New Start
Sean was already asleep.
Áine lay on her back and watched the ceiling, the faint wash of streetlight stretching across it in pale stripes. Outside, a car moved slowly down the road, tyres whispering over damp tarmac. Dublin nights were quieter than London’s had been. She had noticed that in their first week here — how the city seemed to lower its voice after midnight.
Sean shifted beside her and rolled further onto his side, his back settling into the mattress with the heavy finality of someone who would not wake again until morning. His breathing evened quickly.
She waited.
Not consciously. Just the instinctive pause before sleep, when bodies sometimes drift back toward each other.
He didn’t.
Earlier, he had kissed her shoulder. Briefly. The gesture almost automatic. His mouth had been warm; his hand had already withdrawn before she could lean into it.
“Tired,” he had murmured, as though she had asked a question.
She hadn’t.
She turned her head slightly and looked at him in profile. Even in the low light she could trace him easily. Brown hair, longer at the back than most men wore it now, falling slightly over the collar of his T-shirt. He’d never cared much about fashion; he kept what suited him and ignored what didn’t. His shoulders were broad from years of building work, forearms thick and marked with pale scars from careless tools and older jobs. There was solidity to him. Weight. The sort of man who filled a doorway without trying.
She loved that about him. The certainty of him.
Marriage was meant to change something, though. Not the feeling — she still loved him, that hadn’t altered — but the texture. She had expected it to draw them closer, to tighten the space between them in ways she couldn’t quite articulate. Instead, the space felt measured. Defined. Intact.
She slid her hand across the sheet until her fingers brushed the centre of his back. Through the cotton she felt warmth, the slow rise and fall of breath. He didn’t move away. He didn’t turn toward her either.
After a moment, she let her hand fall back to her own side of the bed.
It had been a long week. The wedding, the drive from her parents’ place, the unpacking of gifts. Of course he was tired. Real life resumed quickly. That was how it worked.
She turned onto her side to face his back and closed her eyes.
Tomorrow would feel different.
It always did.
Sean was up before her.
She woke to the sound of the shower running and lay still for a moment, listening. The flat still felt new in a way she couldn’t explain — not in furniture, but in geography. She sometimes had to think about which cupboard held what. In London she could have walked their old kitchen blindfolded.
The shower stopped. Pipes rattled softly in the walls.
By the time she reached the kitchen, Sean was already dressed for work. Dark work trousers, boots by the door, high-visibility jacket folded over the back of a chair. His hair was still damp, combed back with his fingers rather than a brush. He stood at the counter eating toast straight from the rack, scrolling through his phone with his other hand.
“Morning,” she said.
He glanced up, a brief smile breaking across his face. “Morning.”
He stepped toward her, kissed her cheek. Quick. Familiar.
“You sleep alright?”
“Yeah.”
She poured herself tea and leaned against the counter opposite him. The kitchen window looked out over the row of terraced houses across the street. Brick, painted doors, bicycles chained to railings. Dublin still felt temporary in her mind, even though they had been here nearly a month.
“You nervous about Monday?” he asked, still half-looking at his screen.
“A bit.” She shrugged lightly. “New place.”
“You’ll be grand.” He said it easily, as though it were obvious. “Office work’s office work.”
She smiled. “It’s an accountancy firm.”
“Same difference.” He finished his toast and rinsed his plate in the sink. “You’re organised. They’ll like that.”
He checked the time and reached for his jacket.
“Back around six,” he said. “Maybe later. We’ve a delivery coming in.”
She nodded. “I’ll sort the rest of the boxes today.”
He paused just long enough to look at her properly then, assessing.
“Don’t overdo it.”
“I won’t.”
He kissed her again — this time her mouth — but it was light, absent of urgency. A gesture to complete the morning rather than begin anything.
Then he was gone.
The flat settled into silence.
By ten o’clock she had music playing low in the background and a stack of flattened cardboard against the wall.
She moved methodically through the rooms, folding wedding cards into a keepsake box, wrapping glasses in newspaper before placing them in the cupboard she had decided would hold them permanently. The domestic work steadied her. It gave her edges.
In London she had worked almost up until the move. When Sean had been offered steadier contracts in Dublin, it had seemed sensible to follow. A fresh start. Better money. Less chaos.
She had left her old job easily enough. She had assumed she would find something quickly here.
It had taken longer than she’d expected.
Now she had two days before starting at Kennedy & Sullivan Accountants. Tax specialists. She had repeated the name enough times that it sounded solid in her mouth.
She carried a box of books into the sitting room and knelt to stack them on the low shelf. Her reflection caught briefly in the dark television screen opposite her. Red hair falling forward over one shoulder. Pale skin she hadn’t yet tanned into Irish summer. Amber eyes that looked lighter in this light.
She pushed her hair back and stood.
The flat was almost fully ordered now. The wedding gifts unwrapped. The last of the London things slotted into Dublin spaces.
She walked into the bedroom and paused at the wardrobe.
Sean’s side was full. Work clothes, jeans, jackets. Practical. Dense.
Her side felt thinner.
She ran her fingers along the row of hangers, counting without meaning to.
It would feel different once she was working again. Busier. More structured. She wouldn’t have as much time to notice small things.
