Chapter 42: The Date

MAEVE

It has been over a week since we decided to try.

A week filled with trainings, public outings and meetings. It was hard, but somehow, we managed to arrange a few moments for each other. Morning coffee with a little banter, a few stolen kisses during the day and talking until late night hours – a couple times we passed out on the couch out of tiredness. We were getting to know each other and we valued those moments, but that was just it – moments.

And that wasn't enough.

Today was going to be a little bit different. Firstly – Nimah came by before practice to talk and that already put me in a good mood. She was finally able to give me some answers, but still had some hard digging to do.

Training with Ariadne was intense - as usual. But I was getting better and stronger. We were finally able to find our pace and I liked it. I was making progress - on my power as well as on our relationship. There was no more bickering between us - or at least not as much. And now I was able to understand her reaction at our first practice better. Finding another banshee was a miracle for her - for a long time she believed she was the last one. The way I reacted to all of it - she interpreted as me not caring about all of it. Which made her snap and lash out on me.

Today we finished off our practice early – Ariadne had some things to take care of. She didn't tell me what, but that was not out of character for her. The important part was that I was free, and it was about time we had a proper date.

First, I thought about getting all dressed up and booking a table at some restaurant. But I figured we both could use a cozy night at home so I settled on wearing simple dress, lighting some candles and cooking something for Ronan. Not that I was good at it – far from it to be honest - but I had promised him that and what better time than now.

I just hope we won't end up with food poisoning.

I scroll through recipe ideas on my phone, biting my lip as I sift through endless pictures of glossy dishes that look way too complicated.

Beef Wellington? Hell no. Homemade pasta? Definitely not. A casserole that takes three hours and a prayer? Who even has time for that?

I swipe past them, my thumb hesitating over a picture of chicken with braised tomatoes and burrata. It looks... promising. Thirty minutes to prepare from start to finish – perfect. Fancy enough to be impressive, but not so over-the-top that I'll set the kitchen on fire.

Probably.

Setting my phone down, I pull up the recipe, skimming the list of ingredients. Okay, chicken, some herbs, tomatoes, burrata. I can manage that. Hopefully.

I grab my purse and jacket and go for a quick grocery shopping in the store on the other side of the street from our building. When I come back I gather all the ingredients, arranging them neatly on the counter like some kind of cooking show host. The nervous energy buzzing in my chest is ridiculous.

Get it together Maeve - It's dinner, not a diplomatic summit.

Half an hour later, the kitchen looks like a war zone. There's flour dusting the counter, because of course – it's me. And I just had to make my task more complicated and decide to bake lemon cupcakes for dessert.

It's so easy, I've made them before. What could possibly go wrong?

Yeah, apparently the fact that Siobhan was there the first time made a huge difference.

A rogue egg rolls off the countertop and lands on the floor with a splash.

"Great," I mutter, scooping it up and tossing it into the trash. My sleeves are a mess — smeared with something oily — and there's a faint splatter of sauce on the stove. "You're nailing this, Maeve. Gordon Ramsay's probably sobbing somewhere."

I wrestle with the chicken, trying to coat it with the olive oil, paprika and garlic mixture without getting more of it on me. The knife I used earlier is sitting ominously close to the edge of the counter, and there's a small mountain of discarded egg shells and utensils piling up in the sink.

But I'm determined. This is going to work. Somehow.

The smell of baking lemon cupcakes mixed with garlic and chicken sizzling in a pan starts to fill the air. A comforting contrast to the chaos around me. I glance at the clock and feel a small flicker of triumph. If I keep this up, it'll actually be ready on time.

I'm halfway through chopping veggies for the side salad when I hear the front door open and close. My hands freeze for a second, the knife hovering mid-air.

Ronan.

I hear the sound of boots on the floor but I don't turn around - focusing instead on not losing a finger to the tomato. But I can feel him — his presence like this warm, grounding blanket behind me. I really missed that the whole day.

A few beats pass before he finally steps into the kitchen. I glance over my shoulder with a smile, to find him leaning against the island, his arms crossed, watching me. His expression is unreadable, as usual, but there's something in his eyes — something halfway between amusement and exhaustion.

"Surprise! We're having a date night!" I say, attempting to sound casual. "I'm working culinary miracles here."

He raises an eyebrow, glancing at the disaster zone I've created. "Miracles," he repeats, his tone amused.

