the 411

The camera finds Enobaria Talenn first, whilst Caesar dives into a reverential retelling of her greatest triumphs. Enobaria sits between Gloss Golding and Brutus Canin, listening half-heartedly as Gloss shows off his freshly dyed hair - now platinum blond. As per usual, Districts One and Two have both of their tributes in the top seven. Caesar spins the usual rhetoric - deadly rivalries and reluctant allies. Enobaria reaches forwards to pick up a vol-au-vent from the array of brightly coloured desserts and decadent delicacies strewn across a table nearby. Taking a bite, her mouth opens long enough for the cameras to hone in on the newly sharpened fangs she's sporting.  “Oooh, would you look at that!” Caesar's hands clap together in glee, as he speculates about Enobaria’s new look. Moving on to his next star, the cameras pan to Finnick Odair - lounging casually amongst a group of Capitol women. His sea swept, sandy locks fall over his forehead, as he laughs at something an obnoxiously neon woman said. District Four is still making a name for itself as a Career district. It had successfully secured two victors in the last eight Games, Finnick being one of them. Another win would certainly cement their position amongst the pack. As Finnick schmoozes the Capitol elite, laughing at their jokes and taking bites of desserts they feed him, Caesar quips that his tributes won't be lacking in sponsors. Sitting in the corner, slumping over a half-empty glass of amber liquid, is Haymitch Abernathy. Sullen and looking as though he'd prefer to be anywhere else, Haymitch gulps down his drink. Beside him, Cashmere Golding inspects the nearly empty bottle sitting on the table. Haymitch doesn't often engage with these parties; however, this year he's more than an onlooker, he's part of the circus. For the first time in ten years, a tribute from District Twelve has made it into the top seven.  Despite this record, Caesar doesn't spend much time on Haymitch, preferring to push his more outrageous Career rivalry theories. He is far too engrossed in dissecting a suspected eye-roll from Enobaria that had “absolutely been directed at Finnick”.

✮ thank you for making it this far ✮

It began with a few missed calls here, some late responses there. Each time, he brushed it off, put it down to you being busy. Sure, it wasn't like you had anywhere to be. Your parents were permanently on vacation. Your house, only a few minutes from his, was empty. But each time you “forgot” your phone was on silent, or “left” it somewhere, Rafe begrudgingly concluded that you were busy.

What didn't help was that he spoke to Topper about it. In hindsight, he wasn't even sure why he'd spoken to Topper of all people. It had all spilled out after a few too many beers, a habit he really needed to get on top of. Topper's suggestion was to “increase his reach”, which was Kook for “spying”. Rafe didn't want to get into the habit of listening to advice from Topper of all people.

That didn't stop him from leaving an airtag in your car the day you'd driven your friends to the beach. He'd slipped it between the seats whilst you'd been busy helping Sarah organise the bags in the back.

On reflection, he didn't feel too great about it. He'd had it out with Topper just the other day about tracking Sarah's phone. Was this really any different?

He told himself it was.

Recently, he'd gotten into the habit of telling you everything. It didn't matter what time of night it was, if he had something to get off his chest he knew where to go - whose phone to ring. You did the same. One minor inconvenience became a six hour phone call until the light started peeking through the curtains. It was almost a daily occurrence most weeks.

Apart from these sets of three hours on a Friday and Sunday when he couldn't get hold of you.

He knew he was overreacting; it was probably nothing. Even so, he wasn't going to lose much sleep over leaving an airtag in your car.

It was on one sweltering Friday afternoon that Rafe decided it wasn't totally a bad idea to increase his reach.

He'd spent the entire day with his friends on Kelce’s new boat. Kelce had been showing it off with an infuriatingly smug expression, the kind he got whenever something expensive was involved. Despite Kelce's freshly inflated ego, Rafe was pretty relaxed. The conversation was easy (it was mostly him listening to Kelce and Topper), and the sun felt nice against his skin.

He'd not spoken to you much that day, save for some texts in the morning. That wasn't exactly unusual for you two, especially when he was with his friends and you were out with yours. You’d both been pretty closed off before your relationship, leaving you far too used to your own company and independence. Some of your friends didn't understand it - Sarah was practically joined at the hip with John B. But that just wasn't how you and Rafe rolled. Honestly, it didn't matter what anyone else thought, it worked.

The light was beginning to fade into early evening by the time he checked his phone, bathing the ocean in soft pinks and oranges. There was a missed call from Ward which he suspected he should probably follow up. His thumb hovered over the phone icon, ready to have his day ruined by his father's voicemail, when Topper interrupted.

“She texted you yet?” He grinned, a teasing edge to his voice.

Rafe quirked a brow, eyes barely leaving his screen as he gave an imperceptible shake of his head. Topper's comment struck a chord, and his eyes drifted to your name in his call log. It didn't sit right with him that Ward had called him more times today than you had.

