AN (edited version): so this is a combination of three chapters from the original version. moving forward, the comments left by past readers may be confusing as they no longer align with what's occurring in the plot. I am trying to really streamline this story into one that makes sense, hence why some chapters have been combined (also why did I ever think it was okay to have three separate chapters with only 1,000 words over one single timeframe?) I hope this doesn't confuse anyone or take away from the experience!

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"He's late."

Brigid stood with one hand on her hip, her expression unimpressed as she leveled Auden with a look.

Auden glanced down at her watch. "Only by, like, thirty minutes. Just give him time."

She said it lightly, but anxiety had been creeping into her stomach long before Brigid voiced her impatience. She wasn't even sure why she was nervous about seeing him again, but it was the way he had looked at her last night, his voice dipping low as he tucked that strand of hair behind her ear, that she could not get out of her head.

Now I can see you.

Auden pressed her lips together and shook the memory away.

Earlier that morning, she and Charles had sat down with Patrick to finalize the details of his exhibit. Part of her wished to avoid him entirely, but it was inevitable now. A pang of guilt had settled in her chest for not inviting Cillian, but after last night's events, it had seemed like the right choice. Things were already more complicated than they should've been, because Patrick had asked her to dinner — not a date — since she hadn't taken him up on lunch.

Technically, it was a harmless invite, but something that blurred the lines enough to make her hesitate before saying yes. It hadn't helped that Charles had been there, watching the way Auden responded to his invitation. It seemed stupid to say no, and not take up any opportunity to expand his business. That was, after all, her job.

Maybe she should tell Cillian. Maybe she should address whatever had happened last night.

But what if he brushed it off? Worse — what if he didn't even remember?

She was so lost in thought she barely registered the sound of the front door swinging open.

Cillian entered in a blur, a tray of coffees in one hand, the other gripping the tiny fingers of a young boy. His sweater was worn, a hole near the collar exposing a sliver of skin. His dark hair was messier than usual, and — glasses? Auden had never seen him in glasses before. Somehow, they made him look younger. Softer.

But his expression was anything but soft.

His jaw was tight, his breathing a little too sharp, and when he reached Auden, he handed her the tray of drinks without a word.

She barely had time to take it before his hand dropped to his side in frustration.

Brigid raised an eyebrow. "Rough day?"

Cillian ignored her, rubbing a hand over his face. His body was tense, the kind of tension that came from a day already gone wrong. Auden hesitated, then stepped closer, keeping her voice gentle. "You okay?"

He exhaled through his nose, closing his eyes briefly. "I'd rather not get into it."

Auden nodded, deciding not to push. Instead, she glanced at the small boy who was still gripping his father's arm, partially hiding behind him. His dark hair flopped over startlingly blue eyes — Cillian's eyes.

Her heart softened. "And who's this?"

Cillian blinked like he had momentarily forgotten his son was there. He stepped slightly to the side so the boy was fully visible. "This is Charlie."

"Charlie's here?" Brigid perked up instantly, maneuvering herself around a large installation to get a better look at the pair. And sure enough, Charlie stirred around Cillian's body to get a peak at Brigid. He grinned at her, recognition settling into his childlike curiosity.

Auden giggled, crouching down, her smile warm and open. "Hi, Charlie. I'm Auden." She held out her hand.

Charlie hesitated before shaking it, his grip small but firm. "Hello," he said, voice quiet, but his accent was unmistakably Irish.

Auden tilted her head. "Are you here to help your dad move some art?"

Charlie looked up at Cillian, who gave him an encouraging nod. "I think so," he said shyly.

Auden glanced at Cillian again. The tension in his body had lessened just slightly. He was watching her with something unreadable in his expression, his lips curving at the edges as if he wanted to smile but hadn't quite allowed himself to.

She felt warmth spread in her cheeks, down her neck and she quickly looked away.

"Well," Auden said, straightening, before turning to Brigid. "The more help, the better. Right, Brigid?"

Brigid smirked. "Absolutely. I can finally take a break." And with that, she conveniently excused herself to 'tend to office matters,' leaving the three of them alone.

