Page 26 of Unreasonably Yours

“The school thing never did—sitting in a room while people tell you how to create sounds miserable—but playing...I don't know.” I let the silence hang, giving him space to find the words. “Time, I think. I needed time to come back to it, to let myself find joy in it again.”

“I'm glad you were able to find your way back to it.”

“Me, too.”

Words don't feel sufficient, so I press a kiss to his knuckles and rest my temple on his shoulder. Cillian nuzzles his nose into my hair, and we allow the silence to hold us for a few moments.

“How are you feeling?” He asks, voice soft as though he doesn't want to break the serenity.

“Better, actually.” My skin had lost the static ache of fever, and my lungs seemed a little less insistent on exiting my body.

Cillian rests his palm on my forehead and moves to press the back of his hand to the side of my neck. “You don't feel as warm.” His lips brush my hair. “Why don't you hop in the shower, and I'll heat you up some more soup.”

“I don't know if I should be offended by that suggestion.”

He chuckles. “Come on.”

The shower is life-altering, made even better by the shower-melt thing Cillian brought.

I linger, letting the steam soak into my pores, scrubbing my skin pink.

Honestly, I take so long I almost feel bad for leaving Cillian alone.

That is, until I come out of the bathroom to find him vibing to a record, completely content on my couch, all the blankets neatly folded, setting his mug of tea on a freshly assembled coffee table.

Admonishing him will clearly do nothing, so I opt to shake my head in dramatic disapproval as I pass by, shutting my bedroom door behind me.

“Soup is ready,” he calls, amusement coloring his voice.

I almost quip something back at him about not wanting soup, but the words get stuck behind the lump in my throat that forms the moment I see a familiar silk robe on my bed. My knees feel less stable than usual, and my heart beats that concerning rhythm again.

Maybe I'd stroke out right here and not have to deal with how fucking considerate this and every goddamn thing he's done today has been. I force myself to take several breaths, as deep as I can in the circumstances, and change.

“I'm going to need you to stop being so nice.” The silk of the robe is soothing against my skin.

Cillian grins, setting two bowls on the coffee table. “Don't worry, I'm sure I'll be an asshole in the future.” I was beginning to seriously doubt that.

“Where is my former coffee table?” I ask as I take a seat.

“Over there,” he thumbs to the collection of other half-unpacked boxes on the other side of the room. “Figured this would be better than a slowly collapsing box.”

“Maybe I liked my collapsing box.”

“Is that the aesthetic? Cardboard fort chic?”

“Unstable-core is all the rage.” I tuck my legs under me as Cillian joins me.

We enjoy our soup and more of that incredibly good baguette for a few songs before he asks. “Why haven't you unpacked?”

The spoon freezes halfway to my mouth. My nervous system malfunctioning at even considering the answer to his simple question.

This was why I didn't want to let him, or anyone else, in here.

Outside of these walls, I could perform the role of someone who knew, at least a little, what she was doing.

In here, the hurricane was impossible to ignore; in here it was all too clear what David meant when he said I was unreasonable.

“You really wanna know?” I ask.

Cillian rests a warm hand on my exposed thigh. “You don't have to tell me.” God, I needed him to stop being so...him .

“I'm fucking terrified.” Tears burn at the backs of my eyes, and I manage to blink them back, swallowing down a few spoonfuls of soup as a distraction.

“Of what?”

I snort something like a laugh, keeping my eyes on my bowl. “Everything.” I move a carrot around my bowl for several long moments until Cillian takes it away, setting it beside his own unfinished soup on the coffee table.

The table that he built for me.

My teeth sink into my lip, hard enough to sting.

“Hey,” he coos, reaching over and pulling my lip free. “It's ok.”

“Is it?” I snap. I tuck myself as far as possible into the corner of the couch, needing distance from his tenderness.

“Because I'm not an expert, but I do think living out of boxes for several months—not because you want to but because you can't manage to bring yourself to do anything about them—is sort of not ok.”

He doesn't react, just leans back agains the opposite arm of the couch, voice level. “I think you may be being a little hard on yourself.”

I scoff, “You would.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you're too fucking nice and...stable and well adjusted,” I spit out like an accusation.

The rest falls out of my mouth in a torrent.

“It means I'm an asshole for coming within six feet of you because I'm a goddamn hurricane of a person, and you don't deserve to be in the path of my disaster.”