"In my scale – yes miracles. Now go get ready."

But he doesn't. Instead, he just walks over to the oven and turns it off – yeah, I totally forgot about that. Then to the countertop, where I've left a stack of bowls a little too enthusiastically. Without a word, collects them, puts them back in the cabinet, and reaches for a towel to wipe the sauce splatters.

I frown. "I was going to do that."

"Sure you were," he says mildly, picking up a stray spoon and putting it in the sink.

I watch him as he moves, his actions deliberate and efficient. He's not just tidying; he's fixing. Like some kind of kitchen overlord swooping in to restore order to my chaos.

At first, it's annoying. But then I catch it — the faint quirk at the corner of his mouth, the almost -smile he's trying to hide.

Oh, he's doing this on purpose.

I drop the spatula onto the counter with a little more force than necessary and glance sideways, pretending not to notice Ronan watching me like a hawk. He steps forward immediately, grabbing it and rinsing it off in the sink, shaking his head as if I'm a wayward child.

"Thanks for the assist," I say sweetly, brushing past him to grab a stray thyme sprig from the cutting board. Instead of tossing it into the pot, I set it down right in the middle of the counter, where it definitely doesn't belong.

Ronan notices. His eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn't say anything — he just moves the sprig back to the cutting board with excruciating precision.

Oh, this is going to be fun.

I continue "cooking," which now mostly involves not burning the chicken, while adding the rest of the ingredients, and finding increasingly ridiculous ways to leave things out of place. A dish towel draped across the faucet. A measuring cup abandoned near the stove. And so on.

Each time, Ronan swoops in behind me, silently fixing everything like some kind of kitchen vigilante. His expression stays stoic, but the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth tells me he knows exactly what I'm doing.

"Are you always this messy," he murmurs, his voice low, "or is it just to test my patience?"

I glance up at him, letting my lips curl into a sly grin. "Maybe I just wanted to see if the great Alpha could handle a little chaos."

He chuckles, a soft, rumbling sound that sends a ripple of awareness through me. For a moment, neither of us moves, the tension between us as warm and heady as the steam rising from the pan.

Then he shifts, leaning in just slightly, his voice dropping to a teasing murmur. "I think you underestimate my patience, Maeve."

"Guess I'll have to try harder, then." My heart stumbles over itself, but I manage to keep my cool.

After a chaotic mix of laughter, teasing, and more cooking than I'd like to admit, the meal is finally ready. I put the serving dish onto the table with an exaggerated flourish. "Voilà. Dinner is served."

Ronan raises an eyebrow, but there's a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Impressive," he says, his tone teasing. "I wasn't sure the kitchen would survive."

"Ah, ye've little faith, haven't ye?" I tease, deliberately slipping into the exaggerated lilt of my father's old-irish speech. It's been years since I've talked like this — mostly because I can't pull it off without feeling like a bad impersonation of him.

I wave Ronan toward the table with a flourish, trying not to laugh at my own ridiculousness. "Go on, sit yerself down. I'll be sortin' the rest. Shur, it'll be grand."

Ronan pauses mid-step, his eyebrows arching in a way that's both amused and skeptical.

"What's this now? Channeling your inner banshee bard?" he asks, his lips quirking into the faintest smirk.

I roll my eyes, but I can't help the grin tugging at my mouth. "That," I say, pointing a wooden spoon in his direction, "is how my dad used to talk. Thought I'd give you the full cultural experience."

"Ah," he says, his voice low and teasing, "and here I thought you were just trying to confuse me into sitting down."

"Worked, didn't it?" I counter, gesturing to the chair.

He lets out a soft chuckle, shaking his head as he finally lowers himself into the seat. "Fair enough. But if you start calling me 'lad' or start singing a ballad, I'm walking out."

"Your loss," I shoot back, turning back to the stove. "I have a killer rendition of 'The Fields of Athenry.'"

He smiles but doesn't argue, lighting the candles while I grab the plates and utensils. There's a certain satisfaction in seeing him relax for once, his usual guarded expression softening as he watches me set the table.

As we dig in, I glance up, waiting for his verdict. "Well?"

He takes a deliberate bite, chewing thoughtfully before nodding. "It's actually really good."

"Thank you, I've put a lot of effort into that" I say, the warmth in my chest betrays how much the compliment means.

He smirks faintly. "I could see that."

