A Weekend

A Weekend
It was nearly sundown by the time I pulled into the driveway. The sky wore that low amber glow. I was still on the phone, holding it between my shoulder and cheek as I cut the engine.
"If she hasn’t shown up all week, someone needs to knock. I don’t care if it’s awkward—do a well-care check, please," I said.
The voice on the other end mumbled something about giving it one more day. I didn’t bother answering. I ended the call and got out of the car, bag slung over my shoulder, keys in hand.
I pushed open the front door and called, "El?"
I checked the attic first, then her bedroom. Nothing. I pulled out my phone and dialed her. She picked up on the second ring.
"Still at Junie’s," she said, as if I should’ve known. "Her dad's driving me home."
"You sure you don’t want me to come get you?"
"No, I’m good, Mom. Be home in like thirty minutes."
"Alright," I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "I’m starting dinner. Come hungry."
"Always," she said with a laugh, and then the line clicked off.
I headed to the kitchen and washed my hands, pulling out the vegetables and meat I’d bought earlier in the week. I’d just started sautéing when something shifted. Not a sound, not exactly. But there was a tension in the air. My senses prickled, the kind of awareness that had been honed too many years ago to ever go dull. I slowly stepped into the hallway.
Two cars. I hadn’t heard them, but I could feel them now, idling outside. Then one door shut.
I made it halfway to the front door when the bell rang. I froze. Then, heart thudding, I walked the rest of the way. I opened the door. And there he was.
Cillian.
It was as though a ghost had reached through time and taken form. He looked unchanged—tall, broad-shouldered, and impossibly composed, dressed head to toe in black. Tailored coat, gloved hands at his sides, silver hair neatly styled like time hadn't touched him.
"Hello, Pet," he said, with that voice I hadn’t heard in fifteen years but somehow still lived in the back of my memory.
My mouth went dry. "Cillian."
"May I come in?"
I stared at him. Letting him in meant opening a door I thought I’d sealed shut a long time ago. And I had no idea what waited on the other side.
But I stepped back and nodded.
He stepped inside like no time had passed at all, like he belonged here. The scent of him hit me first—cold rain on stone, faint leather, a memory that had waited too long to be remembered. He took a few steps in, his coat gliding behind him, and stopped in the middle of my living room, his eyes sweeping over the space.
I closed the door slowly behind him, hand lingering on the knob longer than necessary. My heart hadn't figured out what it wanted to do—race or stop.
"It's a lovely home," he said, gaze falling briefly on the photographs lined along the mantel.
I hovered awkwardly, suddenly unsure what to do with myself. "Would you… like something to drink? I have coffee. Or tea?"
He turned back to me, that smile tugging faintly at his lips. "Matilda, calm down. It’s only me."
I huffed a quiet laugh and shook my head. "You say that like that’s supposed to help."
We stood facing each other for a moment. Then I took him in properly and said, "You look… good. Haven’t aged a day."
"Tell me something I haven’t heard for centuries," he quipped.
I smiled in return, nervous energy still buzzing through me. "Well, your Keeper must be good. She must be taking care of you well."
Cillian tilted his head. "I don’t really know if you’d call it that. Tony collects his blood in a bag and brings it to me."
That stopped me. "Your Keeper is a man?"
"Yes."
“Huh."
He just raised an eyebrow in amusement, like he’d expected that reaction.
Suddenly remembering the simmering pot in the kitchen, I spun on my heel. "The food! Come on. I was cooking dinner."
He followed without a word. The kitchen lights were bright, casting everything in a soft yellow warmth. I stirred the pot absentmindedly, trying to collect myself.
"So... how’s life? The company? Are you still CEO?"
Cillian leaned a shoulder against the doorway, watching me. "Technically, yes. Though I’ve taken a much quieter role in recent years. Let the younger ones earn their keep."
"And what are you doing here? In England, I mean."
He didn’t answer right away. His eyes drifted downward, catching on my wrist. On the bracelet I hadn’t taken off in weeks.
"I came for you."
The spoon slipped from my fingers and clattered in the pot. I stood still, staring at him.
"Why now?" I asked.
Cillian’s voice softened but didn’t waver. "For fifteen years, I watched you, Matilda. There were moments when I almost reached out, but I knew that would’ve been selfish."
"You were... watching me for fifteen years?" I stared at him, stunned. "And you never spoke to me? Never came to me?"
"You wanted me to stay away."
"But now you’re here."
His gaze dropped to my wrist again. "You’re wearing the bracelet again."
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Tried again. Nothing came.
"I understand what you meant," he said quietly. "When you told me that half of you died when you lost Xavier, I knew your heart would never be whole again. He was your mate. No one can take that from you, and no one should."
He stepped closer, close enough that I could feel his presence like a hum in the air.
"But what I’m asking," he continued, "is if you could love me with half your heart. With what’s left. Because I’ll take it, Matilda. I’ll take whatever you can give. And I’ll fill the rest."
Something in me broke. Or maybe it gave in. The next breath I took shuddered through me. “Cillian…”
He reached for me, and I didn’t move away. His hands found my face, and then, before I knew it, his mouth was on mine—urgent, hungry, and familiar in a way that made my knees weaken.
And I kissed him back. We kissed like we were starving, like we’d been holding our breath for years. His fingers tangled in my hair, mine fisted into his coat. And for a moment, the world disappeared.
Then—
A throat cleared behind us.
I pulled away, breathless, eyes wide. Cillian looked over my shoulder, and I turned to see El standing there, backpack still slung over one shoulder, eyebrows raised.
"Mom," she said, an awkward smile tugging at her lips. "There’s, like... two cars parked outside."
My hand flew to my hair, then down to my sides. "We have guests."
El looked between us. Her gaze settled on him.
"El," I said, swallowing hard. "Meet Cillian Ravenscroft. Your dad."
Cillian straightened, his expression softening. "And Cillian," I added, "your daughter, Eleanor."