neither of them were speaking – and for once, it hadn't wandered. 

It was easy.

This thought had almost startled her. She dropped her fork onto her now empty plate, the noise now sharp and ever-present. Auden looked up, finding Cillian oblivious and reaching for his wallet. 

Auden cleared her throat, shoving the sudden tendril of anxiety that had blossomed in the back of her mind.

"What are you doing?" she asked him.

He glanced at her briefly, "I'm paying." 

"You don't have to do that," Auden explained, "I can pay for my own food."

Cillian shook his head, "I owe you, remember?"

She began to protest some more, just as Joe came over with the bill. In a flash, Cillian handed him a wad of cash without looking at it.

Joe looked down at the money in his hand, then back at Cillian, a glint of recognition behind the man's stare. It was as if the money had sparked something – it had been a subtle gesture as to who Cillian was, the kind of status Cillian held but hardly seemed to acknowledge. Joe glanced at Auden again, his gaze questioning, asking the one thing she couldn't stop asking herself either: How did she end up with him?

But Joe, thankfully, did not venture this. He simply collected the bill, Cillian's money and left the table silently.

When the man left, Cillian turned to her, his expression lazy, warm. "I insist."

She didn't say anything – she couldn't bring herself to. Rather, they found themselves back in that comfortable silence together, gazing at one another. She noted how Cillian's breathing had slowed, the way that he no longer seemed so drunk. He was looking at her — really looking at her, like he had done the day before. Suddenly, their little bubble in the center of this diner was no longer playful.

His tongue licked his bottom lip and he leaned forward, as if sensing it too, to let his elbows rest on the tabletop. His shoulder relaxed, as if he were entirely too comfortable.

"You're welcome," His voice was low, the sound as smooth as molasses rolling across warm toast.

Auden felt herself blink, embarrassed as she managed a weak, "Sorry. I meant to say thank you."

Her heart quickened at the scent of Cillian wafting in her nose — cedar-wood mixed with the faint smell of alcohol. In her periphery, she caught his right hand tense, inching forward ever so slightly across the coffee-stained tabletop.

And then, he lifted it, slowly and methodically, as if it took every ounce of energy for him to do it. Her breathing stopped, hitched hard into her throat and she held her breath as his fingers moved towards the side of Auden's face. Every single one of her limbs went rigid in anticipation.

Cillian stalled, earlier doubt returning before it was quickly replaced with determination. In one swoop, he tucked a loose strand of her auburn hair that had fallen into her face, behind her ear.

"Now I can see you," he whispered, his eyes moving across every inch of her face, looking for any sort of reaction from her — any confirmation that it was okay to touch her. His fingers lingered at the ends of her hair, tickling her chin before he dropped his hand completely.

Auden finally exhaled, the air leaving her body little by little, his scent becoming the only thing she could focus on. Her gaze dropped just an inch, to his pink lips, suddenly longing for the chance to taste them because she knew they would still taste like syrup.

Her own lips parted, some sort of response forming in her mind – a funny retort, maybe, or possibly a request for something else entirely – but she would never find out, because Joe returned to the table, completely unbothered. The sound of coins against the tabletop caused both their eyes to tear away from one another.

"Here's your change."

"Oh," Cillian muttered, his voice almost broken as he spoke, "Right,"

Joe titled his head forward, clearing the plates as he looked at Auden one last time. Her face burned with embarrassment and Joe winked at her, giving her a side smile.

"Have a good night," Joe said to Auden before looking at Cillian. He let out a gentle laugh and shook his head, settling back into the kitchen from which he had first appeared.

And once again, Auden and Cillian found themselves utterly alone, engulfed in a silence that was filled with so many things still unsaid but never explored.