“Don't appear too eager to speak to each other,” Topper jeered, in that infuriating patronising tone. Like Topper was some kind of expert on relationships. As if his so-called “wisdom” stemmed from anything more than Reddit forums and reels made by disgruntled fifteen year olds. Apparently, when it came to yours and Rafe's relationship, Topper preached like he'd been gifted divine guidance on Mount Sinai. If Rafe rolled his eyes at every one of Topper's insights, he was pretty sure his eyes would roll out of his head…or he'd get a really bad cramp or something.

He didn't much fancy proving his relationship to Topper of all people, but he also felt the overwhelming need to defend you. Topper's comments felt targeted, like he was docking an arrow and lining it up. As if he had any right to comment on anything other than being mediocre at golf.

“Shut up, Top. We don't need to prove shit to you,” Rafe grumbled back, typing out a text to you as he spoke.

Topper crushed his empty beer can between his hands and chucked it over into the cooler. Settling back, he offered a small shrug. “Sure, sure. What do I know anyway?”

Finally, Rafe thought. This guy was starting to get it.

It took Topper all of thirty seconds to disprove Rafe's theory.

“I just mean like…why can't you get hold of her? Y’know?” Topper speculated, leaning back against the side of the boat. He gestured a hand to his chest, far more dramatically than necessary. “If my girlfriend disappeared for hours at time, and I couldn't reach her, well-”

“Yeah, I get the picture, thanks Top. Maybe I'm not as insecure as you are,” Rafe countered, shooting Topper a mildly threatening stare that undoubtedly said “back off”.

Despite Rafe's confident tone, Topper's words hit home once again. He would rather spend an afternoon listening to John B’s insufferable rambles about gold than admit to anyone that he felt insecure. But your persistent disappearances and the lack of communication was starting to get to him. He knew you probably didn't mean for it to look like it did, he knew that. He knew you. Even so, he just wanted to talk to you right now and figure this out.

His thumb moved easily across his screen, bringing up the airtag location. As soon as he saw it, his brows furrowed slightly in confusion. Your car was moving. Not worrying in itself, but the direction you were going had him intrigued. Why the hell were you driving towards some random neighbourhood he'd never been too?

Swiftly discarding all thoughts of Ward, Topper and Kelce, Rafe slipped his phone into his pocket and stood up. He made a few quick excuses, something about his dad needing him, and made his exit. The excuse was a weak one, but he couldn't care less what Topper thought right now.

The urge to push the speed limit was tempting, more than tempting. He followed the little blue dot like a hawk, getting more and more confused when he saw your car had stopped (he was close to admitting he was quite worried too). An attempted phone call ended in voicemail, and he cursed under his breath, adding turning up the ring volume on your phone to his mental checklist.

Soon his journey came to a halt in a rundown little neighbourhood. To his left ran a strip of blue and to his right sat a collection of small houses. The buildings looked one major storm away from falling down, with phone and electricity cables hanging from roof to roof like Christmas lights. Years of coastal air, scorching sun and salty rain had worn away any paint that had once adorned the walls.

Rafe could smell Pogue.

He wasn't too happy about leaving his freshly waxed truck out here, but the airtag was only a few metres away. Just around the corner. His foot lingered on the brake, as he contemplated parking up on the street or driving straight round into…into what? For the first time since hastily leaving Kelce's, Rafe actually thought about what he might find. Suddenly, he wasn't too sure if he'd like it. Maybe he should bring the baseball bat he'd left in his boot. No. No, you wouldn't be impressed if he came in swinging that around like someone picking a fight. Although, maybe he needed to pick a fight.

His feet seemed to choose their own path, and he found himself staring down at the back of his truck, empty save for the breakdown kit he kept there just-in-case. It seemed like you'd made that decision for him. He made another mental note to find where you'd hidden his bat later on.

First, he had to find you - which proved to be easier said than done. For such a tiny neighbourhood, it was strangely empty. The poorly-repaired tarmac road, blistering from the day's sun, burned through the soles of his shoes.

With each step, his mind started to run away. What if you'd been kidnapped? What if Carlos Singh had come back? What if this was some kind of sick, twisted set up? What if…God, it was too hot for this.

That's what you'd say. He'd start spiralling and you'd say “Rafe, I can smell burning,” in your usual offhanded way. The first time you'd come out with that one-liner, he'd paused his overthinking in pure confusion, looking around in search of flames. One look at your amused expression, eyes glinting in that knowing way, and he knew.

His chest burned, either from the heat or his rising panic. Reaching for his phone, he dialled your number again.

No response.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered under his breath. Rafe exhaled sharply through his nose. Feeling the panic setting in, he ran a hand over his buzzed hair and was about to dial again when a glimmer of white caught his eye. Turning sharply on his heel, he focussed his eyes to make out the shape of a white car. Your car. The sleek white Merc with the convertible roof.

It didn't look beaten up, it was as perfect as he’d last seen it. There was no sign of irresponsible driving. Just your car, parked neatly on the side of the road, as if you'd done it yourself. Which, he had to remind himself, you probably had.

Damnit, he needed to calm down.

All he wanted was to find you, get out of here, and spend the rest of the evening eating takeout in your arms. Instead, he was stuck looking for you in a ghost town. He was one abandoned-looking shack away from believing in ghosts.

