Page 25 of Unreasonably Yours

Toni

“Let's get you to bed,” Cillian says as he returns from the kitchen.

“I wish that sounded sexy.”

He grins, kneeling in front of me. “Don't think I'm not tempted, but sleep will get you better faster than my cock will.”

“You never know.” God, I hope my blush will be attributed to the fever. “Endorphins are powerful things.” My body calls my bluff, choosing to hack up the remaining parts of my lungs.

“Come on. Bed.” He extends a hand, pulling me up.

He pauses at the door to my room, looking from my mattress on the floor to me. “Toni, why don't you have a bed frame?”

“I do,” I say dismissively, plopping onto my mattress.

“Is it invisible?” he asks, crossing his arms.

“Hiding.” I motion over my shoulder to the box in the corner. “I also have all the furniture a well-adjusted adult should own. It just happens to be in pieces.” I'm sure if I felt less like roadkill, I'd feel more shame at that statement, but I’m simply too tired to care.

Cillian rubs his beard. “Can you nap on the couch?” He asks, looking from the frame to the rest of the chaos of my bedroom.

“Why?”

“Yes or no.”

“Yes?”

He nods. “Good. Come on.”

“Why?” I ask, batting away his proffered hand.

“Because I'm gonna put your bed together.”

“No.” My whole body bristles at the thought. Letting him warm me up some soup and toss my trash was bad enough.

“Why not?”

“Because—” another coughing fit racks my body.

He disappears into the living room, reappearing with water in hand. I take it but don't thank him, still prickling at the idea of him assembling my long-ignored furniture. “Because I don't need you to.” I could take care of it, I just hadn't.

“Yes, I am aware you don't need me to do anything for you.” He holds his hand out once more, letting it hang. “If it makes you feel better, I like putting things together.”

“What are you, some kind of carpenter?”

“Technically, yes. I worked in construction for a while before taking over the bar.” I glare up at him, trying not to imagine him covered in sawdust. “But I'm guessing this is more of a hex wrench situation. Which I'm also proficient in.”

He meets my scowl, unfazed.

“You're not going to let it go, are you?”

“No.”

“Fine.” I take his hand, and he pulls me up and into him. He tilts my chin up. “Just the bed.”

“Sure. ”

I want to keep pushing, but the soup and medicine have already begun combining forces, making my limbs and lids feel heavy. “You're the worst.”

“I know.” His lips tenderly brush over mine. “And just think, if I lose our bet, I'm only making my job harder in the long run.”

I roll my eyes to mask how the thought of my winning that bet feels a whole lot like losing. It wasn't like I knew what would come next. When I tried to think of a future outside of this place...

He tucks a wild curl behind my ear, “Lie down and I'll take care of this.”

“Can I at least move the laun?—”

“Antionette,” he takes my face between his broad palms, squishing my cheeks a bit, “you might be the most stubborn woman I have ever met, and that is saying something. Go. Lie. Down.”

It takes me about three minutes to fall asleep on the couch. Hard.

A couple of hours later, Cillian's soft singing tugs me back toward consciousness. I don't immediately move to get up or even open my eyes. His voice washes over me, beautiful and warm.

Just like him. As if in protest, a cough breaks through my comfort.

The singing stops, and Cillian appears at my side. “Hey.” He gently pushes a few stray curls from my forehead. “How're you feeling?” Those steady green eyes study me.

Too beautiful. The way his eyes seem to suck in the light, causing them to glow like precious gemstones.

“Maybe a little better,” I rasp, throat ragged from sleep and coughing.

He nods, “That's good.” The corners of his mouth tick up, crinkling the fine lines at the corner of his eyes in a way that causes my heart to do things I should likely seek medical attention for.

Fuck.

“I'm gonna make you some tea.”

That's surprising enough to pull me from my hazy stupor. “Tea?”

“Yes. Tea.”

“You brought tea into my home?”

He rolls his eyes. “I did. And you're going to drink it.”

“I do have boundaries.”

“And I'll respect most of them.” He stands, forcing me to roll onto my back in order to glare at him. “Humor me.”

I sigh, too tired to argue further.

I snooze a bit more, the music and the sounds of him in the kitchen a surprisingly powerful lullaby.

The record finishes as he steps back in with two large steaming mugs. “Any requests?” He asks.

“Anything you'll sing to,” I blurt, cheeks heating.

Cillian pauses, looking over his shoulder, a crooked little smile on his lips. “Was I singing?” I nod. “I hope that didn't wake you.”

“It was a nice way to wake up.”

