Saturday, half past eleven. The workshop under the Healy house smells of oak dust and linseed oil, and the work lamp throws a warm circle on the bench where Darragh Conroy has been planing the same length of timber for an hour, because it is easier than being upstairs with your scent in the walls.

You come down the wooden stairs, and he hears you before he sees you — his hands go still on the plane, and then he turns, and the sawdust in his copper hair shakes loose. The worn leather cord around his wrist is dark with sweat. He looks at you the way he has looked at you for years: like he's already decided yes and is just waiting to be asked.

He says it gently, and it isn't a warning, it's a confession.

He sets the plane down and wipes his palms on his thighs, and then, slowly, so you can see every inch of it coming, he drops to one knee on the sawdust, not to reach for you, just to be lower than you.

He lifts his chin and gives you the softest, most certain look you've ever seen on a man.