Chapter 4 Aoife
AOIFE
Declan is coming home for dinner tonight, although I still have no idea what prompted me to invite him.
Regardless, I start the duck first.
The oven door opens with a low sigh, warm air kissing my face as I slide the roasting pan onto the middle rack.
Inside, the bird glows under its lacquer of orange and clove, the skin already taking on that deep, burnished sheen I’ve been chasing since morning.
I had trimmed it carefully, rubbing the flesh with salt until it felt almost velvety, then worked the zest of two blood oranges into the fat with crushed cloves until the scent filled my hands.
The smell now is richer, rounder, the sweetness of caramelized citrus balanced by the soft heat of spice.
I close the oven gently, wiping my palms on the apron tied snugly around my waist. The flat is quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional soft patter from outside where the rain has started again.
It is the kind of rain Boston wears well, the kind that softens the light and makes the cobblestones outside shine as though they have been polished.
On the narrow counter, the arborio rice waits in a wide, shallow pan, the grains pearled and dry.
I heat the stock on the back burner, infusing it with the liquid I saved from soaking the mushrooms earlier in the day.
They were a gift to myself, if you can call wandering through a damp market stall in a drizzle a gift.
Chanterelles, porcinis, and three small morels that looked like they had been hiding in moss before someone plucked them.
They had smelled like rain before they were even rinsed.
The risotto begins with olive oil, shimmering, then the diced shallots I slice so fine they almost melt when they hit the heat.
They soften, sweeten, and I stir in the rice, letting it toast until the edges are translucent and the kitchen smells like something on the edge of becoming.
A pour of white wine hisses against the pan, steam rising in a fragrant cloud that carries its own invitation.
This is not food you rush. You stir, add a ladle of stock, stir again. You taste without swallowing, checking texture with your teeth. I imagine him watching, though I have no reason to.
The pears are done and cooling on a wire rack in the corner, their pale skins blushed from poaching in syrup spiked with whiskey.
I brushed them once already so the syrup would cling, thickening into an amber glaze.
They will be served warm, with the sponge cake I baked earlier this afternoon, a simple batter soaked with the same syrup so that it carries the warmth of the spirit without losing the sweetness of the fruit.
The table is set for two. It is a small table, pushed against the wall between the kitchen and the sitting area, and it looks strange dressed for company.
White linen napkins I ironed this afternoon, silver forks I polished with baking soda until I could see my reflection in them, the mismatched plates from my Galway trip.
Two slender candles wait to be lit, their wicks still pale.
I leave the fairy lights strung along the shelves and windows because they make the place feel less like a stopgap and more like a home. I’ve told myself they are still up because I never got around to taking them down after last Christmas, but the truth is I like their glow too much.
The clock reads 7:50 when I hear his knock. Two measured taps, not loud, not tentative.
I untie the apron and hang it over the back of the chair, smoothing my dress before I open the door.
Declan stands there in a charcoal coat, the collar turned up slightly against the rain.
His hair is damp at the edges, not wet enough to drip, but softened, the faint wave more visible.
He holds a bottle of wine in one hand, the other in his pocket.
His gaze meets mine immediately, steady and assessing, and the space between us tightens without either of us moving.
“Evening,” he says, his voice low, almost warm.
“Evening,” I reply, stepping back so he can come inside.
He doesn’t cross the threshold right away. His eyes move through the flat in a slow, deliberate sweep, taking in everything without lingering on any one thing. It feels like a map being drawn in his mind. Only after that does he step in, closing the door with a quiet click.
“It smells… deliberate in here,” he says, handing me the bottle.
I take it, noting the weight, the dark green glass, the label with its understated lettering and absence of flourish. A bottle like this says more about the man than he would. “I’ll open it.”
He slides the coat from his shoulders and lays it neatly over the back of the chair, his shirt beneath black and fitted, the sleeves rolled once to his forearms. There’s a faint sheen to the buttons and the way the fabric moves with him, subtle in a way expensive things often are.
“You went to trouble,” he says.
“Cooking is never trouble. Especially when I’ve chosen the company.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, not quite a smile, but something close. He follows me toward the kitchen but doesn’t step too near, standing just outside the warm halo of the stove as though entering would change something he isn’t ready to change.
“What’s first?” he asks, nodding toward the stove.
“Risotto. Wild mushrooms, truffle at the end.”
He picks up the spoon I’ve set aside, stirring once before tasting the sauce clinging to the back. “You’ve done this before.”
“Some people collect stamps. I collect small perfections.”
That earns me a glance that feels heavier than it should.
I ladle the last of the stock into the rice, watching it loosen just enough to settle when I tilt the pan.
The mushrooms go in, tender from their earlier soak, releasing their own earthy depth into the dish.
I finish with a trickle of truffle oil, a snowfall of Parmesan, and plate it beside slices of the duck, the skin crisp and glistening.
When I set his plate down, he sits with a measured ease, lifting his wineglass after I pour. He turns it once in his fingers, then takes a slow sip.
“This could be Paris,” he says after his first bite of duck.
“Paris would send me home the moment I used orange with game,” I reply.
“They’d be wrong.”
The conversation winds from food to memory, to the small details of childhood kitchens, to the way grief lingers like a scent you can’t quite name. He doesn’t speak about himself, not really, but he listens in a way that makes it feel like the words matter after they leave my mouth.
I notice his hands as he holds the glass—strong, veined, with a pale scar running across one knuckle. They look capable of both precision and force, and I wonder how many people have seen both.
We eat the pear cake last, the sponge soaked with whiskey syrup, the pears yielding under the edge of the fork. The warmth of the fruit releases the spirit’s aroma, curling upward before each bite.
