Breathe

Chapter 8

Lucie

"Is he ready yet?" I asked for approximately the five-thousandth time. Cian and I had been seated at the bottom of the Hornes' grand staircase for what felt like an hour now, checking our watches and impatiently tapping our toes. The sun was setting now, slumping down behind the trees, darkness slipping over the sky like a mask. "A shower. He said he was taking a shower. And he's a guy—you know, they aren't supposed to take this long."

At that comment, Cian's eyes slid to mine, an unasked question in the lift of his eyebrow. He smirked and checked his watch again. "If I know my brother at all," he muttered, "he's probably trying to talk himself out of it. But he can't, and he knows he can't. He's such an idiot."

I grunted, leaning my chin into my hands and beginning to nibble at my nails—which were already tiny nibs. "I agree."

"This isn't a bad decision, right?"

It was almost silent in the foyer, save for the air conditioning as it kicked in, the fleeting songs of birds beyond the front door. The lights were dim, the chandelier a dark monolith of overlapping glass, a shadow above our heads. Only the lamp on the dresser beneath the hall mirror was lit—a small circle of gold in a square of black. When I glanced at Cian, his eyes were just as dark, dimmed both by the shadows around him and by the apprehension twisted into his expression. He asked again, "We're not putting him in danger?"

I bit my lip, observing the outline of Cian's profile, an image I knew like the back of my own hand by now. Looking at him was like seeing myself, or at least everything I wanted to be, wanted to have. "He's a kid," I said, and saw Cian jolt a little, for a reason unknown to me. "I know it doesn't feel like it, but he's still so...young. He should be able to do everything the average youth can, don't you think?"

"He's not the average youth. The average youth hasn't been Casper the friendly ghost for two years."

I couldn't suppress a smile. Casper—Vinny hated that name more than he did his middle one, which is saying something. "I know you've been protecting him for as long as you can remember, but protecting him also means letting him go a little."

There was nothing but silence from Cian's direction. He'd changed nothing about himself for tonight—was still clothed in his faded pair of gray jeans and frayed black hoodie, the strings horribly uneven. His hair was mussed and untouched by gel, a brush, all of the above, and the laces of his shoes were strung with mud. That was Cian for you, though. He didn't care unless he was forced.

I was alright with that, as I was similar.

For a moment I just listened to him breathing; it was a peaceful noise, one I'd learned to meditate on and draw comfort from and fall asleep with. Then, as if he knew that it was going to tear my breath from my lungs, he turned. We had already been sitting close enough that our thighs were touching, so when he faced me, his nose was inches from my own, strands of hair centimeters away from my forehead, our lips just one quick decision from meeting. He gazed at me through the blond strokes of his eyelashes. "I hate that."

"What?"

"That you're always right," he clarified, smiling at me.

"Is it that I'm always right or you're just always really, really, wrong?"

The smile morphed into a smirk, an expression Cian's face was never far from. An expression stored in the back of my head at all times, accessed in daydreams or behind shut eyes. "Is there a difference?"

"I imagine there must be."

"Right again, muffin."

He chuckled, and I tasted his laughter on the tip of my tongue. He moved forward an inch, close enough that I thought a kiss was coming, but a voice separated us: "Do you guys even think about how weird this is for me?"