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Chapter Text

𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐒𝐤𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐁𝐚𝐝 𝐓𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬

PROLOGUE/CHAPTER ONE

𝘚𝘩𝘢𝘺𝘭𝘦𝘦

The skirt was too long. The shirt too stiff. The blazer too tight across the chest. And don't even get me started on the bloody tights.

I stood in front of my mirror, tugging at the hem of the grey monstrosity of a school skirt, trying to flatten it against my hips like that would somehow make the damn thing look less like a tent and more like something a semi-functioning teenage girl could wear without crying.

It didn't work, obviously.

With a heavy sigh, I turned slightly and looked at myself from the side. Still awful. Still drowning in itchy, shapeless polyester and a necktie that felt like a noose. Nothing about the Tommen College uniform was designed with the female body in mind. It was like they'd purposely gone out of their way to make sure any last drop of femininity was squeezed out the moment you buttoned up.

Boys got to roll out of bed, throw on a pair of slacks and be done with it. Meanwhile, I was here, wrestling with tights that clung to every wrong curve and a pleated skirt that made my thighs look like they belonged to a middle-aged dinner lady named Doreen.

Classy.

Dropping down on the edge of my bed, I picked up the brush and started working it through the long, chocolate-brown waves tumbling down my back. My hair was the only thing I liked about myself these days. Thick, glossy, and healthy as hell — it was my thing. The one thing I refused to change, even when the rest of my life got dragged through the dirt. I'd only ever cut it once. Regretted it instantly. Never again.

Plaiting it came like second nature. Left over right. Right over left. Muscle memory from dance days. From pointe shoes and leotards and mirrors with blinding lights. From a world where I actually knew who I was.

Before everything went sideways.

Before the fall. Before the hospital. Before the surgery that wrecked everything I'd built since I was four years old.

God, I missed dancing.

I missed the discipline of it. The rhythm. The control. The fire in my chest when I nailed a routine.

Now I had stiff knees and a stupid limp that only showed up when I was overtired. Which was most of the time these days.

I should've been in fourth year. Should've been in Dublin with my friends, getting ready for exams, complaining about mocks and planning post-leaving cert parties.

Instead, I was stuck here. In the middle of bloody nowhere. Ballylaggin.

Held back a year after the injury — "to give yourself time to recover, sweetheart," my dad had said. As if a shiny new timetable and fresh books were going to fix the fact that everything I'd worked for was gone.

I tied off the end of the plait and stared at my reflection. I didn't look like a Tommen girl. Not like the ones I'd seen during our visit. They were loud and leggy and terrifyingly confident. All rugby girlfriends and shiny lip gloss and fake tan. I looked like... a backup dancer in a low-budget ballet recital.

God.

A notification lit up on my phone. For a brief, stupid second, my heart jumped — but it wasn't a text. Just another missed call reminder.

I tapped into WhatsApp and scrolled through the group chat. All ghosted. Not one reply.

Ava hadn't messaged in three weeks. No word from Kelsey. Even Ciara — my best friend since junior infants — had gone quiet.

It was like the moment I stopped being useful, I stopped existing.

They'd moved on without me. I knew that. Didn't mean it didn't feel like I'd been kicked in the gut every time I checked my phone.

"Give it a chance, Shay."
My dad's voice echoed from the hallway — like he could sense the storm brewing in my room.

Give it a chance.

That was the deal. I try Tommen. I wear the stupid uniform and keep my mouth shut and smile when I don't feel like it. All to give him peace of mind.

He was trying. I knew that. Pulling double shifts, pretending not to be completely overwhelmed by raising a teenage girl on his own. He didn't understand dance. He didn't understand why I couldn't just pick something else.
But he was trying. And that counted for something.

Still.

Tommen College wasn't home. It wasn't me.

And the last thing I needed was some rugby-obsessed all-boys-turned-coed school full of arrogant, protein-chugging idiots trying to puff their chests out at me in between training sessions.

I'd keep my head down. Stay invisible. Count down the days until I could be anywhere else.

At least, that was the plan.

But if life had taught me anything lately, it was that plans meant jack-shite.

*

Somehow he managed to coax me into the car without the very real possibility of me freaking out and refusing to go entirely.

I didn't say much. Didn't have to. Dad was more than happy to fill the silence on his own, humming along to Today FM like we weren't driving straight towards the beginning of my social death.

"♪ Don't stop believin'... ♪" he half-sang, half-mumbled along with Journey, tapping the steering wheel like it was a drum kit.

