18. Seamus
eighteen
Seamus
Present Day
The room is too quiet.
It shouldn’t be. Not with the soft wheeze of machines still rhythmically pushing air into Miranda’s lungs. Not with the low murmur of hospital sounds drifting in from the hallway.
Inside this room, with drawn blinds and dimmed lights, silence wins.
Marcella stands beside me, her arms crossed tightly over her chest like she’s trying to hold herself together.
Surrounded by their family, Daniel and Myra Black hold Miranda’s hands and each other, every breath they take ragged and fragile.
This is it. The end.
I can’t save her.
I tried. Jesus, I tried.
Marcella’s hand brushes mine, accidental, maybe. I take it as a sign and thread her fingers with mine. She grips me tightly and we stand there. Two ghosts in a room already haunted by what could’ve been.
Should’ve been.
The priest’s voice breaks the silence. “Before we begin the final prayers, Miranda’s parents wanted to share something with all of you.”
Myra steps forward, a sheet of notebook paper clutched between her shaking fingers. Her voice quivers. “She wrote this last spring right before her operation. It was an assignment for her Language Arts class. We didn’t think much of it at the time…now, it feels like she might have known.”
She clears her throat. “It's called 'If I Were a Whisper .'”
If I were a whisper, I’d sneak into hearts
To leave little glimmers
Of light in the dark.
I’d ride on the wind
When the thunder is loud,
And curl into corners
When no one’s around.
I’d never be seen,
But I’d always be near—
A whisper of hope
To chase away fear.
My chest caves in. Tears flow freely down my face.
Daniel, who’s been pretty stoic this afternoon, can’t hold it together either. He lets out a harsh, guttural sob, pressing his face into his wife’s shoulder. Myra shakes in his arms.
My throat burns. I have to look away.
The priest steps forward again, calm. Steady. “We now commend Miranda’s spirit.”
Several colleagues take charge and then the machines stop. Miranda slips away quickly.
Though I knew exactly what would happen, it’s like a punch to the chest. The absence of sound. Of breath. Of everything.
Marcella clutches my hand, silently sobbing.
Daniel turns to us, eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed. “Thank you both. For being here. For everything.”
Marcella nods, her voice gone.
“She mattered to me,” I barely manage to utter.
Marcella and I leave the room so her family can have a few final moments of privacy before they transport Miranda away. I head toward the east wing—one of the older parts of the hospital currently closed for renovation.
It’s instinct, not strategy. I need to be somewhere quiet and away from anyone I know. Somewhere away from the grief clinging to my skin.
Marcella follows, silent.
We step into a vacant room, air tinged with a faint scent of antiseptic. The equipment’s been cleared out. The bed and furniture remains.
“This okay?” I turn toward her.
“Yeah.” Marcella sits on the edge of the bed and buries her face in her hands.
Her shoulders start to shake. I kneel in front of her.
“Hey,” I repeat gently. “You okay?”
Stupid question.
She chokes out, “I’ve never watched someone die. She didn’t deserve it.”
“I know and you fought hard for her.” I stand and then sit next to her.
Marcella sobs. “Forty million dollars means nothing if it won’t bring her back.”
“It does mean something.” I smooth the hair back from her face. “Maybe it keeps this from happening again. I know it’s changed me forever.”
She stares at me for a long moment. “You really believe that?”
“I have to.” I bite my lip as a tear escapes.
She reaches for me and we cling to each other in sorrow.
Her guttural cries wreck me though I can’t stop either. Marcella’s embrace is the only thing keeping me sane. Her head fits perfectly in the crook of my neck and I close my eyes, breathing her in. She smells like vanilla and heartbreak.
We stay cuddled together until we cry ourselves out.
When she finally pulls back, her face is blotchy, mascara smudged. Utterly the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
I can’t bring myself to regret we’re together like this, even if grief is what cracked us open. I reach for her hand and squeeze. “She would have changed the world.”
“She already did,” Marcella murmurs. “She changed ours.”
We stay quiet for a bit.
She turns toward me, her eyes unreadable. “I keep thinking about the look in her mother’s eyes when the monitors flatlined. Like something in her own soul had been unplugged.”
“Brutal.” I nod slowly, remembering the moment vividly. The priest finishing the blessing. Miranda’s mother, unable to move. Her father rubbing his hands over his face like he could physically push the pain away. “I wanted to do something. Say something. There aren’t any words to make it better.”
Marcella exhales. “It’s the worst thing I’ve ever been through. I’m also glad we were there. We needed to be.”
She looks up at me and I see the weight she’s been carrying—the long hours, the pressure of this case, her own loss. Something about her vulnerability hits me so hard I feel like the air’s been knocked out of my lungs.
“How’s your dad?” I stop myself. “Sorry. I know now isn’t the time…”
“He’s better,” she says softly. “Getting checked again next week. You coming to Tacoma with me meant a lot.”
