Page 82 of Cowboy
Ciarán smiles, that soft, fond expression he gets whenever Saoirse is mentioned. "She's going to be disappointed she missed pancake morning."
"We can do pancakes tomorrow," I suggest. "Special Saturday edition."
He laughs, the sound still new enough to fill me with delight. For so long, there was nothing to laugh about. Now, joy seems to find us in the smallest moments—Saoirse's giggles during a pillow fight, the way Ciarán sings off-key in the shower, the simple pleasure of a lazy morning together.
"You're staring," Ciarán says, his eyes crinkling.
"Just appreciating the view," I reply with a boldness that still occasionally surprises me. This too is new—the ability to flirt, to feel desire without fear shadowing it.
Ciarán sets down his mug and crosses to me, pulling me to my feet and into his arms. "I'm the one with the view worth appreciating," he murmurs, his hands settling at my waist.
I rise on tiptoes to kiss him, savoring the coffee taste on his lips, the solid warmth of him. When we part, I stay in the circle of his arms, reluctant to break the connection.
"What time is your appointment today?" he asks, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
"Eleven," I reply. "Dr. Mitchell mentioned possibly scaling back to every other week soon. She says I'm doing really well."
"You are," Ciarán says, his eyes serious now. "I'm so proud of you, Caoimhe. The way you've fought through everything..."
I duck my head, still uncomfortable with praise, though I'm learning to accept it. "I couldn't have done it without you. Without Saoirse."
"You could have," he insists, lifting my chin gently. "You're the strongest person I know. But I'm glad you didn't have to."
The depth of emotion in his eyes makes my heart stutter. Sometimes it still feels unreal that we're here, together like this. That after everything—the trafficking, Dylan's betrayal, the months of recovery—I've found this safe harbor.
"I love you," I say simply, because there are no other words big enough to express what I feel.
"I love you too," he replies, as if it's the easiest, most natural thing in the world. And maybe it is. Maybe love is meant to be this uncomplicated, at least in its essentials.
We stay like that for a moment, foreheads touching, breathing in sync. Then the reality of the day ahead reasserts itself.
"I should get going," I say reluctantly. "I want to review my application materials before therapy."
The university application sits on the desk in our shared home office, nearly complete. After weeks of deliberation, I've decided to return to school and get my degree. Just part-time at first, while Saoirse is in school. A step into the world I once thought lost to me.
"I'll be here when you get back," Ciarán promises. "Got some club business this morning, but I should be done by one."
I nod, stepping out of his embrace to gather my things. As I move around the kitchen, I notice Ciarán watching me with an expression I can't quite interpret—anticipation mixed with something else. Nervousness, maybe? But that doesn't make sense. Ciarán is never nervous.
"Everything okay?" I ask, pausing with my hand on my bag.
He startles slightly, then smiles. "Perfect. Just thinking about something."
Before I can press further, a small voice calls from upstairs. "Caoimhe? Ciarán?"
"Coming, sweetheart," I call back, shooting Ciarán a questioning look.
He waves me on. "Go. I'll make her breakfast. You need to get to your appointment."
With one last curious glance, I head upstairs to help Saoirse get ready for the day. Whatever Ciarán is planning, I'll find out soon enough.
Dr. Mitchell's office is a haven of calm—soft colors, comfortable furniture, gentle lighting. When I first started coming here, the silence made me anxious. Now, it feels like a respite from the busy world outside.
"How have you been, Caoimhe?" she asks, settling into her chair across from me.
"Good," I say, and mean it. "Really good, actually."
She smiles, noting something in her pad. "Tell me about your week."