Auden fought against the urge to roll her eyes. Brigid was anything but subtle, but part of her silently thanked her friend for excusing herself. Auden wasn't sure how she could bring up anything if Brigid was standing there, eavesdropping.

So, after remembering Brigid's comment about Charlie leaving drawings around the gallery, she had managed to dig up some old coloring books and colored pencils from storage to keep him occupied. He made no protest, happily settling in the middle of the floor, flipping through pages and humming as he colored.

She stole a glance at Cillian. He had started to say something — three times now — but had stopped himself each time. The silence between them was thick with unspoken words and awkward pauses, attempts to navigate around one another without actually touching. It was a messy, choreographed dance where neither had the lead.

Auden tried distracting herself by placing and removing the same canvas from the wall, pretending as if its placement would have some profound effect on the space. But the longer the silence stretched, the more her thoughts spiraled back to last night — Cillian's touch, his voice, the quiet pull between them.

Would he have kissed her if she had just leaned in just a little closer?

Every time Auden stole a glance his way, she saw that longing face from the night before. And the more she thought about it, the more she managed to convince herself that Cillian would have kissed her last night, if she hadn't shoved him in an Uber minutes after Joe left their table.

Her mind began to spiral further. She could picture Cillian's rough hands cupping her face and pulling her face closer to his; feel the way his hands would travel into her hair, tugging it slightly as he brushed his lips against hers.

The painting slipped. Auden felt a tremor in her hands and she instinctively coughed against the heat that began to build up in her stomach.

"You alright?" Cillian asked, full of concern.

She cleared her throat, blinking away the fantasy of Cillian kissing her, as she forced herself to shake off the thought.

Enough of this. She set the canvas down, turning to him.

"Look —"

"I'm sorry I brought my son," Cillian blurted at the same time.

Auden's lips parted at the unexpected apology. "It's totally fine," she assured him. "He's really cute, actually."

Cillian exhaled, shaking his head. "No, it's not."

He glanced behind him, as if to ensure that his son wasn't listening. A frown formed over his lips, and she followed his troubled look to find that Charlie had fallen asleep on his coloring book, the pencils still loosely gripped in his hand. She giggled softly.

Cillian looked at him wistfully, "I completely forgot it was my night with him when I had called you."

"That's okay," Auden tried to catch his eye, but he wouldn't look her way.

"Jenni – his mother – she's been making it difficult for me to see him," he continued, "Every other time, I'm there. But the one time I slip up, she makes me out to be the enemy." His voice was edged with frustration as he tore his eyes from Charlie. He slammed the lid on the box he had been rifling through a little too hard.

Auden hesitated. She wasn't sure how to respond. She didn't know much about divorce — her mother had left so early that Auden had no memory of her parents ever being together. But she did remember what it felt like to grow up with only half of herself.

"You know," she started quietly, reaching for the box he was holding. The tips of her fingers brushed against his as she took it from his grasp.

"My mom left my dad when I was young – too young to really remember anything. I've always felt kind of resentful about it." She finally caught his gaze, her voice gentle. "Charlie is lucky to have two parents who want to be in his life, even if it's messy."

Cillian looked back at his son, his hands shoved in his pockets. His expression was guarded, unsure, but his jaw flexed slightly.

"I guess you're right," he admitted, voice rougher than before. Then, almost reluctantly —"Thank you."

Auden smiled. "Come on. Let's find him a more comfortable place to sleep. I have a bunch of emails to answer and I'm tired of staring at this stuff and pretending I know what the hell I'm doing."

Cillian chuckled, nodding once before crossing the room towards his son. Auden stood back for a moment, studying the way the muscles in his shoulders moved as he scooped up Charlie into his arms effortlessly. The boy barely stirred, settling his face into the crook of Cillian's neck as if the spot had been made just for him.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Cillian watched his son sleep on an old couch in Auden's office, admiring the way his dark lashes rested against his cheeks. He had pulled out a chair that had been propped up on the opposite side of Auden's desk to sit in, situating himself so he had a clear view of Auden as well.

They had been huddled in here for some time, with Auden working at her desk, her slim fingers clicking against the keyboard rhythmically. He thought about going home, but the idea of returning to his nearly-empty living room made him want to scream.