As he rounded the corner, his ears picked up the faint sound of music wafting by on the light breeze. At the end of the street, was a slightly larger (or maybe just better looked after) cabin. Like the other buildings, its green paint was sun-bleached and peeling off the walls. The roof looked shoddily repaired, but sturdy enough to keep from caving in. It looked like a lawsuit waiting to happen, though Rafe doubted that anyone around here was jumping to sue Big Property anytime soon.

Despite the appearance, it sounded as though the entire neighbourhood was in or around the cabin. He'd found the source of the music, it wasn't ghosts (or so he hoped). The low rumblings of conversation floated out from behind the cabin.

Cautiously, Rafe approached the hubbub. As he neared the cabin, he noticed figures moving around inside. Through the tattered bug screen, it looked like the backdoors were open, revealing a group of people gathered outside. Squinting, he tried to make you out amongst the crowd but to little avail. He had no choice but to enter the fray.

His plan was to enter quietly, around the side, drawing no attention, do a quick scout of the place and then go from there. That plan lasted about fifty seconds. The moment he rounded the side of the house, it was as though all eyes honed in on him.

Well, there goes that idea.

He scanned the gathering like a desperate animal in need of a lifeline. Please be safe, please be here. The words played in his head like a mantra. Attempting to salvage the situation, he cleared his throat to speak when a familiar voice cut through the interrogation.

“He's with me.”

Pale blue eyes found yours and the panic melted like ice cream in the sun. Rafe stood dumbfounded for half a second, before he gave a nod and moved towards you.

You were standing behind a large table decked out with heaps upon heaps of food and drinks. Paper plates and cups were stacked neatly on one side, enough for everyone gathered around. Catching Rafe's expression, you smiled and beckoned him closer. When he was within reaching distance, you grabbed his hand and gave it a light tug, pulling him over to your side.

“Hello stranger,” you said brightly, tilting your head back to look up at him.

Rafe quickly lost the confusion and replaced it with a mildly scolding glare. He wasn't ever one to beat around the bush. “What’s all this?” he asked with a frown.

You quirked an eyebrow, sparing a glance towards the people who'd gone back to minding their own business (or at least pretending to). “This,” you began, gesturing to the table, “is the Henshaw’s weekly food bank.”

Rafe's eyes seemed to follow your hand as you pointed out an older couple - Molly and Geoff Henshaw. The couple were in and amongst the group, handing out tupperware and boxes. Molly, with her bright green scarf and yellow earrings, dotted throughout the crowd like a bee hard at work. Geoff was happier shaking the hands of everyone who came in, and talking to a group of younger men playing instruments. A keen ear could just make out the soulful sound of Marvin Gaye underneath the jovial conversation.

“A weekly food bank,” he said slowly, as if the words were foreign on his tongue.

“Well, I mean, this is more of a potluck,” you clarified. “The Henshaw's organise it within the neighbourhood.”

“And you’re involved because…?” Rafe arched a brow, not quite understanding where the dots lined up or why his girlfriend was ditching him twice a week for a neighbourhood she wasn't even part of. He knew you had a charitable side, thought of others more than he did, but this was a big effort even for you.

You tucked your hair behind your ear, tidying up some napkins that had attempted to fly away. “Geoff worked for my dad, so I know Molly through him. She mentioned this and I offered to help out a little.”

Rafe nodded along as you spoke. Damn you and your kind heart. He sighed heavily, placing his arms around you and pulling you into a silent embrace.

Your smile softened as you recognised the quiet understanding in his actions. Rafe wasn't one for words, he struggled to articulate his feelings into coherent sentences even though he'd been making a real effort recently. This spoke volumes.

His lips pressed gently to the top of your head. “You could've mentioned it, y’know,” he mumbled softly, against your hair. “Had me worried.”

“You? Worried?” You say teasingly, as you pull back to smile up at him.

He squeezed your shoulders, his scolding tone struggling to hold up against your disarming smile. “You disappear twice a week, I can't get hold of you. A heads up would've been nice.”

Your teasing smile turned sheepish as you conceded that he had a point. Your communication wasn't exemplary; you both had things to learn about this whole relationship thing. Taking hold of one of his hands, you pressed an apologetic kiss to his knuckles. “It started as just a one-off, but I should've told you when it became a regular thing. I'm sorry,” you said, sincerely.

He shook his head slowly, eyes lighting up at your gentle kiss against his skin. “M’sorry for not just asking, and for assuming things,” he murmured quietly. “And…for tagging your car,” he added, in a whisper that was equal parts reluctant and guilty.

Your eyebrows shot up, and you gave him a small shove. Not enough to hurt him but enough to give him a good idea of how you felt about that little bombshell. “You little…” you didn't finish that sentence. Shooting him a stern glare instead, the smile tugging at your lips threatened to betray you.

Locating a pile of plates, you picked them up and pushed them into his chest. Rafe accepted them wordlessly, already knowing what you meant by the look on your face. With a sneaky wink that said “we're coming back to this later”, he obediently got to work handing out plates, leaving you shaking your head in amusement as you watched him. Whilst you spent the next hour handing out food, your eyes kept drifting back to Rafe, who looked more at ease now he was chatting to Molly and Geoff.

