Chapter 40: One Step at a Time

RONAN

I spent the entire day in my office trying not to bother Maeve while she was working on her newly found powers — she had more than enough eyes watching her already. I excused myself with some work I had to do — which was not a lie. But I couldn't focus. All day, I've been pacing around my office, trying to figure out how to bring up the topic. I needed to talk to her. I tried to initiate the conversation this morning, but Siobhan's abrupt appearance in my bedroom put a stop to that.

Last time I heard the sound of breaking glass was about an hour ago, so it was safe to assume the practice was over. So it was time.

God… what was wrong with me? I haven't been so nervous since I was a teenager.

I entered the living room and found it empty — all scattered in casualties of the practice. But that's a problem for later.

Where is she?

The sound of shuffling and faint muttering draws me down the hallway to Maeve's room. The door is ajar, just enough for me to catch a glimpse of her moving inside. Her room is a disaster. A tornado couldn't have done more damage — clothes are draped over every surface, books splay open on the floor, and things shattered all over the room.

She's crouched near the bed, trying to gather a pile of some kind of materials that keeps sliding out of her grasp. Her movements are brisk but unfocused.

I linger for a moment, watching her. She's clearly lost in her own head, her brows furrowed in frustration. There's a kind of determination in the way she moves, but it doesn't quite mask the tension radiating off her. Something about her reminds me of a stray wolf trying to fend off a predator — not cornered, but close.

I clear my throat softly, enough to announce my presence without startling her. "Do you normally destroy rooms when you're stressed, or is this a new thing? Just asking for a future reference."

Maeve doesn't even look up from the tangled pile of sheets she's wrestling into submission. "Only when I'm discovering I'm a supernatural banshee and screaming my lungs out," she retorts dryly. "It's very niche."

"Fair enough." That earns a laugh, even from me. For a second, the mood in the room lightens. 

I step inside, the mess crunching under my boots as I look around. "Need a hand?"

Maeve jerks upright, spinning to face me. Her eyes narrow, that quick spark of defiance flashing across her face. "No," she says immediately, sharp and defensive. But then her gaze drops to the wreckage around her, and she lets out a sigh, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Fine. Knock yourself out."

I step further into the disaster zone. "Alright then, where do we start?"

"Choose your opponent." She gestures vaguely at the carnage.

I crouch to pick up a shattered piece of the lamp. My fingers skim the edge, and I glance over at her. "Is this beyond saving?" I ask, holding up another jagged fragment.

She glances over, then at me, and for a moment, her face softens. "Yeah," she says, forcing a light tone. "Let's just call it modern art and place it in the Garbage exhibition."

There's something in her voice, an edge of weariness she tries to hide. I move closer, catching the faintest scent of her — something warm, slightly citrusy. I could stand like this for a long time, but I step back as she looks away quickly, focusing on the floor as if it's the most fascinating thing she's ever seen.

"Modern art," I echo, setting the shard down carefully. "Bold concept."

She doesn't answer, just hums softly, busying herself with gathering the rest of the broken lamp and putting it in a trash can. She is hyper focused, and that means one thing. 

Something is bothering her.

Did something happen at the practice? Or did she pick up on my nervousness? I tried to conceal it, but I am not sure if I was successful anymore.

We fall into an unspoken rhythm, both focused on chipping away at the chaos around us. I start straightening up the furniture while Maeve busies herself untangling a mess of clothes. It's quiet, except for the occasional rustle of fabric or the soft thud of books being stacked.

"So… How's the banshee training going?" I ask, breaking the silence. My tone is casual, but the question isn't. I need to know how she's managing it — if she's managing it at all before going further.

Maeve glances at me, one brow raised, and I can already see the sarcasm forming on her lips. "Oh, you know," she says, her voice dry. "Throwing a fit apparently doesn't count as progress. But all in all — we'll see tomorrow."

Despite myself, I smirk. "Good to know. I'll add that to the manual."

Her lips quirk — which is a good sign. But she doesn't respond. Instead, she grabs a chair, fully intended on hanging the curtains back in its place.

I didn't come here just to help her — I remind myself. And not to have this surface level small conversations. I needed to talk to her, and I was tired of beating around the bush. As I opened my mouth, the words slowly forming — she tripped on the heavy fabric of a curtain and went flying from a chair. I caught her at the last second, before she could get hurt.

It was a reflex, but it was nice, holding her like this. So close, so warm… But also distracting, and I needed to keep my focus right now.

"Thank you," she said, a little bit rattled after I helped her stand up again.

"So..." I start, still holding her hand, as it was calming my nerves. "I want to talk to you about... everything that has been going on."

She nods, leading me to the bed and as we both sit, she finally says, "Yes, I want that too. It's long overdue."

And before I can start, she takes a deep breath, lifting her eyes to meet mine. "The kiss. The first one, after our movie night — it was... an accident. I mean, it wasn't planned. It just —" She gestures vaguely, searching for the words. "It felt right in the moment."

I stay quiet, letting her find her rhythm.

"And the second one..." her eyes escaping mine and cheeks flushing slightly. "I don't even know what I was thinking. I felt like I wasn't... myself, like I was drunk on something. I just —" She exhales sharply. "I can't explain it."

"Do you regret it?" I ask. My voice is low but steady.

Her gaze snaps to mine, startled, but she doesn't look away. "No," she says firmly. "I don't. But I feel... lost. Like I don't know what any of this means."

I nod slowly, absorbing her words as a warmth of hope spreads through my body. "You're not alone in that," I admit. "I've been questioning it too — what it means, what it's supposed to be and what am I supposed to do. But I don't regret it either."

She relaxes slightly. "You've been there for me through all of this banshee stuff," she says softly. "Even when you didn't have to be. I don't know what I would've done without you." Her voice wavers, just slightly, and she looks away again. "But this thing between us? I don't understand it. I keep wondering..."

"Me too," I interrupt her before she can fixate on her line of thoughts. She had the same questions I did. I could only hope she had the same conclusions. "Because it matters," I say simply. "Because you matter. Whatever this is — whatever we are — it's not just the bond. It's you. It's us. And I don't think I could ever walk away from this, even if I wanted to."

She's quiet for a long moment, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of the comforter. "It's a mess," she says finally, her tone laced with a hint of dry humor. "We're a mess."

I chuckle, though there's no mockery in it. "That's an understatement."

The silence stretches between us, not uncomfortable but like we're both bracing for what comes next. 

Finally, I take a breath, turning to face her fully. "Maybe… we stop fighting it."

Her brow furrows slightly. "What?"

"Whatever this is," I say, keeping my voice calm but firm as I again grab her hand — and she lets me. "Maybe we give it a chance. See where it goes. We're already bounded — yes. But, maybe, just maybe there is something more to it than that."

She studies me carefully, her expression guarded but not closed off. "And if it doesn't work?"

"Then it doesn't," I say honestly. "But at least we'll know we tried."

She looks away, her teeth catching her bottom lip as she thinks. When she looks back, there's something in her eyes — cautiousness, but also determination.

"One step at a time," she says softly.

I nod, a faint smile tugging at my lips. "One step at a time."

We stand, the bed creaking slightly beneath us as we rise. Maeve brushes her hands over her jeans, glancing around.

"This place is a mess," I say, keeping my tone light, almost teasing. "Are you planning on living like this, or should we do something about it?"

Her lips twitch, and for a second, I think she might laugh, but then she fires back, "Or what? Move to your room permanently?"

 "Wouldn't that solve the problem?" I counter, letting my lips quirk into a half-smile.

"You wish," she says, rolling her eyes.

"Eventually—yeah." I add smiling, "But for now let's finish with this room."

One step at a time.