Page 16 of Something Worth Keeping
Cillian struggled to articulate the distinction. “Those were... offerings.Protection. I was courting you from a distance. Actually manifesting and demanding your attention felt too aggressive.”
Julian considered this. “So, your logic was that watching me sleep and stealing things for me was less invasive than knocking on the door and introducing yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Cillian, that’s completely backward.”
“I’m beginning to understand that.”
Julian’s mouth curved into the smallest smile, and Cillian wanted to capture that expression, keep it, and build a cathedral around it. “Sixth question. What happens now?”
“I would like to court you properly. With your knowledge and consent.” Cillian leaned forward, his shadows instinctively reaching across the table before he reined them back. “I want to know everything about you. Yourfavorite books. Why do you talk to your succulent, and when did you name it? What made you become an archivist? I want to bring you coffee at 7:15 a.m. and listen to you correct people who are factually wrong. I want to stand between you and anything that might harm you.”
“That’s very comprehensive.”
“I’m an ancient entity who has never felt desire for another being until I saw you standing in an alley, telling me where to hide a corpse. I don’t know how to want something halfway.”
Julian was quiet for a moment, his pen forgotten. Then, “I have obsessive tendencies. I don’t understand social nuance, and I frequently offend people without meaning to. I will correct you when you’re wrong, even if it’s inconvenient. I keep very rigidschedules, and I don’t like disruptions.”
“I know. I’ve been watching you for three days.”
“Right. The watching thing.” Julian’s smile widened fractionally. “We should probably establish that as generally not acceptable behavior going forward.”
“Noted.”
“But I’m willing to explore this. The fated mates situation. With clear parameters and open communication.”
Every shadow in Cillian’s body surged toward Julian. He gripped the edge of the table to keep himself contained. “Yes. Whatever parameters you need.”
“Good.” Julian flipped to a new page in his notebook. “Then let’s start with the basics. Tell me about yourself,Cillian. And I’ll tell you about me. Like normal people having coffee.”
Cillian looked at this impossible human - this beacon who had looked at his darkness and seen something worth keeping - and felt something he’d thought lost to him eons ago… Hope.
“I am approximately four thousand years old,” he began. “I have seventeen documented kills in the past month alone. I own three identical Armani suits from 1987 that I haven’t bothered to replace because I don’t understand modern fashion. I have been utterly obsessed with you since the moment you told me to use the dumpster three streets over.”
Julian’s full smile was as bright and beautiful as the man himself. “Perfect. See, we can do this. I’m twenty-eight. I have an eidetic memory and moderate social anxiety. I’ve been suspended from my job for being too accurate. I named mysucculent Gerald because it looks like it might finally live now that it’s out of that oppressive environment in the office. And…and…I think you might be the first person who’s ever really made sense to me.”
“We’re going to be magnificent together,” Cillian said.
“That’s a hypothesis I’m willing to test,” Julian agreed.
Chapter Seven
Three days after the coffee shop conversation, Julian heard a knock on his door at precisely 6:45 p.m.
He’d expected it. Cillian had texted that morning - a single message that read,I would like to take you to dinner. May I collect you at 6:45?
Julian had spent fifteen minutes appreciating the proper use of “collect” instead of “pick up,” then responded,Yes. Where are we going?
Somewhere you will enjoy.
Not helpful, but Julian appreciated that Cillian was trying to be romantic rather than pragmatic. He’d dressed in dark jeans, and a forest-green sweater Patricia had once said made him look “approachable, for once,” which Julian had interpreted as a compliment despite her tone suggesting otherwise.
The knock came again. Two measured raps.
Julian opened the door.
Cillian stood in the hallway, wearing one of his identical dark suits, a charcoal one with a barely there pinstripe. His hair was pushed back from his face, and his eyes - those impossible pools of shifting darkness - fixed on Julian with an intensity that sent Julian’s heart rate into the moderately elevated zone.