He had been stealing glances at Auden since he sat down, feeling oddly anxious. He did it again – taking in the way she had pulled her hair into an untamed bun, stray strands falling loose, catching the light that came through her office window. He loved the color; the rich, chocolatey tone mingling with hues of marron and copper if the sun caught it just right. She rested her chin on one hand as she scrolled through her screen, her brows drawn together in concentration.

He wanted to reach out. Tuck that strand of hair behind her ear like he had last night. It was always falling in her face, blocking his view of those intoxicatingly green eyes that she had.

His fingers twitched against his knee.

"Why are you staring at me?" Auden's voice was soft, careful not to wake Charlie. She kept her attention on her computer screen.

Cillian snapped his gaze away. "I — I just think you have a nice office."

Auden snorted. "My office is ugly."

She had a point. Auden's office was a relic of neglect, a space that had clearly been overlooked for years before she stepped into it. He hadn't even known this room existed until today, and he had spent years walking the halls.

The walls were painted a dull, burnt orange, the kind of color that might have once been fashionable but now just felt tired. The paint had begun to chip in certain spots, revealing an even older layer beneath. The wooden floor was scratched and scuffed, showing the wear of decades of footsteps, and the lighting was dim, casting a perpetual late-afternoon gloom no matter the time of day.

The furniture was a haphazard mix of styles and eras, as if Charles had thrown it together from whatever was lying around. Auden's desk – a dark oak piece sat in the center of the room — too large for the space, dominating everything around it. Even her chair behind it was worn and creaky, its upholstery faded to an unidentifiable shade between brown and gray.

The green leather couch that Charlie slept soundly on was sagging under his weight, its arms peeling, a small tear on one side revealing stuffing. It appeared Auden had gone through some trouble with filling the bookshelf next to it, a scattering of art books and exhibition catalogs, some stacked without meaning, others wedged in as if placed there in a hurry.

The only personal touch was the window. Large, with an old radiator beneath it, it allowed just enough light to make the space feel less claustrophobic. Auden had it cracked open, letting in the cool Dublin air to combat the lingering mustiness.

It was functional, but impersonal – reminding him of his home. He couldn't help but wonder why Auden hadn't spruced it up or made it more of her own. There were only a few small signs of life. A few of her notebooks stacked neatly on the desk, a chipped mug holding an assortment of pens, and a photo of her in a graduation cap alongside an older man in a modest frame.

Cillian settled on the photo. "Who's that?"

Auden's body stiffened almost imperceptibly. She turned the frame toward herself. "Me and my dad."

Cillian tilted his head curiously. "Graduation photo?"

All she did was nod in confirmation.

"It's a nice photo," he commented. Auden's mouth pressed into a tight line, her movement frozen.

"Thanks."

"What does he think of all this?" he asked her, gesturing around her office but meaning more, "Living across the pond and whatnot?"

He caught Auden's fingers tightening around her mouse. Her voice, when she answered, was quiet. "I'm not sure."

Cillian frowned. "Why don't you ask?"

She exhaled loudly, clearly growing frustrated, but Cillian wasn't sure why. His brow furrowed in confusion, attempting to dissect what he could've said to upset her.

Without looking at him, she replied flatly, "Well, he died ten months ago, so...I don't think that's possible."

The silence that followed was heavy, uncomfortable. He felt himself nodding for some reason, his mind trying to form some comforting response that wasn't just empty and meaningless.

He knew loss. He knew what it did to people, and understood how others looked at you because of it. The pitied looks, the false pleasantries, the obligated condolences. He knew how fucking irritating it could be.

Sympathy was always easy — people had offered plenty of that when his marriage ended. But comfort? Understanding? That was rare. Most assumed the divorce was his fault. He worked too much, he was gone too often, he should have tried harder. No one seemed to consider that he had spent years sacrificing time at home to provide for Charlie, that he had done it all for them.

But in the end, it didn't matter.

So he carried the weight alone — the guilt, the failure, the grief of losing someone who was still alive.

"I won't say I'm sorry," he murmured. "I know it doesn't help."

