Page 101 of Wistful Whispers

We step out into the thick bathroom air, grabbing towels and bumping into each other as we move. She shoots me a mock-glare when she realizes her lotion bottle is empty. “You used the last of the good stuff, didn’t you?”

“You’ll survive.” I grin, wrapping my towel low on my hips.

She narrows her eyes. “If you’re not careful, I’ll hide your razors.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” I chuckle, leaning in to kiss her wet cheek.

We bicker our way back into the bedroom, laughing and towel-drying—our effortless banter is like breathing.

Like routine.

Likeus.

By two, we’re dressed and heading to my parents’ house. Marcella’s in jeans and a soft black sweater. Her is hair twisted up with pieces falling loose.

I steal a kiss in the elevator down to the garage, and she shakes her head at me, smiling. “What’s gotten into you today?”

“I’m happy,” I say simply.

She doesn’t answer, her hand finds mine and squeezes.

The drive over is full of music and light teasing. Marcella reads me a few text messages from her brother Lucas, who’s trying to convince Rosa to put some lamb dish back on the menu. I let her vent about the new witness who just blew a hole in her deposition strategy.

We talk about everything, other than Caldwell. He can wait. I still haven’t let anyone from my family in on what’s happening. Not until we have our ducks in a row.

Inside, the madness is already in full swing. As usual, Liam and Padraig are in a heated discussion about setlists and gear logistics. Connor’s listening, clearly distracted, his curls pulled back and his brow furrowed.

Teagan is balanced on Ronni’s hip, babbling nonsense. The twins, Torin and Tristan, are chasing each other around the living room, hopped up on sugar and mischief.

The rest of the afternoon and evening moves in a blur. Marcella plays referee when the twins argue over who gets the last tea cake. She talks music with Liam, legal drama with Ronni, and even gets Rory to laugh when she compliments his vintage flask collection—she knows damn well the house is dry.

When the table is finally set, Ma waves everyone in. We take our usual seats—Marcella beside me, Connor on the opposite side with the twins flanking Ronni, who has Teagan in a high chair next to her.

Across from us, Brennan has a look on his face I don’t think I’ve ever seen before. Not smug. Not calculating.

Content.

Maybe because his girlfriend, Astrid, has changed his life. When she speaks, Brennan leans in close, like her smile is a gravity he can’t resist. It hits me hard.

Because for all the ways he’s wired differently, and disappears into code and algorithms and neural net mapping—this, right here, is simple. Human. He’s in love. It’s written all over him.

I glance at Marcella beside me, her eyes shining as she chats with Ronni about some ridiculousBoyfriend Experimenttheory, and I realize my brothers and I are not very different. Not when it comes to love. We partner for life with women who make us better men.

Dinner is roast lamb with rosemary, buttery mashed potatoes, roasted carrots and parsnips, and the famous brown bread. As always, there’s noise and love and way too many stories about someone’s embarrassing moment. Cillian’s absence is palpable and never spoken about directly.

After the meal, Ronni and Marcella slip off to the living room with Teagan while I catch up with Connor and Brennan. We talk quietly about Cillian. Connor, ever the perceptive older brother, asks how work’s going and I give a noncommittal shrug. They don’t push. Not yet.

Later, Marcella and I step out onto the porch. The air is crisp, smelling of woodsmoke and pine.

“I love them,” she says softly.

“Me too.”

She looks at me. There’s something vulnerable in her eyes. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I answer honestly. “I’m better. The proposal’s in. You’re here. We have a plan.”

She points to the street. “Then let’s go home.”

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