Page 44 of How I Met Your Murderer

He tasted like hope. Like something I’d never thought I’d have again.

I could have kissed him all night, but he was hurt and exhausted and still smelled like whiskey. I was just glad he invited me to join him in his van so that I could continue to bask in his glow for as long as time allowed.

While he slept, I curled up at his back—a few inches away, with a blanket between us, so he wouldn’t freeze. I replayed our kisses, messy and eager and enthusiastically returned. And I counted his heartbeats. Not because I needed to, but because it calmed me to know he wasn’t about to suffer my same fate. An infatuated spirit’s way of counting sheep.

His heart beat with a cadence I could have mapped: steady, patient, strong. Raff in rhythm form. I felt every beat like a ripple in the air, a quiet drum keeping time for both of us, and scooted closer until I’d pushed the blanket away without meaning to, so I tucked it back around him without waking him. He was the lighthouse to my sailor lost at sea, gifting me something in this world to aim my rudder towards. A brilliant and reliable flash when everything else had been dark for so long.

It was still October 2nd, the day Raff had kissed me and invited me to stay the night, and he had never looked so beautiful as he did when he woke to the late morning light streaming in through the van’s dirty windows. So soft and sleep-rumpled. Human. Breakable. He came to slowly, with a groan and a stretch that made his spine creak. With me in here all night, the van was cold enough that his breath fogged the air.

I had been busy doing what any self-respecting ghost with too much time and too many feelings would—having a thorough look-see through the van—but I turned away from the small box of photos and memorabilia I’d unearthed from the glove box to study him. “Morning. How’s your knee?”

Raff pushed himself halfway up, blinked a few times, and paused—like he had to take a minute to remember that he even had a knee. “Sore as shite,” he finally said, sleep-rough. “Feels like someone smashed it with a hurley.”

“I would have iced it for you. You know, with these magic hands.” I drew just enough energy to make my hand a little more solid before wiggling my fingers.

“Didn’t want to bother you,” he insisted with pink dusting his cheeks, and something warm and painful twisted at my core. Sleep-rumpled and bleary-eyed, he was beautifully soft and lovely. “What’s that you’ve got there?”

He was deflecting, and I let him. His face laid bare when he was really hurting, and if that happened, I’d press the issue.

I clutched the battered little box like a trophy. “Just the shrine to your hurling days.” I scooted closer, filling the small space between us with my treasures: printed photos of Raff posing on the field in his uniform, hands on his hips and wearing a cheesy grin. Raff mid-swing with his hurley, feet not even touching the ground. Raff covered in mud and grinning like he’d just won a very important match (which he probably had).

Plucking a stunning photo of him in his gold-and-green uniform from the pile, I held it up and gave it a little kiss. “You look like a very handsome leprechaun in this. Makes your hair look redder, too.”

“Leprechaun!” Raff spluttered, shifting closer. “They’re the proud Kerry colors, you absolute—”

“Wildcard?” I offered sweetly, before he could give any of the Irish alternatives. I had to tease, because I was so attracted to him in that uniform that it was embarrassing, and I was worried he could see it all over my face.

His eyes narrowed, and I grinned. For a moment, the van felt warmer.

Still holding the box, I drifted over to sit beside him on the mattress and gently placed it in his waiting hands. “You kept all this. You must really miss it.”

“I do.” His voice was low, his gaze wistful. Almost bruised. After a moment, he cleared his throat. “I, uh . . . forgot to tell you, with everything going on, but I checked on the team when I went to the village. They won their last match, and they’re looking at taking the MacCarthy Cup again. Without me.”

There was pride in his voice now, too, alongside the aching.

“Doesn’t mean they don’t miss you,” I said gently.

He huffed a laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “They miss having someone besides Coach to shout at them during drills.”

“No,” I insisted. “I might not have known you back then, but I’d bet my family’s fortune they miss your helping hand and your friendship and your creativity on the field. Or whatever it is hurlers call it. When you leave here . . . you should call them. Meet up. Go watch a game.”

Studying one of the old pictures, he went still. Just for a heartbeat. Like the idea was too big to hold right now.

Then he shook his head like he was pushing the thought away. “We should get inside. Jordy and the others will be waiting to have a chat about the banquet and our treasure hunters, I’m sure.” He reached for his overalls and his leather jacket, and I slipped through the van wall without being asked so that he could change in private.

I had the sense I wasn’t welcome to stay for the show. There was something about the hunch of his shoulders this morning—against the cold, or against me, or whatever last night had stirred up in him—that left me wondering if he needed space to process that he’d kissed a dead man, or if he was just . . . slipping away from me completely.

Raff finally emerged, closing the van doors with a hollow clunk that echoed through me. I followed him, like always, toward the looming castle, making myself fully transparent as we reached the front door. Ardruin looked almost smug, its turrets extra sharp and its stones especially bright, like it knew it had survived the night’s chaos with its secrets and treasures intact, and wanted to brag. Even from outside, I could hear noise: laughter, raised voices, the clatter of dishes. The whole place was humming with the kind of energy that people radiate after a near-disaster, adrenaline mixed with relief.

“Can you believe they were looking for treasure? Like we’re in a fecking fairytale!”

“—and that dinner went perfectly, no spilled soup or burst pipes or screaming mirrors—”

“I swear, Basil nearly fainted when the decorations didn’t move themselves. I think he ought to ask the doctor for something to calm his nerves. My mam takes—”

“Jordy practically ran here, even beat the Gardaí by ten minutes. I know who I’m calling next time there’s a crisis!”

Raff hardly seemed to notice any of it, not the warmer air or the voices of the Dolans and their staff ricocheting off the stone walls, overlapping in a chaotic chorus. He moved through it all like he was underwater. Shoulders tight, hands shoved in his pockets. Not looking at me.