The pinks and oranges of sunset had long become deep blue, speckled with silvery stars, and as you watched Rafe break out his second full smile of the evening, you knew that whilst travelling these waters could be rocky at times you and Rafe would be more than fine.

✮ thanks for getting this far ✮

Saoirse spent a lot of time in the cold, her doctor seemed to think the cold was good for her. But she was quickly learning that her doctor thought far too much, maybe too much. Watching Edward pretend in earnest that he wasn’t cold had been somewhat amusing, but Saoirse couldn’t let him catch his death when he was making an effort to visit her home. Every visit after, the fires were prepared and the rooms warmed before his arrival.

Flames licked at the logs piled in the hearth, each flicker crackling and popping as the wood burned. Edward placed his book down gently, a yawn escaping his lips as he cast his eyes towards the dark night outside. A hand slowly rubbed down his face, before he looked over at Saoirse. She was bundled up on a nearby sofa, pencil in hand, her brows furrowed in concentration as she looked at the paper she'd braced against a book.

“What are you working on?” Edward's voice broke the silence, like a sailboat gliding through water. Smooth and gently curious like the vessel's venture into uncharted territory.

Her eyes remained fixed on the page, pencil tapping absent mindedly against the book. Tilting the page away from him, her hands pulled the paper a little closer to her chest.

The soft tap-tap-tap of wood against paper was a little distracting to Edward, but he did his best to ignore it. He didn't miss the way she attempted to hide the page, despite the distance between them. A slightly amused smile threatened to tug at his lips, as he shifted a little in his chair, sitting up straighter.

“I won't laugh,” he reassured her, resting his chin in his hand. His dark eyes watched as her grip on the paper loosened slightly.

Saoirse exhaled slowly through her nose, before sitting up from her cosy position on the sofa. Shifting over closer to him, she reached over to hand him the paper.

Their fingers brushed as he took it from her, and the sensation had him almost catching his breath. It was strange, he'd touched her before, brushed away her tears. Yet this, this small whisper of contact had his chest constricting in unfamiliar ways. He craved more of it, this feeling of missing the last step on the staircase, this strange yet exhilarating sensation of excitement coloured with trepidation.

His attention diverted back to the paper in his hands, taking in the grey markings across the cream parchment. For a moment, the shapes made little sense to him until it began to click into place. “Is this…a building?” He couldn't hide the surprise in his voice, as he took a closer look at the drawing.

Edward's fingers found the dial on the gas lamp, the brighter glow illuminating the finer details on the page. It revealed neat lines and precise scaling, drawn by Saoirse's own hand. Unmistakably, a building. Not one that Edward recognised from his own experiences of Dublin.

In terms of aesthetics, the building looked fairly modern, almost utilitarian in its design, without seeming oppressive. It wouldn't look out of place in Dublin, in fact it might be hailed as a remarkable feat of modern engineering. Which was why Edward was certain that, if such a building existed, he would've not only known about it, but would've been at the opening.

He tapped the paper with the tip of his index finger, inclining his head to look at Saoirse. “Where is this? Belfast?” He asked, equal parts intrigued and excited by this drawing.

His mind had immediately been transported to a meeting he'd had with Anne a few days ago, in which she'd been expressing her plans for worker housing. A building like the one drawn on Saoirse's paper was not only promising, but if it existed in Belfast already it was perfect. He could contact the architects, find out what materials had been used, where they'd been sourced from…his mind was running away with him a little, and in his distraction he missed Saoirse shaking her head.

“No, it's not in Belfast,” she murmured quietly, taking the paper back from his hands.

The action, coupled with her words, yanked Edward straight out of strategy-mode. He blinked slightly at his now-empty hand, as he registered what she was saying. Not in Belfast? A sinking feeling settled in his stomach as a realisation dawned on him. This building was probably some sort of American design she'd come across in her father's business dealings. The man had likely been sent American building plans in the hopes of his company furnishing them. The concept of requiring more of Cormac’s business contacts was an uncomfortable one for Edward, and settled heavily in his chest. He was already kicking himself for needing Cormac's American contacts in the first place, the cutting reminder of his own failings. Adding architects to the list wasn't something he particularly wanted to do.

It was then that he realised he must've looked lost in thought because, when he finally came to, Saoirse was giving him a strange look.

“You disappeared then,” she remarked - not unkindly, just curiously amused.

Amused. Well, that was certainly an emotion he'd rarely seen cross her face. It was enough to distract him from the brewing anxiety in his stomach. Edward nodded awkwardly, and pointed at the picture. “Sorry, my thoughts…ran away,” he murmured, a little embarrassed.

“Why are you sorry? You plan ahead, it must be a good skill to have in your position.”

The way she spoke to him, almost like she was seeing him, it was so unfamiliar to Edward. To feel understood by those around him. It was also strange to hear from her lips. The woman who, up until a week ago, had been little more than a silent figure in a memory he couldn't quite shake. The same woman who, he was slowly discovering, was much more than a silent figure.