The worst part? He was in a great mood.

"Big meeting today," he told me cheerfully, eyes flicking to the road. "That fella I've been emailing from Waterford — finally sorting a deal with him. It'll be nice to put a face to the name. Might even get the new delivery contract out of it."

I nodded, keeping my eyes on the hedges flying by outside the window.

He was trying. Always trying.

After everything that happened last year — the fall, the surgery, the move — I knew he was doing his best to hold it all together. Trying to make it easier.

Dragging me to Ballylaggin. Enrolling me in a school I didn't want. Pushing me to just try.

Try what, though? To be someone I'm not anymore?

Sixteen years old and stuck going into third year because I'd missed so much school the year before.

A full year gone.

Hospital beds. Physical therapy. Dad bringing me toast and Lucozade in a paper cup.

I was supposed to be in fourth year by now — Transition Year, the easy one. The one everyone got excited about because it meant Gaisce awards and drama modules and work experience at cafés where you drank more tea than you served.

Instead, I was being shuffled backwards, shoved into a classroom full of younger students who wouldn't know me, wouldn't get it, wouldn't care.

And my so-called friends?

They'd stopped replying weeks ago.

I'd left voicemails on Ciara's house phone. Texted Ava three times on her Nokia. Even wrote a letter to Kelsey because her mam "didn't believe in mobiles" and I thought maybe, maybe, it would be a nice surprise.

Nothing.

No replies. No missed calls. Just the cold, creeping knowledge that they'd moved on.

Without me.

The worst part was, I couldn't even check in on them. No Bebo. No Myspace. Just silence.

I stared down at my knees, tugging at the hem of my skirt again.

Still too long. Still horrible. Still clinging in all the wrong places.

Dad pulled onto the narrow country road that curved toward the school gates.

"Y'know," he said, flicking on the indicator, "I know this isn't where you thought you'd be, Shay. But sometimes... sometimes a fresh start can be good."

I didn't answer.

Just stared out through the windscreen at the place looming ahead.

Tommen College. Jesus. Even the name sounded posh.

The gates were tall and black and looked like they'd been forged in another century. Beyond them, the gravel driveway twisted between rows of massive oak trees. The grass on either side looked like it had been shaved with a razor blade.

The main building rose in the distance like some sort of castle — ivy-covered walls, arched windows, and big heavy doors that looked like they'd been dragged from the set of a BBC period drama.

You could tell straight away this place was built for lads who grew up with money and rugby balls in their hands.

The kind of boys whose daddies were surgeons and whose mams ran charity luncheons in town.

There were students scattered around the front steps, slouched against bikes, sitting on stone walls, shouting to each other like they owned the place.

Most of them were in uniform — grey slacks and starched white shirts. Blazers with the Tommen crest embroidered in gold on the chest. Girls with matching skirts and smug expressions, already in clusters like they were rehearsing for a Debs committee.

There were rugby lads, too. You could spot them a mile off.

Massive, loud, shoving each other around like dogs off the lead. Shoulders the size of small boulders. Laughs that echoed across the courtyard.

I could feel the panic rise in my chest before I'd even stepped out of the car.

Dad pulled into the drop-off lane and slowed to a stop.

"You alright?" he asked gently.

I nodded, fingers tightening around the strap of my schoolbag.

"Text me if you need anything. I'll be back about half-four."

Another nod.

He gave me a hopeful smile. "You look great, Shay. Really."

I didn't. I looked like a knock-off school librarian. But I appreciated the effort.

Gripping the door handle, I took a deep breath.

"I'll be fine," I muttered, more to myself than him.

"I know you will."

He watched as I climbed out and shut the door behind me.

Then I was alone.

Standing at the base of the front steps of Tommen college.

Chapter Text

The corridors of Tommen were loud. As per usual.

That Monday morning buzz—lads shouting across locker bays, some gobshite bouncing a rugby ball off the lockers, shoes squeaking on the polished floors like a feckin' orchestra of noise—was enough to rattle the back of my skull.

I kept walking, head down, bag slung over one shoulder, doing my best to phase out the chaos around me.

Same halls. Same posters curling off the noticeboards. Same smell of deodorant, burnt toast from the canteen, and barely-contained testosterone.

Tommen was predictable like that.

A massive, creaky, over-polished rugby centered school with more ego than sense.

You could hear fifth years bragging about scrums they barely survived, sixth years flexing like they'd already signed for Leinster, and some poor fecker in third year being roasted alive for wearing the wrong runners.