She closed the wardrobe and sat on the edge of the bed.
The bedspread was new. Cream, chosen quickly in a shop near Grafton Street because the old one hadn’t matched the dimensions here. She smoothed a crease from it automatically.
Marriage was meant to feel like arrival.
Instead, she felt suspended. Not unhappy. Not exactly.
Just waiting for something to settle.
Outside, a van door slammed. Someone laughed in the street.
She lay back and stared at the ceiling again, the daylight making the room look flatter than it had at night.
Monday would change things.
Work would change things.
Routine always did.
She told herself that as she closed her eyes, letting the quiet of the flat press gently in around her.
By mid-afternoon the flat looked less like a transit space and more like somewhere inhabited.
Áine stood back in the sitting room and assessed it with quiet satisfaction. The last of the cardboard had been folded and stacked behind the sofa. The wedding cards were boxed. The vases rinsed and left to dry beside the sink. Even the faint scent of lilies had begun to fade.
She checked the time.
Maria and Bridget would be here soon.
They had insisted on coming round to “help,” though experience told her that help from the two of them involved more commentary than lifting. She hadn’t wanted them to see the flat in disarray. Not because she minded the mess — but because she minded what they might read into it.
She smoothed the cushion on the armchair unnecessarily.
The buzzer sounded a few minutes later.
Maria’s voice came up the intercom first, bright and unfiltered. “Mrs Campbell, open up.”
Áine smiled despite herself and pressed the button.
They arrived together, as usual — Maria carrying a bag of pastries from a bakery near Holles Street, Bridget with a bottle of wine tucked under one arm despite the hour.
Maria hugged her tightly, warm and familiar. Brown hair pinned loosely at the nape of her neck, a faint scent of hospital disinfectant clinging to her coat in a way that never quite left her these days.
Bridget followed, taller, darker curls pulled back into a low puff, eyes sharp and assessing in the way she never intended but couldn’t quite switch off.
“Well,” Bridget said, stepping inside and looking around. “This doesn’t look like it needs saving.”
“I told you,” Áine replied lightly. “It’s mostly done.”
Maria kicked off her shoes and wandered toward the kitchen. “You’re impossible. We said we’d help.”
“You would’ve just stood there and told me how to do it differently.”
Maria grinned. “True.”
They settled at the small kitchen table with tea and pastries, the bottle of wine left unopened for now.
“So,” Maria said eventually, folding her hands together as though preparing for an interview. “Married life.”
Áine felt the pause before the answer.
“It’s… good.”
Bridget’s eyes flicked to her briefly.
“Good?” she echoed.
“Yes. Good.” Áine laughed softly, as though they were being dramatic. “It’s not like anything’s wildly different. We’ve lived together for years.”
“That’s not the point,” Maria said. “It’s supposed to feel different.”
Áine hesitated.
She thought of the night before. Of Sean’s back turned toward her. Of the quiet in the room.
“It’s quieter,” she said finally.
Bridget tilted her head. “Quieter how?”
“I don’t know.” She reached for her tea, using the movement to buy time. “Just… settled.”
“Settled isn’t always a compliment,” Bridget said, not unkindly.
Áine smiled again. She had perfected the expression over the years — warm enough to reassure, light enough to deflect.
“He’s just busy,” she said. “New contracts. It’ll level out.”
Maria and Bridget exchanged a look so brief it might have been imagined.
“And you?” Maria asked. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine.”
There it was again. The phrase. Easy. Automatic.
Bridget leaned back in her chair. “We just don’t want you disappearing into domestic bliss and never coming out again.”
“I’m starting work on Monday,” Áine reminded them.
“Yes.” Maria brightened. “Tell us about the tax geniuses.”
“It’s not that glamorous,” she said. “Kennedy & Sullivan. I’m just admin support.”
“‘Just’ nothing,” Bridget corrected. “New city, new firm. It’s good.”
“It’ll give you structure,” Maria added gently.
Structure.
The word landed in a way that felt steadier than it should have.
They spoke for a while about work — Maria describing chaos at the National Maternity Hospital in rapid detail, Bridget recounting an argument over a misfiled claim in London International Insurance. Their voices filled the flat, lively and overlapping.
It felt familiar.
Grounding.
Eventually Maria stood and brushed crumbs from her lap. “We’re taking you out Sunday night.”
“For what?”
“For a pre-first-day dinner,” Bridget said. “You don’t get to start a new job without ceremony.”
Áine laughed. “I’ll ask Sean.”
Bridget’s eyebrow lifted slightly.
“You don’t need permission.”
“I know,” Áine said quickly. “I just mean… I’ll check he’s not working late.”
The explanation felt reasonable. Normal.
Maria squeezed her hand. “We’ll come by at seven.”
When they left, the flat felt larger again.
Áine stood in the doorway for a moment, listening to their footsteps fade down the stairs.
She moved back into the kitchen and began washing the mugs, one by one. The rhythm soothed her.
Her phone buzzed on the counter.
Sean.
“Long day. Might be late.”
She stared at the message.
“Okay,” she typed back. “See you later.”
There was no immediate reply.
She dried her hands slowly and leaned against the counter.
The flat was quiet again.
She told herself she preferred it that way.