Eager to steer the conversation away from himself, Edward gestured again to the picture in Saoirse's hands. “It's very good, what did you reference?”

The amusement was still there in her expression, he noticed, but now it had been joined by a new companion - something that looked almost akin to pride. Pride. Caught by the low flames from the hearth, glistening in the deep brown of her eyes. There was something else hidden there, something unmistakable to Edward - he saw it so often reflected in the mirror. The slight upturn to her lips, the set of her shoulders, hesitant but visible. There broke free the first shoots of ambition, long suppressed by illness and neglect, slowly unearthing from the depths of hibernation. The first colours of Spring.

“There is no reference. This is my building,” Saoirse said, her voice laced with hesitant pride.

Edward stared at her for what felt long enough to be considered impolite. He felt partially guilty that the notion had not even graced his mind.

“Your building? You designed that building? From your mind?” He wished he didn't sound so incredulous, it wasn't that he didn't believe her, it was that it felt ludicrous to him that this young woman, who rarely ventured into the world, had created something so intricate and expert.. “You designed that building,” he repeated quietly, almost to himself.

Saoirse nodded again, fingers tightening on the paper for a moment. He noticed, of course he noticed, he was too wired-in not to notice. Swallowing his disbelief, he held out his hand towards her. “May I see it again, please?”

His fingers traced the neat lines outlining the building, looking at it with new eyes. His sentiments towards the building were unchanged. It was practical, well-designed from the little he could see. A masterpiece belonging to the woman next to him. Edward shifted closer, conscious not to cause her discomfort. “Do you have more?” he murmured.

Words evaded Edward, as Saoirse opened the book on her lap to reveal an array of floorplans, sketches and measurements. Reaching out to take the papers, his eyes took in the floorplans eagerly, his grip on the paper borderline reverential.

A long exhale hissed through his teeth, as his mind comprehended the level of skill displayed in the drawings held in his hands. “How did you-? Where did you learn to do this?” Edward asked, slowly looking up from the paper and meeting her eyes.

Saoirse was rubbing her hands together, fingers rubbing over her knuckles out of habit. She watched intently as Edward's own fingers traced the lines of graphite on the paper, the movement oddly transfixing.

“My uncle is an architect. He visited often when…when my mother was alive. He does not visit much anymore, but he's who taught me about all this,” she explained, leaning back against the sofa and folding her legs underneath her.

Edward listened with a concentration that erred on studious. Every word was filed away, kept for later, building up his understanding of the woman that was his fiancée.

Her uncle, some unknown man from Belfast, who now lived in London and rarely returned to Ireland, was the one who'd inspired her passion for the art of buildings. It was strange, in some ways, discovering these little fragments of her life. He felt party to something secretive and intimate.

Carefully, as if handling fine china, he collated the papers and placed them together, handing them back to Saoirse. “They are incredible,” he murmured, his voice uncharacteristically acclamatory. “You're very skilled.

Saoirse smiled warmly, collecting the papers and carefully placing them back into the book. Giving a light shrug of her shoulders, she looked over at Edward. “You're the only person who's seen them,” she said, fondly.

His eyebrows rose, slightly. Just a small twitch, enough to let slip his surprise…and how touched he felt at being privy to something no other pair of eyes had seen. Edward shifted in his chair, just a little, a little closer to her.

It was surprising, for a number of reasons. Mostly, because Saoirse guarded secrets like a dragon guarding its hoard. Secrets that were slowly unfurling like petals after winter.

Logically, Edward told himself it was only a matter of time before such secrets came to light. A little deduction and he could estimate a guess as to why she hadn't shown anyone else. Who would she have told? Her father seemed to exist within a fragmented liminal space between Aran and Belfast. The vacuous upper echelons cared more for perfect pianoforte than precise penmanship. There was no one to admire her craft. Except now, there was him.

He debated for a moment, the words sticking in his throat, Arthur's voice resounding in his head.

“These plans stay in here, do not share them with anyone.”

One look at her face, watching the way her dark eyes lit up like striking a match, was enough to dislodge the words. “My sister's looking into a social housing initiative for the company,” Edward explained, the words tumbling out a little abruptly.

Saoirse furrowed her brows a moment, the dots joining up in her mind. Slowly, she pulled the crisp pieces of paper out of their resting place between the cover of her book and handed them back to Edward. “Here,” she declared softly, placing the drawings on his lap.

The moment the paper brushed the fabric of his trousers, Edward immediately started shaking his head. “No, Saoirse, I can't,” he stuttered, blundering in his attempt to pass her back the drawings. “They're yours, I can't take them,” he affirmed.

The firmness in Saoirse's gaze could've cut ice. “Don't be daft,” she insisted. “What good are they doing sitting in my book? At least you can have someone look at them, see if they're useful.”

He couldn’t fault her logic because she had a convincing point. The drawings didn’t serve anyone, if they never saw the light of day. One side of his family headed a steadily growing construction business; Anne had drawn up a few names to contact already. But, it never sat well with Edward to present ideas that weren't his own.