I didn't talk to anyone as I made my way down the hall. Just moved.

I was good at moving. At not being noticed too much. At keeping my distance.

When I reached my locker—second row, end of the middle bay—I twisted the dial and yanked it open.

And there it was.

Folded pink paper. Tucked neatly on top of my books like a present.

I didn't need to open it to know who it was from.

Still, I did.

Unfolded it. Scanned the page. Cringed.

"Morning, you. Thought I'd surprise you. You left your hoodie at mine last month. Smells like you. Wanna come get it sometime? X - J"

Jesus Christ.

I crumpled it in my fist and shoved it in the bottom of my locker. Somewhere between an empty Lucozade bottle and the rugby fixture list from last term.

That made three notes this week.

All from Janae bloody Lively.

The worst part? I should've known better.

Slept with her once, maybe twice, over a year ago when things were loud and messy in my head and I needed something—someone—to shut it off. She'd latched on like I was a prize cow at the ploughing championships and hadn't let go since.

Now she floated around the school like she was my girlfriend and I just hadn't realised yet.

I didn't do girlfriends.

Didn't even really do girls anymore.

Not properly. Not the whole tangled, clingy, let's-pretend-we're-in-a-movie bullshit.

It was messy. It was loud. It was always about more than what it was supposed to be.

And Janae?

She was insufferable.

Should've clocked it the second I found out she was best mates with Bella Wilkinson.

Bella. Wilkinson.

The name alone made my jaw tighten.

Slippery little snake with glossy lips and a Prada handbag she pretended was real. She had my brother wrapped around her fake-manicured finger since fourth year and still managed to shag half the rugby team behind his back without breaking a nail.

Johnny didn't see it. Or he did and he just didn't care.

Either way, it made me sick to watch. Either way made him fucking pathetic.

He was better than her. Deserved better.

But try telling him that.

He was too busy eating up the attention. Captain of the team. Number 13. Next-in-line for U20s. Johnny fucking Kavanagh.

Could do no wrong.

Could sleep with the most obvious user in the county and still have the whole school clapping for him like he cured cancer.

Not that I cared.

Not really.

He could have the spotlight. Had it since we were born.

Two minutes older. Two hundred times more adored.

I liked quiet. Preferred it.

Still got plenty of attention when I wanted it — not that I ever asked for it. Girls liked the whole tall-dark-and-brooding thing. Lads didn't trust it.

I wasn't Johnny. Didn't want to be.

Didn't have the speed. Or the drive. Or the head for it.

Rugby was his thing.

I just showed up because Mam would lose her mind if I didn't.

Because it was easier than having her check my pupils every morning. Easier than her shaking my drawers and sniffing my jackets and ringing the clinic for "check-ins" like I was going to spiral at any second.

Once was enough.

Once was more than enough.

I didn't remember much of that night. Just Kierans messy floor and Johnny's voice somewhere above me, panicking, shouting.

I remember the ambulance ride.

I remember Mam crying. Dad consoling her.

I did sort it in the end.

Sort of.

Did the sessions. The piss tests. The awkward lectures from counsellors who spoke to me like I was twelve and melting crayons in a spoon.

It wasn't even heroin or anything. Just a mess of pills and drink and bad judgement.

But once you're that kid, you don't get to be anything else.

Not in a place like Tommen.

I slammed the locker shut and slung my bag over one shoulder.

The bell hadn't even gone yet, but the halls were buzzing. Lads shouting, girls gossiping, some eejit trying to kick a football through a classroom door.

Normal chaos.

Until another bloody eejit who'd lobbed a rugby ball down the corridor yelled out to duck.

The sharp slap of rubber against concrete hit a beat too close for comfort.

I snatched the ball out of the air before it could crack off my skull, spinning it once in my hand as I turned slowly on my heel.

"Jesus, Kavanagh—reflexes of a ninja," came the familiar, overly enthusiastic voice from behind me.

Gibsie.

Of course.

Gerard Gibson, resident gobshite, disaster magnet, and Johnny's best friend since the dawn of bloody time.

He barrelled down the corridor towards me, schoolbag half open, one shoelace trailing behind him like a death trap, and the stupidest grin on his face.

"Sorry, lad—meant for Farrell," he said, jerking his thumb at some poor second year now limping past with a stack of books and a terrified expression. "Didn't see you there. Which is mad 'cause you're fuckin' massive."