“I was glad to.” I wonder if she’s missed me as much as I’ve missed her. We haven’t really spoken other than to coordinate today.
Her eyes search mine. “You didn’t have to.”
“You didn’t have to let me.” I meet her gaze, questioning. Hoping.
The moment shifts.
Marcella tilts her head slightly and my eyes follow the curve of her cheek. The way her mouth trembles before she tries to steel herself again. Always so composed. So in control.
Except now.
Now she looks at me as though she’s unraveling from the inside out—and I get it. I am too.
I lean toward her an inch. Close enough to feel her breath when it stutters out. My hand lifts slowly, cupping her jaw. I brush my thumb against the soft skin below her cheekbone. Her eyes flicker shut for half a second, like the touch undoes her.
When they open again, there’s a question in them. A warning.
She doesn’t pull away.
I don’t say anything because I can’t drag my eyes from her beautiful face. I’m trying not to give in to how much I want her. Not only her body. Her mind. Her voice. The parts she tries to hide.
“I haven’t let anyone in like this in a long time,” she admits. Her tone is raw. Honest. “Not since I didn’t think it was worth it.”
“You’re worth it.”
“Seamus.” She swallows.
My name on her lips is my undoing. “I meant everything I said. About how I see you. I still can’t stop thinking about you.”
“This doesn’t make any sense.” Her breath hitches as she gestures between us.
“Maybe not,” I whisper. “And yet, it does make sense.”
I reach up, brush her hair back, and she closes her eyes.
“I can’t think,” she whispers. “When you’re this close.”
“Then don’t think.” I lean in, slow and deliberate, until her lips are right there—soft, trembling. Inches from mine.
When our mouths finally meet, it’s not rushed or frantic. It’s not needy or wild.
It’s reverent.
A slow slide of her pillowy lips against mine. Warm. Careful. Unbelievably tender.
I feel her breath hitch when I angle my head and brush my mouth against hers like I’ve been dreaming about for months. This kiss has been building since the second I saw her—since the second she shattered every expectation I had and rebuilt it into something I never saw coming.
Her hand curls into the fabric of my shirt. Not pushing me away—holding on. Christ, I feel it everywhere. The heat. The ache. The impossible rightness of this.
When her lips part and I taste more of her, I swear it almost drops me to my knees. It’s a promise. One I feel in the center of my chest—steady and deep and terrifying as hell.
When our kiss deepens and becomes more urgent, my hands find her waist. Hers thread through my hair. When we finally pull apart, both of us are breathing like we’ve run a marathon.
Marcella’s eyes are wide and glassy. Her breathing is shaky. “We shouldn’t.”
“Tell me to stop.” I call her bluff.
She hesitates. Then she doesn’t, kissing me again. Harder this time.
My hands skim her back and I pull her closer. She gasps when I lift her into my lap. Her skirt rides up and she doesn’t seem to care. I’m drowning in her. In us .
As fast as it starts, she breaks the kiss, pulling back, her hands on my chest.
“No. We can’t.” Her voice cracks. “Not like this. Not tonight.”
I breathe hard, nodding, even as I try to slow my pulse. “Okay. Okay.”
She scrambles off my lap and starts to pace, her arms crossed over her chest.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t have.”
I stand too, closing the distance between us. “We didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I’m afraid of what it means.” She looks at me, conflicted.
“Why are you afraid?”
Her shoulders fall. “What if it means everything ? Only for it to end?”
“We won’t let it. End.” I reach for her hand.
She squeezes my fingers. Then let’s go.
We stand there in silence for a moment longer until she crushes me. “No. We can’t. Not now. Not ever .”
“Marcella…”
“It’s not right.” She smooths her skirt.
“I don’t agree, maybe…”
“No maybes. It’s wrong.” She steps away, flustered.
This pisses me off immensely. Not because I’m mad at her. I hate she feels like I’ll let her down. “Why doesn’t it feel wrong? For me, being with you feels inevitable.”
She whirls around. “No, being with you is a problem .”
Then she’s marching toward the exit.
“Marcella.”
She doesn’t turn around. Instead, pushes through the door and I hear her heels clicking down the hallway toward the elevator.
I grab my phone and text her.
Me: Come back.
I wait. Every second feels like an hour. I’m convinced Marcella hasn’t seen my text or worse, she’s seen and ignored it.
Then I hear something.
Heels. Echoing down the hall. Getting closer.
The door swings open and she’s back—eyes wild, breath shallow, fire in every step.
She doesn’t speak. Neither do I. Her mouth finds mine and nothing else exists.
No courtroom. No hospital. No rules.
Only this.
The inevitability we’ve been circling finally breaks.
I know with gut-deep certainty—
Marcella was always mine.