“What if I could have someone look at them? Would you come with me?” Edward asked, the idea suddenly forming in his mind.

Before he could think himself out of it, he turned to her and tapped the book. “Keep them,” he began, cutting her off with a raise of his finger when she opened her mouth to interject. “Keep them safe, and then you can bring them to our meeting.”

☘

With a swiftness only a man like Edward Guinness could demand, a meeting was drawn up for a week Friday. By the time it rolled around, Saoirse had all but talked herself out of it. When Edward arrived at Aran to take her to the brewery, he found her insisting that he go alone. Only, Edward wouldn't go alone. He was almost as stubborn as she was, and in the end her resolve caved before his.

The Guinness brewery was alive with workers, milling around or carrying out their duties. Smoke billowed from large chimneys in thick liquor-tasting clouds. The smell of roasting malt clung to the wind, filling the air with a rich, slightly burnt sweetness. The yard was bustling, packed with people and the shouts of men as they transported barrels towards the docks behind the brewery.

As Edward moved through the crowded yard, weaving between the work with practised ease, he kept Saoirse closely by his side. The last thing he needed was Cormac McConnell’s daughter getting harmed visiting the Guinness brewery. They moved past workers, many of whom stopped to greet their boss with smiles and “good mornin’s”. The brewery’s eyes followed them, some subtly casting curious glances in Saoire’s direction, others staring with unabashed surprise. The entirety of Dublin knew about Edward Guinness’ recent engagement, but few had seen the woman set to join the Guinness dynasty in the flesh.

After the initial shock, Saoirse found herself enjoying the bustling brewery, taking everything in with eager fascination. She had visited her father’s linen mills in Belfast when she was younger, and recalled the deafening thundering of rows upon rows of looms. Fabric fibres swirled in the air, settling deep in her chest with every breath. The scratchy dust in the back of her throat gave her a terrible cough for days afterwards.

The Guinness brewery was similar in many ways: loud, busy, with a distinct smell in the air. Two industrial powerhouses, soon to be forever entwined in union.

It didn't go unnoticed by Saoirse how Edward's workers greeted him, or how they looked at her, offering respectful greetings. One particularly burly man flicked his cigarette onto the ground before taking off his hat and nodding towards her, his gruff voice managing a “Morning, Miss.”

“Good morning,” Saoirse responded, with a dash of newfound enthusiasm.

The sound of the burly man’s voice seemed to give Edward pause, and he came to a half. Turning to face the man, Edward gestured towards him with an air of familiarity.

“Saoirse, this is Rafferty. Our Foreman,” the Guinness explained. Subtly, his arm slipped around Saoirse’s waist, not pulling her any closer but keeping her near.

Edward watched as Rafferty stepped away from the wall, straightening up and adjusting his coat. The taller man flashed Saoirse a smile, bowing his head slightly as he took her hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Saoirse,” his thick accent lilted. “Welcome to the Guinness family.”

Rafferty's piercing blue eyes held hers for a moment, before flickering over to Edward. He took an obedient step backwards. “Enjoy your tour of the brewery,” he added with a flash of a wink.

The younger man straightened his shoulders slightly, gesturing for Saoirse to continue walking. As he followed behind her, he shot a warning glance at Rafferty over his shoulder.

“He seems friendly,” Saoirse quipped, as they reached Edward's office.

A muscle ticked in Edward's jaw, hidden as he shut the door with his back to her. “Yes, Rafferty is friendly,” his voice dropped a fraction on the word, but he quickly brushed it aside and joined her by the table. Reaching into his pocket, he checked his watch - 10:20 - they had a few minutes until his cousin arrived.

Edward's office was a relatively large room, appearing bigger as he'd furnished it sparingly. His desk, accompanied by a large, leather chair, was tidy and neat with a few stacked papers in his inbox. The view from his windows, overlooking the brewery floor, was hidden behind dark, wooden shutter blinds. In the centre of the room sat a large mahogany table, empty except for a few pens and ink pots.

Saoirse carefully laid her drawings across the top, her overly warm fingers causing the papers to stick together. Wiping them on her skirt, she took a heavy breath and exhaled deeply.

“That happens to me too, before meetings,” Edward interjected, by pointing towards her hands. A sheepish smile graced his lips, as he came up beside her. “My hands clam up.”

Tentatively, he took one of her hands in his and blew gently on it. The coolness of his breath tingled against her palm, like the breeze on a crisp autumnal day.

A quiet laugh sounded between them, as Saoirse gave him an incredulous look. “I do not think that actually works,” she said lightly, with a soft chuckle.

Edward smiled at her laugh, and shrugged his shoulders before taking her other hand and repeating the action. “Maybe not,” he teased, gently blowing on her palm. “Best to be sure.”

His dark eyes glinted as he watched her, content to see the bashful but amused smile on her face. Soft pink dusted her cheeks, her smile highlighting the subtle dimples previously hidden. For a moment, he forgot about America, 15% commissions, and political unrest. For a moment, it was just him, standing in his office opposite a woman he was starting to find deeply fascinating. She was a maze, and he was the determined fool stumbling aimlessly towards the centre. No longer dragged blindly into the unknown, but steadily finding his footing.