I tossed the ball back at his chest. "Watch where you're throwin' them next time."

"Will do, Cap'n," he saluted with two fingers and promptly dropped the ball. "Anyway—listen, right—don't suppose you know where we're meant to be first thing? I've lost my timetable again."

"Like I'd know," I muttered, pulling my locker door closed with a dull clang.

Gibsie fell into step beside me without waiting for an invite, babbling already.

"Bet it's Maths. Always bloody Maths. Or English. Do we have Walsh this term? Please tell me we don't have Walsh. She hates me. Told me last year my handwriting was a 'crime against humanity.' Can you believe that shite? Harsh. Artistic, if you ask me—"

I tuned most of it out.

Didn't have the energy.

Still, he threw his arm around my shoulders as we moved through the corridor like he'd known me since nappies. Which he hadn't. Not even close.

We were mates. Sort of. Everyone on the team was, to some extent. Banter in the locker rooms, lifts to matches, piss-ups on the weekends.

But that was about as deep as it went.

I didn't do best mates.

Didn't do lads-having-heart-to-hearts-under-the-stars.

Johnny was the golden retriever of the Kavanagh twins. I was more the stray mutt that bit when cornered.

Still, Gibsie didn't seem to notice—or didn't care.

"Anyway," he went on, like we hadn't just walked half the corridor in silence, "Claire mentioned there's a new girl starting today. Third year."

I raised a brow. "And?"

Gibsie grinned. "Just sayin'. Bit of excitement for a Monday, no?"

"Another third year shrieking in the halls like a banshee? Yeah. Can't wait."

He laughed, loud and obnoxious. "Jesus, you're miserable in the mornings. You need coffee or a hug or somethin'."

"Stay away from me with both."

"She might not be like that, y'know," he added, ignoring the warning in my voice. "Claire said she's not from Cork. Dublin girl or somethin.. just like ya'!" He declared, patting me on the back and only continuing when I didn't respond. Frankly unamused. "Transferred down. Bit of a mad one. Missed most of last year 'cause of an injury—leg or somethin'. Broke it dancing or I dunno, some shite like that."

I shrugged, uninterested.

Third years. Girls. Gossip.

All of it sat so low on my radar it was basically underground.

"And how would Claire know all this?" I asked, more out of obligation than curiosity.

"I dunno," Gibsie shrugged like he genuinely didnt have a clue in the world. "Girls talk I s'pose"

Right.

"So why's she telling you then? Part of the girl code are we gibs?" I asked, smiling for the first time this morning.

"Oh fuck off ya eejit." He muttered, punching me in the arm. "She just told me because I was with her and Hughie this morning"

It made sense to be fair. As far as I knew Gibsie's family had always been pretty close to the Biggs family, practically living at each other's houses. And it wasn't exactly a secret that Gibsie spent every waking moment of his existence trying to get Hughies pretty little sister to go out with him.

"Just don't be gettin' your hopes up on this mystery girl" I told him, just waiting for us to round the corner and into the classroom so this conversation could finish. "Most people aren't as fun as they seem on paper."

He laughed again, undeterred.

And I kept walking, head down, the way I always did—hoping to stay just out of reach of whatever drama was on the horizon.

Because third year girls with dodgy legs and sad backstories?

Yeah. Sounded like exactly the kind of mess I didn't need.

***

Chapter Text

Small lunch was nearly over, and I was knackered. Not from the actual classes – though, Jesus, Algebra might as well be in Mandarin – but from just...existing. Navigating this school felt like some twisted version of Crystal Maze, only with more rugby balls and less sense.

I'd somehow managed to keep myself from getting completely lost between classes, only made a minor show of myself during double Maths when I walked into the wrong room, and had been harassed by no less than five thick-necked eejits who apparently thought complimenting my legs counted as good craic.

Didn't matter how fast I walked or how cold I kept my expression—lads at Tommen didn't seem to get the hint. One of them, some ginger lad with more bicep than brain, actually had the nerve to wink and say, "Bet you're great at stretching."

What the hell gave them the right? Just because they were big, and broad, and apparently God's gift to Irish schools? Fuck off.

I'd wanted to turn around and tell them exactly where to shove their compliments. But I didn't. Because I was new. And I was supposed to be giving this a fair chance.

Instead, I busied on. Clutched my folder to my chest and pretended I didn't hear.