When the plates are empty, I move to clear them, but he is already standing. “Leave them.”
“I don’t like waking up to dishes.”
“You won’t,” he says, following me to the small balcony.
The rain is falling softly, almost lazily, and the air carries the scent of wet stone. I rest my forearms on the railing, the cool metal grounding me, until I feel the shift of air behind me when he steps closer.
He doesn’t touch me right away. The space between us is small, but charged, his presence wrapping around me as tangibly as the damp air.
“You make distance difficult,” he says, his voice a quiet thread against the sound of rain.
“Maybe you’re not meant to keep it,” I answer without turning.
When his hand settles at my hip, it is steady, warm.
He turns me until I am facing him, his gaze holding mine without effort.
The kiss is careful at first, the kind that tests whether the ground between you will hold.
It deepens slowly, the tastes of wine and citrus threading between us until there is no space left.
I grip the front of his shirt, feeling the steady beat of his heart through the fabric, and pull him closer. The rain beads on his hair, catches the light from the window, and for a moment all I can think is that he feels inevitable.
When he finally pulls back, his voice is lower still. “Can I stay?”
Instead of answering, I kiss him again. The rain softens to a whisper against the glass as his mouth lingers over mine, not quite pressing harder, not quite pulling away.
My fingers are curled into the front of his shirt and the warmth of him feels impossible to ignore, as if my own body has leaned into a gravity I did not see until now.
Declan’s hand settles at my waist, not moving, just holding, his thumb making small circles as if he has all the time in the world to learn my shape.
I part my lips a little more and taste the wine still on his tongue when he follows me into the kiss, his breath deepening.
There is nothing hurried here and yet everything about it makes me feel unsteady, as though the smallest shift would tip us both over an edge.
I draw back slightly, the tip of my nose brushing his, and I watch his eyes darken in the soft fairy light.
“You are dangerous,” I whisper, my voice catching at the end.
He smiles, slow and unhurried, the kind of smile that carries its own weight. “You have no idea.”
His knuckles skim along my jaw, down to my throat where his palm cups the side of my neck.
The pressure is gentle, but my pulse leaps under his hand and I know he feels it.
I let my eyes fall shut for a moment, letting him guide me back into another kiss, deeper now, his mouth coaxing mine open until I feel the heat building, low and insistent.
When his other hand slides to the small of my back, pressing me closer, my body answers without hesitation.
The line of him against me is solid, unyielding, and the way his hips settle just enough to let me feel his arousal is deliberate.
My breath leaves me in a quiet sound I didn’t mean to make, and his mouth stills on mine for half a heartbeat as if savoring it.
He murmurs my name then, low and rough, and it is almost a claim.
I can feel the vibration of it in my chest as he moves his lips to the curve of my jaw, the side of my throat.
His teeth graze lightly over my skin before his tongue soothes the spot, and my hands find their way under the hem of his shirt.
The heat of him is immediate, his muscles shifting under my palms as my fingers splay against the ridges of his abdomen.
“You’re warm,” I say without thinking, my voice hushed.
“I’ll keep you warm,” he answers, and I feel the smile against my skin.
The edge of his teeth catches lightly at the hollow just below my ear, and I turn my head instinctively, offering more.
His hand at my waist slides upward, over my ribs, brushing the side of my breast in a way that makes me press into him.
My nipples tighten under the thin fabric of my dress, and I am suddenly very aware of how little there is between us.
His thumb traces along the underside of my breast, not quite touching where I want him most, and I swallow hard. My grip on his shirt tightens, pulling him closer, my body arching into the heat of his.
“Declan,” I breathe, and it comes out more like a plea than I intended.
He lifts his head just enough to look at me, his gaze dark and focused. “If I start, I will not stop tonight.”
The way he says it is not a question. It is a warning wrapped in a promise, and it makes my thighs press together.
I answer by leaning up to kiss him again, slower this time, letting him feel the intent in it.
His hands move at last, one cupping the back of my head, the other sliding under the hem of my dress to rest against my bare thigh.
His fingers are warm, steady, and the slow drag of them higher leaves a trail of heat in their wake.
I breathe out, my forehead resting against his, feeling the weight of the moment settle over us.
The rain is louder now, or maybe I am just more aware of the silence between each drop.
His touch stops just short of where I ache for it, his thumb stroking slow circles as if testing how far he can take me before I break.
“Tell me to stay,” he says, his voice a low growl against my mouth.
I do not tell him anything. Instead, I kiss him again, my fingers slipping up to the nape of his neck, holding him to me as if that could be an answer.
He makes a sound, deep and satisfied, before lifting me with startling ease.
My legs wrap around his waist, my dress sliding up, and I feel the hard press of him through his trousers as he carries me back inside.
The fairy lights turn his hair to bronze as he stops just inside the doorway.
His mouth never leaves mine until my back meets the wall, and the way his body fits against mine makes the rest of the world irrelevant.
His hand slides up my thigh, pushing my dress higher, his fingers finally brushing the edge of my panties.
I shiver at the touch, my hips tilting into it.
He pauses there, his lips on my ear. “Last chance, Aoife.”
I press my mouth to his, answering without words, and feel his fingers slide beneath the lace.
The touch is slow, deliberate, and the first stroke makes me gasp into his mouth.
He swallows the sound, kissing me harder, and I can feel the restraint in the way he moves, as if he is holding back the full force of what he wants.
And then he pulls back just enough to look at me, his thumb still moving with infuriating patience. The hunger in his eyes leaves no doubt about where this is going.
We are right there—balanced at the edge, the air heavy with rain, heat, and everything neither of us is willing to name yet—when I realize that I am not going to stop him.