A sharp knock on the door pulled him from the moment.

His touch softened on her hands, slowly letting them slip free from his grasp. “Come in,” he called to the door, turning towards it to greet the newcomer.

The hinges creaked as the door opened, and a well-dressed man poked his head around the frame. Catching sight of Edward, his expression broke into a smile and he strode forwards to take his hand.

“Ah, Edward. Good morning,” the man drawled, giving Edward's hand a relaxed shake. With the air of a man who knew his worth, he made his way towards the large table in the centre of Edward's office, passing a glance towards the papers carefully laid out upon the top.

Edward's face fell momentarily, as the man walked into his office. His dark brows knitted together in confusion before he covered it with a polite, yet slightly strained, smile. He cleared his throat gently, giving the man a mildly stern look.

“William, to what do we owe the pleasure?” Edward asked, dryly. He hadn't been expecting this particular cousin to walk into his office. “I was expecting Jack.”

The other man laughed, giving an unrepentant shrug of his shoulders. “Jack’s taken ill. I decided to step in,” he remarked offhandedly, sounding far too pleased by the notion of his brother taking ill.

“You shouldn't have troubled yourself,” Edward muttered, already mentally preparing to end this meeting early.

William Guinness was Edward's cousin, part of the family that worked in the construction trade. He was the younger brother of Jack Guinness, a well-respected man of strong repute, and had landed his own reputation of being impetuous, bull-headed and less business savvy than his older brother.

Edward was certain that William had shown up for one reason only. Having gotten wind that Saoirse would be at the meeting, William wanted to come and poke his nose where it didn't belong. He had not come to discuss buildings. That much was clear from how he had spared barely a glance at the drawings laid out, yet had given more than a polite look at Saoirse. Edward cleared his throat pointedly, and shot William a look.

“Of course, of course, my manners,” he chuckled, grinning at Saoirse. “I'm Edward's cousin, William Guinness. You must be the wife.”

Inclining her head slightly, Saoirse held the man's gaze. Steadily, she walked over to the other side of the table, tapping the wood gently with her index finger. “Must be,” she said wryly, with a slight shrug.

William's eyes lit up briefly at her deadpan response. With a grin rivalling the Cheshire Cat's, he leaned over the table and opened his mouth to reply.

The reply died in his throat when Saoirse tapped the table again, and interjected with a firm tone. “But that's not why we're here, is it? So, how about we get down to business?”

William shot Edward an amused look, eyes bright in that insufferable, flippant manner he always adopted despite the circumstances. Feigning seriousness, he nodded his head. “Aye, let's.”

The meeting proceeded slowly. William knew very little about the initiative Edward had been discussing with Jack and Anne; he was more determined to waylay the conversation by prodding into Edward and Saoirse's engagement.

The minutes ticked away, painstakingly slow. Edward watched the clock hand, silently willing it to move. His fingers tapped impatiently on his knee, as he listened to William derail the conversation once again. Seconds away from calling the meeting off early, the door burst open and a wind-swept Jack Guinness hurtled through the door, carrying a large briefcase.

William's eyes widened comically, almost choking on his tongue mid-comment, before descending into a coughing fit.

Arching an eyebrow, Edward glanced at the man who'd burst into his office. “Jack. It seems you've made a somewhat miraculous recovery,” he observed, dryly.

Jack stopped his hasty fixing of his hair, and looked over at Edward in confusion. His gaze passed between Edward and William, and he sighed heavily. “I see,” he muttered, setting down his briefcase. “William, a word?”

The older brother practically yanked his younger brother from his chair, dragging him outside. There was a round of raised voices, muffled by the thick door, followed by the stomping retreat of footsteps.

Edward exhaled deeply through his nose, resting his elbows on his table and scrubbing his face with his hands. He turned his head slightly, murmuring under his breath. “I’m sorry about all of this. My family…” Edward trailed off, pinching the bridge of his nose.

He felt the warmth of her hand cover his, muscles tensing for just a second, as she guided his hand away from his face. Slowly, Edward's exasperated eyes met hers and his lips twitched into a reluctant smile seeing the patient amusement in her own.

“I don't mind,” Saoirse murmured with a small, reassuring smile.

Edward responded with a playfully sceptical look, narrowing his eyes at her as he rolled back his shoulders. “You don't mind? That I've brought you to a loud, disruptive brewery for a meeting that has been skilfully derailed by my intrusive cousin?”

With a glimmer of entertainment in her expression, Saoirse rolled her eyes and leaned against the table, turning in her seat to face him. “Alright, I mind. He was rather impertinent,” she agreed, absently turning his hand over, so his flushed palm faced upwards. “But, I do not mind that you've brought me into your ‘loud, disruptive brewery’,” she added, gently blowing on his palm, barely hiding her smile.

The sudden sensation had Edward blinking rapidly, before it dawned on him that she was copying his actions from earlier. The contrast of her cool breath against his clammy palm pulled him away from his family woes. Trying to keep the smile off his face, he bit his lip, but one sight of hers and his attempts crumbled.

