Chapter Twelve Smoke And Mirrors #3
“No,” she cut in, sharp, worry riding just under it. “I’m serious. I open my phone and my timeline’s in bits about you and Evelyn Cross like you’ve just volunteered as Ireland’s Official Straight Man, and then I text Eli because I like him and he’s gone completely radio silent.”
Lucas swallowed. “He’s not— he’s just—”
“Hurt,” Maeve finished flatly. “He’s hurt, Luke.”
The nickname landed heavy, familiar, unignorable.
Maeve didn’t let him wriggle.
“And don’t even try telling me this just happened,” she went on. “Because I know that face you’re pulling in those photos. That’s your ‘I’ve been talked into something I don’t want’ face. Same one you had when you were fourteen and agreed to sing at Mass.”
Lucas exhaled slowly. “Declan said it’d calm things down…”
Maeve laughed once — short, incredulous, properly angry.
“Oh, fuck Declan.”
“Maeve—”
“No,” she said again. “I mean it. Fuck him sideways with a sponsorship deal. I’ve loathed that gobshite since the day he told you as a goddamn teenager that your image mattered more than your actual life.”
Lucas rubbed a hand over his face. “It was just dinner.”
“And the kiss?” Maeve shot back. “The hug? Don’t insult me. That wasn’t an accident. That was optics.”
Lucas went quiet.
Maeve’s voice shifted then — not softer, exactly, but steadier. Like she was hauling him back by the scruff before he did something even stupider.
“Did you tell Eli this was coming?”
Lucas’s throat tightened. “Not… properly.”
“Jesus, Luke.”
“I didn’t think—”
“No,” Maeve said. “You didn’t want to think. There’s a difference.”
She sighed, long and heavy.
“I’m not raging at you,” she said — which meant she absolutely was. “I’m worried you’ve just hurt someone who didn’t deserve it. Someone who’s been trying to meet you where you are, not where Twitter wants you to be.”
Lucas stared at the floor.
“He hasn’t said anything to me,” Maeve went on. “Which is worse than shouting. When Eli goes quiet, it’s because he’s deciding whether something’s worth the hassle.”
The words lodged under Lucas’s ribs.
“I didn’t choose her,” he said hoarsely.
“I know,” Maeve replied. “But from where he’s standing? It looks like you chose safety over honesty.”
Lucas flinched.
Maeve kept going — relentless, but loving in the way only she ever managed.
“You don’t get to keep doing this,” she said. “You don’t get to let Declan and his brand-strategy bollocks turn actual people into collateral damage. Not someone you care about.”
“I do care,” Lucas said quietly.
“I know you do,” Maeve said. “That’s why this matters.”
The silence stretched.
“Listen to me,” Maeve said finally. “You haven’t done something unforgivable. But you have been careless. And carelessness cuts deeper than cruelty when someone’s already taking a risk by wanting you.”
Lucas closed his eyes.
“What do I do?” he asked.
Maeve didn’t hesitate.
“Nothing,” she said. “Tonight? You do nothing. You don’t explain yourself. You don’t spin it. You don’t go trying to make yourself feel better because you’re uncomfortable.”
Lucas tensed. “That feels wrong.”
“Good,” Maeve said. “That’s what learning feels like.”
Then, quieter: “Tomorrow, you talk to him. Properly. You own that you let your agent talk you into something that put appearances before people. You don’t downplay it. You don’t ask him to reassure you. You listen.”
Lucas nodded even though she couldn’t see him.
“And Luke?” Maeve added.
“Yeah.”
“If you fuck this up,” she said calmly, “it won’t be because you’re gay or scared or famous. It’ll be because you didn’t believe you were allowed to choose happiness over optics.”
His chest burned.
“I don’t want to lose him,” Lucas admitted.
Maeve’s voice softened, just a fraction. “Then stop acting like the worst thing that can happen is people talking.”
A pause.
“Also,” she added dryly, “for what it’s worth — Evelyn Cross seems perfectly sound. So don’t go turning her into a villain in your head just because you’re furious at Declan and yourself.”
“I won’t,” Lucas said immediately. “She doesn’t even know—”
“She doesn’t,” Maeve agreed. “Which means this is on you.”
The call settled into quiet.
“I love you,” Maeve said. “You’re a good man. But Christ alive, you’re being a moron.”
Lucas let out a weak breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Fair.”
“Text me tomorrow,” Maeve said. “And Luke?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t make me regret liking him.”
The line went dead.
Lucas sat there for a long time afterward, phone dark in his hand.
He didn’t text Eli again.
He didn’t chase reassurance.
For the first time all night, he let the discomfort sit—heavy, deserved, instructive.
And when he finally stood and went to bed, he knew one thing with brutal clarity:
Declan could manage narratives all he liked. That’s what he fucking paid him for.
But if Lucas wanted Eli, he was going to have to start choosing people over plans—even when it scared him. He was about to head toward his bed when one final text from Maeve lit up his phone:
Maeve: Whatever this was for you, don’t make him think he was the only one who felt it.