The call ends.
I stand there for a long moment, phone still in my hand, the room silent again.
He’s proud of me.
I hate that it feels like something I’ve been waiting for, and I hate even more that part of me still wants to earn it.
After he ends the call, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling long after the call ends, the room dark and quiet except for the faint droning of the heating system. My body is tired, but my mind won’t shut off. Cillian’s voice overlaps with my father’s in my head, praise from one, possession from the other, and I shift onto my side and close my eyes.
It doesn’t help.
Every time I drift, I see Cillian’s face when he said I was coming to lunch. I roll onto my back and press my palm over my stomach, then lower, my breath catching when I remember his hands on me earlier. The way he studies before he touches. The way he waits to see what I’ll do.
I slide my hand between my thighs slowly, not rushing, letting the memory do the work. His mouth at my ear. His hand at my hip. The weight of him when he decides he’s done holding back. I move against my own fingers and bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep quiet, my other hand fisting the sheet.
It’s not just the heat I remember.
It’s the way he looked at me after. Curious. Guarded. Choosing.
That’s what pushes me over the edge. I come with his name caught in my throat, and when I finally settle back into the mattress, my pulse steadying, I stare at the ceiling again.
This is getting complicated.
Sleep takes me eventually.
Morning comes clean and sharp. I wake early and dress in something simple for work, nothing that signals anything beyond competence. The day runs tight. I review freight summaries, check reconciliation reports, answer two calls about minor supplier disputes. I move through the office like I always do, steady and efficient, and no one would guess that by this time tomorrow, I might be sitting at his mother’s table.
Around eleven, Roisin leans against my doorway. “Big plans today?” she asks casually.
“Just numbers,” I say without looking up.
She smiles faintly. “You look like you’re preparing for more than spreadsheets.”
I close the file in front of me. “Lunch,” I say.
“With?”
I meet her eyes. “His family.”
Her eyebrows lift. “That’s not small.”
“I’m aware.”
She studies me for a moment, then nods once and leaves without another comment.
By noon, I pack my things and head back to my quarters. I shower again, slower this time, letting the water steady my thoughts. I take my time choosing what to wear. Not too sharp. Not too soft. A fitted cream blouse, a navy skirt that falls just below the knee, low heels that won’t sink into grass if there is any.
I dry my hair and leave it loose, then add a thin gold chain at my throat. Minimal makeup. Clean lines. I don’t want to look like I’m trying.
I’m fastening my watch when there’s a knock on my door.
I freeze for half a second, then walk over and open it.
Cillian stands there in a dark jacket and open collar, no tie, sunglasses hooked in his hand. He looks like he belongs anywhere he chooses to stand. “I was told you’d be ready,” he says, his gaze moving over me once.
“I am.”
He nods once. “Good.”