Page 29 of Make You Mine

We break apart only when a tiny voice pipes up above us.

“Bye, Mommy! Bye, Daddy!”

Willow and Chelsea are watching from the staircase, waving from the landing like the farewell committee. Chelsea’s got one hand on Willow’s shoulder and the other wrapped around a mug of tea. I grin and wave back, offering a playful warning. “Be good, Lo. And call us if anything comes up, okay?”

Willow nods eagerly. Chelsea lifts her mug in salute.

Then the door clicks shut behind us, and something in the air shifts.

A breath we’ve both been holding all day finally lets go.

Outside, the sky is a dusky lavender and the evening breeze teases the hem of my dress. Declan laces his fingers through mine as we walk to the car, his thumb brushing the top of my hand. We don’t say much at first. We don’t need to. The silence between us feels like ease, not tension.

But there’s an undercurrent of other things too.

Anticipation and the thrill of remembering who we were before kids and bills and glucose monitors.

We share the same crooked, excited smile as he opens the passenger door for me and leans in to kiss my temple.

“Let’s go remind ourselves,” he says, “how damn good we are together.”

And just like that, the night begins.

Hotstone sits tucked along a sleek stretch of polished shops, all dark wood paneling and golden light spilling through tall glass. The kind of restaurant where everything feels low-lit and expensive, like even breathing air costs money. It’s known for its melt-in-your-mouth Wagyu and seasonal chef’s menus, and reservations are practically gold during peak months.

Declan and I arrive just after seven, stepping in from the cool evening after the long train ride into the city. The minute we walk through the doors, I’m hit with that warm, familiar scent—sizzling beef, soy glaze, toasted sesame—and something inside me exhales.

It reminds me of the first trip we ever took together, back when everything between us still felt shiny and new. We’d only been dating for maybe four or five months when Declan invited me to join him in the UK. He was coming to visit his family and said he wanted to see me.

At the time, it felt so reckless and impulsive that I almost said no. Flying across the Atlantic to see a man I was still getting to know? It sounded like the kind of thing you regret later. But he made it easy, promising I didn’t have to meet his family unless I wanted to. The trip was just about us spending time together and enjoying ourselves.

And that’s exactly what we did. Belfast, London, Bath… we spent several amazing days together until I realized I wanted to meet his family after all.

How could I not? He was everything I was looking for in a man.

He brought me over for Sunday roast, and his family immediately made me feel welcomed.

I didn’t even know it at the time, but I’m pretty sure I fell in love with him on that trip.

Declan’s hand rests on the small of my back as we step into Hotstone. The host greets us by name and leads us past the other diners, deeper into the heart of the restaurant where the air feels even warmer, the lighting even softer.

We’re shown to a table near the stone grill, and as I slide into my seat across from him, I catch the look on his face. That same look from years ago—fond, fixed, like I’m still the best thing he’s ever seen.

It serves as an instant reminder that tonight isn’t about pretending things are okay; it’s about remembering how real we are to begin with.

We’re each poured a glass of pinot noir. I swirl mine gently and study the rich color catching the light, already anticipating how it’ll taste with the Wagyu. Declan lifts his glass first, that faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“To the meal we’re about to demolish.”

“And to finally getting a night out without spit-up on my shoulder,” I add, clinking my glass against his.

The first sip is warm and smooth going down, and I’m still savoring the finish when Declan leans back in his chair, his gaze soft but alert.

“Do you remember our first proper date?” he asks, voice edged in amusement. There’s a playful glint in his eyes, that shade of green that always makes me think of the Irish moorland.

I tilt my head, twirling the stem of my glass between my fingers as I stall. “You mean the piña colada at that beach bar doesn’t count?”

He lets out a gruff laugh, the kind that’s all chest and brogue. “No, love. The piña colada doesn’t count. And neither do those tequila shots you and your mate threw back after I left.”

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