As we eat, the conversation drifts to lighter topics — until Ronan tilts his head slightly, fixing on me with a curious look. "How was your day?"

I hesitate.

I've got to tell him what I found out.

"Eventful," I say lightly, poking at my food. "Nimah came by to talk before today's training session with Ariadne."

He arches an eyebrow, clearly waiting for more.

I set down my fork and look him in the eyes. "You see.. I was afraid to start anything with you. Not because there was not attraction – not the case at all. But because I wasn't sure where it came from. Or if it was real in the first place – you know having all this magic involved from the start. So, I asked Nimah about it. And she finally found something. Apparently, the ritual they put us through - doesn't mess with feelings. It's only physical — enhancing... certain aspects of the relationship." My cheeks flush, but I power through. "Basically, it makes things... uh, more intense in that area. That sort of thing."

"That's actually good to know." Ronan's lips twitch, his expression halfway between amusement and curiosity. "So… Do you find me attractive?"

I blink. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, but you said it yourself - attraction was not the problem. So again, do you find me attractive?"

"I'm not answering that," I snap, though the warmth in my cheeks probably answers for me.

He chuckles softly, and I shake my head, focusing on my plate to hide the fact that I'm smiling.

He shrugs, his tone casual but he is not joking anymore. "I find you attractive, Maeve. From the start to be honest – but I wasn't ready then to admit it even to myself. It's not just your looks – although it's a cherry on top. But mostly it's because of the way you are. Strong, resilient and chaotic. That used to drive me mad but in hindsight - you push me to be better every day. And you made me feel things I didn't know I even had in me – and it's really good to know that these are my feelings, not forced by anything and anyone."

***

The clink of plates and soft rustle of silverware fills the space as I clear the table. The air is warm, thick with the lingering aroma of dinner, and for once, there's no rush to do anything but let the night unfold. Humming to myself, I stack the dishes and turn toward the sink, the tune spilling out in quiet notes before I even realize I'm doing it.

Behind me, there's a low, amused hum — an echo of the melody I've been absently carrying. I stop, glancing over my shoulder to find Ronan standing there, a glass in hand, his lips quirking in a faint smile as he mimics the tune.

"Not bad," I say, setting the plates down. "Didn't know you were musically inclined."

He arches a brow, draining the last of his drink before setting the glass aside. "I have my moments."

I laugh softly, shaking my head. But before I can turn back to my task, he steps closer, extending a hand with a half-teasing, half-serious expression. "Dance with me."

I scoff, crossing my arms over my chest. "What, no music? You expecting me to sway to the sound of my own humming?"

"Maybe." He doesn't drop his hand. "Scared you can't keep up?"

My lips twitch, the challenge in his tone sparking something playful in me. "Fine," I say, slipping my hand into his. "But if you step on my feet, I'm telling everyone."

Ronan chuckles, pulling me gently toward him. His other hand settles on my waist, steady but light, and we start to sway — slow, unhurried movements that feel surprisingly natural despite the absence of music.

For a moment, I'm hyper-aware of everything — the warmth of his hand against mine, the way his touch lingers on my waist, the faint scent of pine and something earthy clinging to him. It's disarming, how easy it feels to move with him like this.

I glance away, shifting slightly, but his hand tightens just enough on my waist to draw me back into step. The teasing fades, replaced by something quieter, heavier. His hand slides to the small of my back, his thumb brushing lightly against the fabric of my shirt, and my breath catches.

"You're not bad at this," I murmur, my voice quieter now. My fingers curl slightly against his shoulder, holding on just a little tighter.

"Not bad?" His lips twitch, though there's a softness in his tone. "High praise."

"Don't let it go to your head," I shoot back, though the words are barely above a whisper.

Our movements slow, the world around us narrowing to just this — just the warmth of his hand on my back, the way his gaze holds mine like it's impossible to look away. My heart pounds, but I don't pull back.

Neither does he.

The space between us disappears, his forehead brushing lightly against mine as his hand slides up, cradling the side of my face. Slowly, deliberately, he leans in, giving me every chance to step away.

Instead, I tilt my head, closing the distance.

The kiss is soft at first, tentative, but it deepens quickly, the tension between us unraveling in a rush of heat and certainty. His hand slips into my hair, and I feel myself melt into the moment, letting everything else fall away.

For the first time, I stop overthinking. I just let it happen.