My chest aches. I'd been holding that in for the last two months, pushing it away, letting myself get comfortable around this man and the life he'd welcomed me into. But I couldn't keep letting this continue without being honest .

“Who made you believe that?” The severity of Cillian's tone forces me to meet his eyes.

“Experience,” I admit. One only had to look at my history to see it. Constantly in motion, never settling. Well, until David...

“Bullshit,” he rumbles, expression hard. “That's something someone sold you.”

“Maybe.” I shrug, feeling the fervor from my earlier outburst fade, replaced with a heaviness that seems to weigh me down. “Doesn't mean they're wrong.”

How do you function? That was the first thing David had asked when he saw my studio space in the apartment I'd been living in for about two years.

What's the point? The question was asked when I'd said I didn't really intend to sell my art.

Hurricane Toni strikes again. Any time I did almost anything he disagreed with.

“Look at me.” Cillian reaches for me, cupping my cheeks.

“There is a difference between a disaster and a force of nature.” His expression is intense, laced with determination and something softer.

“You are a force, not a disaster. And if some people are too stupid to realize that, it's their shortcoming. Not yours.”

Speechless.

I am, for possibly the first time in my life, rendered truly speechless. Devoid of words, all I can manage is to sit here, slightly slack-jawed.

“I...” He rubs his beard, pulling back. “I just...You deserve to see yourself the way—” He cuts himself off, sighing before looking back at me. “You deserve to see yourself as you are, and not through the lens of someone who's trying to make you feel smaller for their own sake.”

My hold over the emotions that have been threatening to pour out of me since Cillian showed up on my doorstep this afternoon finally slips. Tears spill down my cheeks. A small sob breaks through before I can catch it.

“Toni.” In a split second, he closes the space between us, calloused fingers delicately brushing the tears away. “I didn't mean to?—”

I shake my head, words tumbling out. “No. No. It's not—You. You're wonderful. And that was possibly the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.” I try to get myself to stop but only manage a choked cry. “I'm not, I don't usually—” I cover my mouth.

Without another word, Cillian gathers me in his arms, cradling me against his chest. All better judgment flees me, and I cling to him. “I've got you. Let it out, doll.”

And I do. I give myself over to the tears. Letting all the stress, fear, and anxiety that built up over the last several months out.

Cillian doesn't shush me or try to feed me empty platitudes. In fact, he doesn't say anything at all. He just holds me, an immovable object for my storm to crash against.

When my crying slows, he pulls me upright, tissue ready to dry my tears.

“I'm pretty sure I got snot on your shirt.” I take a stuttering breath. “Sorry.” The gentle warmth in his face almost brings on a new wave of tears.

“Doll, I've had far worse things on my shirt. Don't worry about it.” He holds up the tissue box, and I take a couple, trying to gather the shattered pieces of my dignity. His broad hand runs up and down my back.

“Fuck,” I sigh. “I'm sorry, I promise I'm not always an emotional basket case.”

“Everyone gets to be a basket case sometimes.”

I force a sardonic laugh. “I have a hard time seeing you break down because someone said something nice to you.”

Cillian laughs. “Look, whatever you perceive as—what did you say—stable and well adjusted, is one part a front and several parts years of therapy.” He brushes an errant tear from my cheek. “Trust me, my fault lines are the size of the fucking Grand Canyon.”

“People really like the Grand Canyon.”

“It's still just a giant hole in the ground.”

I roll my eyes.

He pecks a kiss on the tip of my reddened nose.

I let my cheek rest against his chest, a wave of exhaustion washing over me.

Some time later, he coaxes me awake with tender care.

“Let's get you in bed.”

I sleepily nod.

Cillian leads me to my room and slips the robe off my shoulders. He picks one of my ancient sleep shirts from the laundry he'd folded earlier, sliding it over my head.

Half asleep and emotionally drained, I am out of any fucks that may have prevented the next words from coming out of my mouth. “Will you stay? Just—” I yawn. “Just for a little bit?”

Cillian smiles, kissing me softly. “I'll stay as long as you like.”

Forever, a traitorous part of me whispers. I ignore it.

Cillian strips to his boxers and slides into bed next to me, pulling me into the broad warmth of his chest. My hand rests over his heart, fingers grazing the jagged circular scar.

I fall asleep to the steady beat of his heart beside me and dream of the Grand Canyon.