Page 27 of Unrequited

“Aye,” he says. “You think you can walk on your own, lass?”

I glance at him, playful. “You offering to carry me again?”

His eyes sparkle. “My god, yer so fuckin’ cute,” he says, shaking his head.

Then he’s distracted for a second, talking to someone on the phone, low and clipped.

“Go within the hour,” he says into the receiver. “Before the game’s over. Don’t ask me again, McGekrin. You heard my answer.”

A pause.

“Right. Go. Call me.”

He ends the call and slides his phone into his pocket. Then leans in close to me, his blue eyes piercing mine.

And that damn dimple again.

“You hungry, lass?”

I nod, the fog lifting. The drugs are wearing off, and I feel it now. I’m so damn hungry. Hollowed out.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “Starving.”

As we approach the building, he nods at an elderly neighbor with a cane, and the man smiles and greets him back as if Seamus isn’t dangerous. As if he didn’t just kill someone tonight.

And when we reach the entryway of the building, there’s a woman trying to balance a baby on one hip and an armful of grocery bags on the other.

“Here, I’ve got it,” he says softly, taking the door with one hand and the grocery bags with the other. And my heart melts.

He’s exactly the kind of guy who would hit the news because of something terrible he did, and the neighbors would all say, “But he was the nicest man!”

He’s strong. Dangerous. But still a gentleman. I love that about him. I love everything about this man. I know it’s a schoolgirl crush, and I’m well aware of my foolish heart. I know I’m infatuated, maybe even delusional.

But right now? Right now, I enjoy it. My god, Isavorit.

And our secret relationship? It feels so good to have something of my own. Something I don’t have to share with my family. Something that’s mine, justmine.

I wonder if he feels the same?

So I watch him help his neighbor inside with the groceries, and I take note.

If there are bodyguards nearby, they’re damn good at discretion because I don’t see any.

And if anyone in this building is afraid of him, they hide it well.

He seems liked. Trusted, even, which doesn’t add up. But nothing about him ever really does.

Even if this persona of his is just a front or a cover, the interactions seem real. Genuine. And when he opens the door to his flat, I don’t know what I was expecting—but it sure as hell wasn’t this.

It’s simple. Stoic.

Clean, but lived in. There’s a stack of unopened mail on the counter, a single coffee cup abandoned in the sink. There’s a kind of old-school charm to it all. On the coffee table, a scattered pile of books, worn and used. Beside them, a notepad and a laptop.

It’s a studio apartment, compact and efficient.

His bed is tucked in the corner, across from the television. A dark-green comforter that’s thick and sleek. One single nightstand with a clock and a half-full glass of water. Nothing extravagant. Nothing that screams “Killer.”

And yet…