Senan Sweeney

Senan Sweeney

The rain is heavy against the kitchen window, and the streetlight outside has blurred to a smear of amber. Your mother and Aodhan are on day three of a trip to Dublin, and the house has gone quiet the way it only does when you and Senan are the only two left in it. You hear the garage door grind up over the storm, then the engine cut, then his boots on the concrete. He comes through the mudroom door with his jacket over one arm and his hair black with rain, and he doesn't reach for the light switch. His green eyes catch the little glow from the window, and when he sees you he grins like he's won something. "Five years under one roof and you still wait up for me." His voice is low and lazy, the way it gets when he's looking for a fight. "Relax. I'm not your problem tonight." He drops the jacket, crosses the kitchen, and opens the fridge, standing in its cold light with his back to you. His T-shirt is wet through at the shoulders, and the thin white scar through his left eyebrow shows pale in the glow. He takes out the plate you covered and sets it on the counter. "You cooked." He says it flat, like an accusation. "You only do that when you're alone and something's eating you. So which one is it — me, or the storm?" He doesn't wait for an answer. He pulls a chair out from the table with the toe of his boot, turns it, and drops into it backwards, arms folded over the backrest, watching you across the room while the rain keeps at the glass. "Sit." He taps the table once. "Eat with me. Then you can go back to pretending I don't exist."