“I thought you said it ‘did not work’,” he quipped, shooting her a playfully accusatory look. Complying easily, he let her take his other hand and repeat the same action.

“Best to make sure,” she echoed, softly.

☘

To say that Jack Guinness was surprised to see that his cousin's fiancée was talented in architectural design was an understatement. His jaw was almost on the floor when she explained her designs to him. He soon recovered, switching into business-mode and avidly asking questions. 

Occasionally, Edward stepped in with a few comments, only when he noticed Saoirse tiring slightly. For the most part, he let her lead the meeting, quietly admiring her from his chair. He schooled his expression a few times, catching the proud smile that kept stubbornly creeping its way onto his face.

Finally, Jack turned to collect his things, neatly packing away Saoirse's drawings to discuss further with his business associates. Closing his briefcase with a soft click, he warmly bidded farewell to Saoirse, shaking her hand amiably.

Edward guided Jack out of the office, talking warmly with his cousin. Once outside, Jack placed a hand on Edward's upper arm gently. “She's rather lovely, Cousin. Well done,” he praised, genuinely happy for Edward. Glancing back towards the office, he added in a hushed tone: “Did she really draw those plans?”

“Yes,” said Edward, nodding with a laugh. “Somewhat remarkable…” he trailed off, eyes flicking back to the door.

With a knowing look, William nudged Edward's shoulder gently with his own. “Indeed,” he agreed, quietly.

“Stop it,” Edward mumbled, a slight flush creeping up the back of his neck. He was suddenly thankful for his high-collared shirt. With a sharp adjustment of his jacket, he gave his cousin a nudge towards the exit, sending him away with promises of another meeting soon - to follow up on details and consult Anne on the developments.

Silently, he slipped back into his office, finding Saoirse standing by the window, peeking through the blinds at the brewery floor below. Careful not to frighten her, he came up beside her, tugging on the blind cord. The wooden blinds shifted open, revealing a clearer view of the bustle below.

“A little easier when they're open,” Edward remarked, a teasing lilt to his voice.

“I am aware. The aim was discretion,” Saoirse retorted, narrowing her eyes playfully at him. 

“Why's that? They know you're in my office,” he murmured. His voice dropped to a hushed tone, pretending to whisper as if his workers were capable of listening in over the noise of the brewery. “Don’t fret so, they would not assume anything improper,” he reassured.

Without thinking, he placed his hand on Saoirse’s shoulder to turn her away from the window. His fingers brushed against the fabric of her jacket, something rich and luxurious in a deep navy. For the first time, he found his eyes noticing what she was wearing. The navy complimented her dark eyes and hair, and the style seemed to suit her. It was both serious and elegant. She looked every bit a respectable noblewoman, with opinions to air and plans to make. It wasn't until she cleared her throat, that he realised his thumb was brushing slow circles on her shoulder. It didn't deter him, instead he held her gaze and spoke earnestly. “I was impressed by your performance in the meeting. As was my cousin.”

The gentle honesty to his words rocked Saoirse off kilter. His compliments were different to the usual insincere niceties made by people feigning interest. He had an awful habit of disarming something inside her with his sweet sincerity. It was as if he meant and believed every word. But then, Edward Guinness wasn't known for his superfluous words or loquacious nature. Which could only mean…

“I mean it. You surprise me,” he said softly. “You aren't what I expected.”

“I am sure I can guess those expectations,” Saoirse grumbled, aware of the picture many painted of her character.

A small flicker of guilt washed across Edward's face when he heard the exasperation in her tone. He didn't have to imagine how it felt to be whispered about by others, especially those with little more than a shred of truth to their tales. His reputation preceded him, often in ways he wasn't fond of. Yet, he'd found himself making the same mistake with her. She was not her reputation, or the whispers of bored socialites and insecure aristocrats, she was a woman. A woman with a remarkable mind, and a sharp sense of humour buried beneath years of struggle. A person, just as he was.

Carefully, as if treading on fresh snow, he trailed his hand down her arm to find hers, lacing their fingers together. His eyes followed the action, lingering on their intertwined fingers. The gentle touch felt heavier than how he'd held her at Aran House. Though barely a brush of skin, Edward felt that same new feeling stir in his chest. It was strange, he'd touched her when she'd been unwell, held her in his arms and tended to her, yet this quiet intimacy felt as if the world outside the room had come to halt. All that mattered in that moment was the warmth of her hand against his, and the way his heart thundered in his ears. 

“Come to lunch with me,” his voice felt weak under the pounding of his heart. A rush of emotions and thoughts crashed together in his head like waves against the shore. It was becoming a familiar feeling for Edward, feeling slightly out of his depth in her presence. He was drawn to it like a drunkard to the tap. He wanted her to have lunch with him, he wanted to keep unlocking those hidden thoughts in her mind. He wanted her in his company. He was certain she wouldn't decline, not with an empty home waiting for her. 

Fortunately for Edward Guinness, his luck seemed to favour him today. And as the couple made their way to his home, he was left hoping it would last.