Auden met his eyes. Something in her softened. She leaned back into her desk chair, her hands coming to rest in her lap, "I appreciate it."

"So, you're really out here all alone?" he asked her, his voice quieter than he intended.

Auden shifted, standing from her desk chair and moving lean against the edge of the desk in front of him. He peered up, her arms crossed loosely over her chest, her gaze unreadable.

When she spoke, her tone was cautious, "I guess you could say that."

He kept his attention on her face, the air that separated them growing thick with yearning – both wishing to be comforted but unsure of how to get it.

"What about you?" she finally said into their silence, "Are you all alone?"

He thought back to his messy bedroom. To his unpacked boxes, bare walls. Charlie's empty bedroom.

"I guess you could say that."

Her eyebrows lifted, surprise flickering across her face. "You have Charlie."

Cillian pushed the feeling of sadness that this comment sparked back down before it could settle. Now wasn't the time.

"Not in the way I want," he remarked as he adjusted in his seat, his pants sliding against the cracked leather. The sound caused Charlie to stir. Cillian instinctively reached over, smoothing a hand over his son's dark hair, brushing it away from his face.

Charlie barely reacted, his small chest rising and falling steadily. So peaceful.

As if reading his mind, Auden tilted her head, watching him. "He looks so calm."

Cillian nodded, his throat tight. He envied that calmness, the way children could just exist without the weight of the past pressing down on them. But how much of that peace was real? Did Charlie understand what was happening? Did he blame himself? Cillian had read somewhere that children often did, and the thought made something in his chest ache.

God, he hoped not.

The guilt crept in anyway, sharp and familiar. It was always there, lurking beneath the surface, waiting for a quiet moment to take hold. Cillian knew how to shove it down most of the time — but being around Charlie always made it harder. He wanted so much more for him than this fractured life, this back-and-forth existence between two parents who barely spoke.

The pressure behind his eyes burned. No, not now. He could control this.

But then Auden was in front of him.

Cillian hadn't even noticed her move. He had been too engrossed in his own thoughts, his attention still on his son's sleeping face. But now she was crouching in front his chair, so close he could smell that soft, amber scent of hers. She wasn't saying anything, just watching him, her eyes – so vibrantly green that he was reminded of spring – searching his face.

Her voice was a soft whisper. "Are you alright?"

He wondered if she could see it – the exhaustion. The failure. The slow, suffocating grief of losing something that had once been his whole life.

Then — a touch. Small, delicate, and more than enough. Gentle fingertips against his forehead, pushing back the dark curtain of his hair. It was deliberate, grounding almost.
Cillian felt his whole body freeze, the world around him dissipating entirely.

Her fingers trailed down the side of his face, hesitating just under his chin before she tilted his head to her, urging him to meet her head on. His heart clenched at the tenderness in her expression. No pity. No judgment. Just... understanding.

A single tear escaped before he could stop it.

Auden quickly brushed it away with the pad of her thumb.

Neither of them spoke. He wanted to thank her, to say something — but the words caught in his throat.

More tears slipped free. They were frustratingly unstoppable. It was like her touch had broken the dam that kept his emotions inside of him, their impact finally free to rush through.

He clenched his jaw, inhaling sharply — but before he could speak, Auden shook her head. Her eyes caught in the sunlight again, but now, they were full of tears too.

"It's okay," she whispered, her voice cracking against her heightened breath. He wasn't sure if it had been meant for him, or if she were reassuring herself.

It didn't matter, because without another thought, her arms wrapped around his neck, and she pulled him tight against her.

Cillian shattered.

A quiet, broken sound caught in his throat as he buried his face against her shoulder, his grip tightening around her small frame. He wasn't even sure why — maybe because she was warm, maybe because she smelled like something familiar, maybe because she just... knew.

Knew that they both needed this.

Knew that maybe, they had been carrying too much, for too long.

Knew that sometimes, there weren't words.

Auden's fingers stroked through his hair, her own tears soaking the skin on his neck. He didn't even care. Cillian held her tighter, desperate to believe that for this moment — just this moment — he wasn't completely alone.

She moved closer, just a little. Close enough that her presence steadied him.

And for the first time in a long time, Cillian let himself be steady.