He chooses a Hozier album, swaying a bit with the opening notes wafting through the room.

“Hozier fan?” I ask, remembering the band had covered several of his songs when I saw them play. I sit up, making space for him on the other side of the couch.

“Yeah.” He takes the seat, his back against the arm, and passes me a mug. “The man writes great music.”

I breathe in the steam billowing from the tea. Instead of the tannic notes I expected, a warm spiced scent cuts through my congestion. “Oh.” I take another breath. “That smells kinda good actually.”

Cillian watches in anticipation as I take a wary sip. Honey and cinnamon and ginger and other things I can't quite clock soothe their way down my throat.

“And?” He asks.

“You win.” I take another sip. “This isn't bad.”

“But not great,” he teases.

“Not bad is the highest praise I can give tea.” I sip once more, trying to suss out the contents entirely and failing. “What is it?”

“A turmeric blend. I had it the last time I was under the weather, worked wonders.”

“I could use a wonder.” Despite the warm tea, I shiver.

Cillian shifts a bit, holding out an arm. “Come here.” It doesn't take any convincing for me to cuddle up to his warmth.

Once I'm settled, blanket wrapped around us both, my back fitting easily against his broad chest, he holds his mug next to mine. “To wonders.”

I can't help the broad smile that bursts across my face. “Sláinte.”

We slip into an easy quiet. He hums along with the music for a few bars, the vibration soothing, before he begins to sing.

“Are you sure you're not some kind of man-siren?” I ask, the record spinning into silence. I'd been holding his free hand, studying the ink on his knuckles. He wore rings so often I rarely saw the words— Hell Bent —spelled out across his fingers.

He snorts, “That's giving me too much credit.”

“It's not.” I shift a bit to be able to look at him. “I saw you on stage, remember? You sing and people can't help but listen.”

He rolls his eyes.

“False humility isn't a good look on anyone.”

“It's not humility.” He takes my empty mug in his free hand, setting them both on the windowsill behind the couch. “I know where I stand is all.”

“Did you ever want to do more with it? Really pursue something?” I feel him tense behind me.

Rather than push him for more, I offer something of myself.

“I never let my art be plan A. That was a path for people with a safety net. So it always got pushed to the back burner. A show here, a mural gig there, but never something I let myself commit to.” I pause.

“I think that's why it was easy to let David convince me it didn't matter.”

“I'll say it again, he's an idiot. Your work is stunning.”

I shrug, letting the back of my head fall onto his shoulder. “Stunning isn't enough.”

“Neither is being able to carry a tune.”

“Oh, come off it. You're good with instruments, you've got stage presence, that voice, you could've... I don't know.”

“Been a rockstar?” He asks with a hint of levity.

“Why not?”

“Maybe in a different life.”

“Scholarship domino?”

“Yeah.” He sighs as I tangle our fingers together. “Maybe the version of me who did the Berklee thing would've tried to make a career of it.”

After a few beats, I nudge, “But?”

“But, first month of senior year, Lucy and I got caught with some other kids stealing a car.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah,” he laces his fingers between mine. “My uncle helped us dodge the felony, but it still cost me that full ride. And being a dumb kid, I thought it was the end of the world.” He takes a moment before continuing. “I decided to drop out, get my GED, and enlist.”

My stomach twists. I move my back against the couch while still being in Cillian's lap, needing to take him in. “Wait, how old were you?”

“Seventeen,” he says.

“You were a baby.” A lump rises in my throat.

He huffs something too sad to be a laugh.

“My mom would agree. But no one could tell me that, and my cousin—who I thought was the coolest motherfucker I'd ever met—was in the army...” He swallows hard, “Joey told me it would be the easiest way to get outta Boston and get my degree.” His gaze shifts down to our entangled hands.

“And I believed him like the dumb kid I was.”

Since meeting Cillian, I'd struggled to understand how someone like him ended up in a war zone. Not only because he didn't look the part, but there was a gentleness to him, something at the core of who he was that didn't align with 'soldier' to me. Now I understood.

Faces of people from my hometown flash through my mind.

Like Cillian, they'd believed in the promise of something better, something bigger, too young to wonder what the price really was.

From the sidelines of social media, Belle and I had watched as obituaries rolled in over the years, losses to a machine I'd assumed mostly targeted poor kids in towns like ours.

Realizing just how wrong I was is harrowing.

“How long were you in the army?” I ask.

“Marines,” he corrects. “Eight years.” He releases a shaky breath. “It's kind of ironic that by the time I got out, the last thing I wanted to do was play music much less get a fucking degree in it.”

“What changed?”