Page 36 of Unreasonably Yours

Even so, if the only thing I can do right now is be present, I will. However, I will not be someone’s dartboard.

Cillian empties his glass and rises to refill it a third time. Before he takes a step, I latch onto his forearm with as much strength as I can muster. It manages to bring him to a stop, though I'm under no illusion that I'm actually holding him in place.

Stern eyes slide from my hand to my face, one dark brow raised in silent question .

“I know you're hurting.” He says nothing. “And I want to be here for you. But if you have an issue with me being here, I can go.” I leave out that if I do go, I will be texting his best friends before I’m even out the door.

He remains silent, pulls his arm away, and stalks to the bar.

I sigh, looking to the ceiling as if it holds some wisdom that will help me be of any use in this fucked situation.

The slam of the heavy-bottomed decanter slamming into the top of the buffet makes me jump, drawing my attention back to Cillian.

His hands are braced on the buffet, head hanging as he draws in slow, deep breaths. Beside him, his glass remains empty.

“You were supposed to stay in the car.” His voice is a restrained rumble.

“What?” I ask, genuinely unsure if I heard him correctly.

“The fucking car, Toni!” he snaps, frustrated, but I don’t sense any anger in the words. “You were supposed to stay there. To stay out of—away from anything.”

“Cillian,” I keep my voice calm, “your mom and aunt?—”

“It wasn't safe. You weren't—” A fissure sounds in his voice as a shiver shakes his broad frame. “None of you were.”

“It was a bad situation.” I try to soothe.

He shakes his head. “If you'd all just listened!” He slams a palm against the buffet, crystal shaking.

“It wouldn't have changed anything.”

He scoffs. “And if it had been different?” He spins to face me, eyes burning with something I don’t think is anger but can’t quite clock.

“If he hadn't—If...” Cillian runs a hand across his face, pacing to the bookshelf and back to the doors.

“If he'd come out armed or swinging, what then, Toni? What if something—If he—If you...”

Fear. It hits me all of a sudden. It isn’t anger. He was, hell, is afraid. My heart twists .

“Fuck!” His fist slams into the brick of the fireplace with a painful thud. My whole body tenses, muscle memory more than anything, because despite his actions, I don’t feel threatened. He lets his hand fall away, a tiny speck of red smearing the white painted bricks.

“Cillian...” I slowly rise, but don't move toward him.

“You have to listen to me sometimes,” he says, voice again low.

He braces himself on the mantle, not turning to face me as he speaks.

“I know this was different. I know you were doing what you thought was best. I just... I need to know you'll listen because if I...” His shoulders shake with a swallowed sob, and I can’t keep my distance any longer.

I lay a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugs me off, stepping away toward the corner.

“Don't.” He shakes his head, hand again rubbing across his face. “I need you to understand. I...” He looks to the ceiling, the window, the floor—anywhere but at me.

“You what, Cillian?”

“That I am not ok!” His eyes are wild, desperate.

“Of course you—” I stop my forward motion at his gesture to remain back.

“No. Not this. Not just this.” He leans his back into the corner, letting his head thud painfully against a shelf of books.

“What happened today could have been me.” I open my mouth to protest, but he cuts me off.

“It almost was me. And...” He swallows hard.

“There are still days...That it's hard.

It's so hard.” His face contorts as he fights back tears.

His eyes lock on the curtains. “Days that I'm not...I'm not here. I'm not me.” When he looks back at me, I feel like someone is ripping my sternum open. “It's too much. I-I'm too?—”

“You are not too much,” I say with all the conviction I can muster.

“You don't get it. I am fucked up, Toni. The shit in my head...this isn't just 'oh, I don't put the laundry up,' kinda fucked.” It's a statement meant to push me back, but it's weak at best. He gestures to his chest. “It's ‘I may not be safe to be around’ kinda fucked. I could?—”

“I'm going to stop you right there, because I need you to hear me.” I pause for protest, but he doesn't issue any. “I promise you, I will listen to you. I'll always listen and take you seriously. But Cillian,” I meet his eyes, squaring my shoulders, “I will not let you be a threat to me.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but I don’t let him.

“I’m not done. I knew how to scent violent men before I could spell my own name.” Concern flickers on his brows. “I need you to trust that I know when to run. It's hard-wired in me. And if I ever for one second thought you were a threat to me, I wouldn't be here.”

I take a half step toward him and then another, slowly closing the distance between us.

“And I'll gladly hold space to talk about safety, and what will make you feel comfortable.

But Cillian, right now, I think you're just using that to avoid what happened today.

Because it was awful and it shook you and you're scared.” His eyes squeeze shut.

I cup his cheek cautiously, expecting him to pull away, but he doesn't.

“And that makes sense. And I know you wanted to keep me from it. But I was there, and I'm here now, and you're not alone with this.”

A tremor rocks through him. He holds my hand against his. “And I'm not going anywhere right now. So stop trying to push me away. I'm incredibly stubborn, so you will not win.”

He huffs, almost a laugh, but on its heels comes a small sob.

It’s as if that one sound sucked his strength away because he sinks to the floor, back pressed into the corner.

I kneel before him, unsure how to offer comfort to a hurt so vast. With a hand on his knee, I say, “I'm here.”

A brutal sob racks through him, and my hesitation flees. He pulls me into him, and I settle into his lap. I do my best to gather as much of him into me as I can, my legs around his hips, holding him tight as he weeps against my chest.

“I've got you.” I realize how many times he’s said those words to me in the short time we’ve known one another, how many times he’s been willing to carry me literally and figuratively.

Rubbing his back and stroking his hair, I repeat it like a mantra, like a prayer. Begging him to trust me enough to let me carry some of his burden for a little while.