Tommen was massive. Like, unnecessarily big. Grand, stone buildings and massive halls that echoed your footsteps and made you feel like a pea rattling around a tin. My old school in Dublin had been modest, cramped, and constantly smelled like tuna and wet socks. This place smelled like polish and prestige.

I'd gotten lost three times already, nearly walked into the lads' toilets by accident, and if it hadn't been for a bubbly girl named Claire Biggs, I might still be wandering the science wing.

Claire was unreal—loud, friendly, and the type of girl who said your name like she'd known you for years. She'd spotted me loitering by the lockers like a lost sheep and introduced herself in a flurry of chatter and compliments. Her mate Lizzie tagged along beside her, a little more prickly but seemed nice enough.

Claire had linked her arm through mine before I even had the chance to say no and declared I'd be sitting with them at big lunch. Apparently, there were only eight or nine girls in third year, and she was on a mission to recruit the rest of us into some kind of unofficial gang.

I appreciated the niceties. Really. Especially in a place where I felt more like a misplaced extra than an actual student.

And later she'd introduced me to Shannon—another new girl who looked like a gust of wind might blow her away. All limbs and nerves. She'd quietly offered to walk me to French, and thank Christ she did, because I'd have never found it on my own.

She didn't say much, just smiled softly and tapped her shoes together as we waited outside the classroom. But she was kind. Gentle. And that went a long way with me.

Now, I was sat on a cold bench outside the main building, chewing on a packet of Tayto crisps and sipping on a carton of Ribena like I wasn't silently judging everything and everyone around me.

From my spot, I could see the rugby pitch. It was packed, predictably. Lads in navy training kits roaring and charging like bulls across the grass. The thud of bodies colliding echoed all the way to where I was sat, making the bench vibrate under me.

They were massive. Like, actually massive. Some leaner, quicker on their feet. Others built like freight trains.

I didn't know much about rugby, but I knew enough to recognise a good game when I saw one. There were no holds barred. No soft tackles or half-hearted scrums. These lads were going full tilt, like they were already playing for their country.

It was terrifying. And kind of fascinating.

Back in Dublin, the boys in my old school only ever talked about football and played like shitehawks in the back field. This was a different breed altogether.

They moved like they meant it. Fierce and focused and loud.

I sort of understood it.

The true passion for a sport. Similar to the passion I'd had for dance.

A passion I was having to force out of my system because despite the many physio appointments I was never getting back out there. And I would never be as good as I used to. It was infuriating.

I had been good.

But good doesn't get you very far when your leg gives out mid-routine and lands you in hospital for a week and physio for a year.

I'd tried. God, I had.

Pushed and stretched and iced and taped and convinced myself that maybe, maybe, I'd bounce back. But the thing no one tells you is that even when your body heals, your heart remembers.

So, no. I wasn't going back.

Not really.

Not as me.

Anyway, Big lunch rolled around quicker than I expected.

I was halfway through struggling with a packet of Meanies—because if I was going to survive this place, I needed the comfort of pickled onion crisps—when Claire spotted me from the other end of the hall and waved me over.

"Shay!" she called, standing on her toes like I couldn't see her from ten feet away. "Come sit!"

Lizzie was already sat cross-legged on the bench, poking at a yogurt like it had personally offended her. I made my way over, dropped my bag, and slotted into the seat across from them.

"Still surviving?" Claire asked, grinning.

"Barely," I replied, lips tugging into a small smile.

Claire had this natural kind of energy—like she existed in technicolour while the rest of us were stuck in greyscale. Her hair was a soft, strawberry blonde shade, all shiny and coiled with natural curls, and she had a smattering of freckles across her cheeks that made her look younger than she was. Lizzie was more serious-looking, with sharp brows and straight blonde hair, plus a deadpan humour that made me laugh more than I expected.

"We were hoping Shannon would sit with us," Claire added, frowning down at her lunch. "But she's disappeared again."

"We've been looking for her since last period," Lizzie added, rolling her eyes. "Checked the loos, the library, even the nurse's office. Nothing."

"She might've gone home," Claire said, nibbling on a triangle of her sandwich. "It's all been a bit much for her, I think."

I'd only met Shannon briefly but it didn't surprise me to know she'd probably find fitting in a little harder than I would. She had this sort fo silent presence, as if she thought her talking would create a hole in the centre of the universe.

"She seemed nice," I murmured. "Hope she's alright."

"She will be," Claire said, like she needed to believe it. "She's just... Shannon."

