Chapter 42 Seamus
Chapter forty-two
Seamus
Iwake to the sound of cabinet doors opening and closing in the kitchen.
For half a second, I'm disoriented—my penthouse has been silent for so long that domestic sounds feel foreign, like I'm in someone else's home.
Then I hear her humming, that off-key melody she unconsciously produces when she's focused on a task, and everything clicks into place.
Rosanna is home. She's been home for three days now, and I still wake up half-convinced it's a dream. That I'll open my eyes and find the penthouse empty again, her sketchbooks gone, her terrible tea collection vanished, all evidence of her presence erased except for the hollow ache in my chest.
But the humming continues, punctuated by the clink of dishes and the smell of coffee brewing.
Real sounds. Real evidence that she chose to come back.
That she chose me—not the careful, controlled version I've spent years perfecting, but the real me.
The messy, damaged Seamus who's also Shay who never fully trusted he could be loved.
I lie still for a moment, just listening.
The bedroom door opens slightly, and I see Rosanna peek in. When she notices I'm awake, her whole face lights up with that smile that still makes my chest tight.
"Morning," she says softly. "I'm making breakfast. Stay there—I'll bring it in."
I want to tell her she doesn't have to wait on me, that I can come to the kitchen like a functional adult.
But there's something in her expression that tells me this matters to her.
That she wants to do this—wants to bring breakfast to bed, wants to take care of me the way I've been trying to take care of her since she moved back in.
So I just nod and watch her disappear back toward the kitchen, and I let myself feel the full weight of gratitude and wonder that she's here. That she forgave me. That we get to try again.
Ten minutes later, Rosanna returns with a tray loaded with more food than two people could reasonably eat.
There's coffee—made the way I like it, which she finally learned after I admitted that yes, the precise ratio of cream to coffee actually matters to me.
Toast with the good butter from the farmer's market she dragged me to last weekend.
Scrambled eggs that smell like she added that fancy cheese she loves.
Fresh fruit arranged in a way that's probably aesthetically pleasing but mostly just looks like Rosanna—colorful and warm and slightly chaotic.
She sets the tray on the bed between us and climbs in next to me, tucking her feet under the covers.
Her hair is pulled into a messy knot, and she's wearing one of my old t-shirts that she's claimed as sleepwear.
No makeup, no effort to look polished or put-together.
Just Rosanna in the morning, comfortable enough in our space to be completely herself.
"This is amazing," I tell her, reaching for the coffee first. "You didn't have to go to this much trouble."
"I wanted to." She steals a piece of my toast, and I don't even pretend to be annoyed. "Besides, we need fuel. We have that walkthrough with Dr. Vince this morning, remember? The historic preservation architect wants to show us what the restoration could look like."
Right. The Heritage Street building. Our building now, in a way I'm still getting used to.
O'MalleyMart owns the property, but Rosanna has the long-term lease.
We're partners in this preservation effort, figuring out together how to honor the building's history while making it functional for the community art center she's envisioning.
"What time is the walkthrough?" I ask, trying to remember the email Dr. Vince sent.
"Ten o'clock. Which gives us—" Rosanna checks her phone, "—about ninety minutes."
We eat in comfortable silence for a while, passing dishes back and forth, stealing bites from each other's plates.
Rosanna has her sketchbook next to her—she always has it within reach—and she's absently doodling between bites.
I watch her draw, fascinated by the way illustrations seem to appear effortlessly under her pencil.
"What are you working on?" I ask, nodding toward the sketch.
She turns the book so I can see. It's the Heritage Street building, but not as it currently exists. This is her vision—the facade restored, flowers in window boxes, people gathered on the sidewalk outside. There's a sign above the door that says "Mira's Garden Community Arts Center."
"You're naming it after your book character?" I ask, and I can hear the smile in my own voice.
"It's a placeholder for now. Mira is all about making impossible things grow in unlikely places. Seems fitting for a community art center in a building that almost got demolished." She adds shading to one of the windows.
I reach over and tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "You're brilliant. You know that, right?"
She leans into my touch, and I'm still getting used to this. The casual affection, the way she reaches for me without hesitation, the comfort of having someone who wants to be close instead of strategically distant.
"I had a good partner," she says, looking at me with those warm eyes that still make me forget how to breathe properly.
I lace my fingers through hers, studying the contrast of our hands together. "I'm still scared I'll mess this up."
"You probably will mess up sometimes," she says, and her honesty is one of the things I love most about her. "We both will."
"That's supposed to be comforting?" I ask, but I'm smiling.
"It's supposed to be honest." She squeezes my hand. "The difference now is that we're choosing to work through the mess instead of running from it."
I pull her closer, wrapping my arm around her shoulders. She fits against me like she was designed for this space, her head tucked under my chin, her body warm and solid and real.
I kiss her forehead, letting myself feel the simple peace of this moment.
We finish breakfast, talking about the walkthrough and Rosanna's plans for the community center and the board meeting I have next week where I'll probably face more questions about the Heritage Street decision.
Finally, Rosanna checks the time and winces.
"We really need to start getting ready. Dr. Vince is going to think we're completely unprofessional if we show up late to our own building's restoration walkthrough."
"Let her think it," I say, pulling Rosanna closer instead of letting her get up. "Let her think we're so in love we lost track of time."
Rosanna laughs, that bright sound that fills spaces I didn't know were empty. "Who are you and what have you done with Seamus O'Malley, efficiency expert and strategic time manager?"
"You happened to me," I tell her honestly.
She kisses me, soft and sweet and full of promise. "We really do need to get moving though. I want to hear Dr. Vince's ideas about the facade restoration, and she mentioned possibly preserving some of the original interior tile work."
My phone buzzes again. Her phone chimes.
We ignore both.
Rosanna shifts closer, her hair brushing my jaw, sunlight pooling across rumpled sheets and architectural plans scattered on the nightstand.
Somewhere across the city, a building waits to be restored.
But right now, the only thing I’m building is this— her laughter in my bedroom, her hand tangled in mine, coffee going cold between us.
“We’re going to be late,” she murmurs.
“Yeah,” I say, tightening my arm around her. “We are.”