A wistful smile crossed Briar’s face. “Brilliant. She was an empath, so she kind of knew my feelings before I did.”
“She sounds like quite the woman.”
“She was.”
“You miss her?”
Briar did. Now they’d made the topic comfortable, he found himself telling Rowan stories about her. The elaborate scavenger hunts for birthdays to compensate for having so little money for gifts. How she taught him to walk in heels. How she’d given a homophobic priest what-for when he’d alienated Briar from the church.
Though he didn’t say these out loud, he found himself drifting into memories about her last moments, too. Wasting away in a hospice bed and telling him she had no regrets because, even if her life was short, it was good because of him. Briar hadn’t been a believer—not since the homophobic priest—but in that moment, he clung to faith because his mother spoke about graduations, weddings, the joy in his future that she was sorry she’d miss. He’d needed to believe in an afterlife from which she could watch. If there were ghosts, why not this small mercy?
They hadn’t known the curse would pass on to him. That part he didn’t speak of.
Rowan listened, and Briar found that the weight of loss lifted a little when shared between them. With the backs of his knuckles, Rowan reached to touch Briar’s cheek, then hesitated. Twice today, Briar had shrunk away as if Rowan might hit him. He’d harbored unkind thoughts for the townsfolk who’d left Rowan estranged, and now he contributed to that alienation. Unfairly. Rowan was nothing like his father.
Briar leaned into Rowan’s touch, and it still felt dangerous, but not for the same reasons. If Niamh was to be believed, the tender feeling unfurling in his chest was destined for another man. He shouldn’t entertain his fluttering heart.
But at the blooming relief on Rowan’s face, he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.
Rowan’s hand opened, tentatively cupping Briar’s cheek in his palm. It sent a lance of heat through Briar’s chest. Not just the touch—gentle in spite of Rowan’s size—but the way Rowan looked at him. Like Briar could tell him every dark secret he possessed, and Rowan would carry on looking at him just like that.
“You’d be welcome at our church. If you wanted to come.”
“I…” The prophecy loomed over him. This had not been part of it. Rowan was not a cold-hearted masked man. Attending church with him toed a line Briar was afraid to cross. “I’ll think about it.”
Rowan dropped his hand. “Of course.”
Briar finished his tea. He should get going, but the longer he stayed, the less he wanted to leave. “Thank you for letting me at your garden. If you want, I could pay for—”
“Go ’way, you’re grand.”
Something tightened in Briar’s chest. There was a lot more he wished he could give Rowan. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
Rowan touched the scarf around his neck. “You already have.”
“You know that’s not worth half as much.”
Rowan considered. Reaching up, he flicked Briar’s hair. “You can teach me how to plait. Ciara wants one like yours.”
Briar’s heart trilled. He knew this, too, toed a line, but he couldn’t bring himself to deny Rowan this small thing. He hoisted himself onto the breakfast bar and shuffled closer. He ran a finger through the longer hair along Rowan’s parting, white at the temple where his scar touched. Rowan froze.
“I can start with yours.”
“It’s a bit short”
“It’s long enough for a small one.”
The height of the bar allowed Briar to comb his fingers through Rowan’s hair without reaching or standing on tiptoe. At first, Rowan sat stiffly. Back straight, shoulders set. Briar separated out three sections at his hairline. A barely perceptible lean backward, and Rowan brushed Briar’s knees. He tipped his head. His chest slowly deflated as if after a long-held breath.
Briar took his time, plaiting from temple to crown. This wasn’t teaching; Rowan couldn’t see what he was doing, much less replicate it. Briar’s fingers tingled where they touched the scar. For over a decade, for most of Rowan’s adult life, he’d borne that mark. Aside from his family, no one went near him. He barely moved, made hardly a sound, but he seemed to Briar like a flower turning toward the sun one tiny, trivial measure at a time. Starved for contact and unable to fully disguise it.
Long after he’d finished the plait, Briar let his hands linger. When he could delay no longer, he touched Rowan’s shoulder and said, “Done.”
Rowan turned on the stool, looking up at Briar. It was a change from their usual height disparity. “Does it look all right?”
“Very dashing.” Briar tucked in a bit of hair that stuck up out of it. As he did, he trailed his fingers behind the shell of Rowan’s ear, watching his skin break out in goose bumps. The coffee brown of Rowan’s eyes darkened. His pulse fluttered in his throat, visible and touchable under Briar’s palm as he did what he’d told himself he wouldn’t. He pulled Rowan closer, bent down like he was irresistibly falling, and touched their lips together.
Rowan stayed statuesque and shocked. Then he came alive. He tilted his head to kiss harder, his beard pleasantly tickling Briar’s chin, his lips a soft contrast. Blood sang in Briar’s ears. His skin tingled. Rowan pausedto breathe, a silent question in the press of his forehead against Briar’s.Is this still allowed?