I picked at my food, twisting a strand of hair around my finger. It fell in soft waves today, the plaits I'd done earlier leaving it all crinkled and full. The chocolaty brown strands brushed my waist even in the stupid school uniform, thick and shiny. I'd always loved my hair. One of the few things I never felt the need to change.

"You've got great hair," Lizzie said out of nowhere, eyeing it with mild envy. "Like, proper shampoo-advert hair."

I smiled, sheepish. "Thanks. My dad calls it my one party trick."

Claire snorted. "Better than mine. My fringe looks like I cut it with a bloody butter knife this morning."

I laughed quietly, feeling a rare burst of warmth in my chest. The girls were easy to like. Normal. Genuine. The kind of girls you could sit beside at lunch without pretending to be someone you weren't.

Unlike the rugby gobshites.

I'd had three more comments made since small break about my skirt and what it did for my calves.

Big headed pigs.

I just hoped that it'd wear off within the next couple days. Once they realised I wasn't an option to sleep around with.

They had no shame. No filter. Just swagger and protein shakes and too much Lynx Africa.

It was hard not to notice them now too.

Out on the pitch, most of them were eating or shoving each other around like toddlers on Red Bull. But inside the hall, there was a group of them loitering near the far wall. And they were staring.

At Claire and Lizzie and me.

Not subtly either.

I kept my eyes fixed on my crisps and tried to pretend I hadn't noticed, but my skin prickled all the same. I wasn't used to this. Not at my old school in Dublin. The lads there talked big and played like cowards, too scared to chip a nail.

These lads were something else.

Built like tanks with big egos to match.

A few of them nodded, muttered something to each other, then looked back my way and laughed.

Claire noticed.

"Ignore them," she said, tone hardening. "Bunch of twats."

"Yeah," Lizzie added. "Half of them only know how to talk in grunts and fake compliments."

"Honestly," I muttered. "What gives them the right? I had five of them come up to me before break making comments. About my legs. Like, is that normal here?"

Claire looked apologetic. "They're like that with every girl, especially if you're new. You're like fresh meat to them."

I sighed, sinking lower in my seat. Tommen was starting to grind on me already. I missed Dublin. Missed my old life. My old school. Even if they'd stopped picking up my calls.

I was broken out of my thoughts at the loud scraping sound of one of the canteen tables skidding across the hall, followed by a few gasps from other students.

I looked up and felt my chest tighten.

Two lads. Standing nose to nose across the hall.

One of them—taller by a good few inches maybe 6,3 - 6,4—had dark, shaggy hair swept back from a sharp-cut face. Strong cheekbones. Eyes like smoke. Built like a freight train. He had a look in his eye that made my stomach twist. Like he was seconds away from snapping the other guy in half and wouldn't lose a wink of sleep over it.

The other lad wasn't small by any means. Just seemed a little pathetic next to his opponent. Stocky build, messy brown hair, cocky smirk that was faltering with every passing second.

"I swear to Christ, if you ever want to open your fucking mouth again I will rearrange that thick head of yours" the taller one growled, voice low but terrifyingly clear. "Try me, ya thick little prick. See how far your mouth gets you when you're pissing blood."

"Jesus," Lizzie muttered. "All the fucking time."

Claire looked torn. Glancing between me and the lads and back again like she wanted to intervene.

"Should we—?" she started.

"Don't bother," Lizzie cut in. "Let them kill each other. Might thin the herd."

Before anything could escalate further, another figure darted into the middle.

Tall. Blonde. Wide smile. Claire stiffened up immediately.

"Oh for fucks sake Gibsie," she breathed.

He was fast—too fast. Slipping between them and throwing his arms out like some peacekeeping daft lad with a death wish. He clapped a hand on the taller one's chest, said something I couldn't hear, and grinned like they weren't seconds from launching each other through a wall.

Teachers were swarming now. The tension broke like a wave. The lads backed off, shoulders tight, jaws clenched. The stockier one muttered something under his breath and stalked off.

The tall one stayed frozen for a beat longer, then spun on his heel and stormed toward the doors, fists still clenched.

Claire stood abruptly. "I'm gonna check on Gibs."

And just like that, she was gone.

Leaving me and Lizzie with a bench full of crumbs, two unopened Capri-Suns, and the aftermath of whatever the hell that just was.

"What the fuck just happened?" I muttered.

Lizzie shook her head. "Welcome to Tommen, babe. Try not to breathe too loud. It sets them off."

***

Chapter Text

I'd made the conscious decision to actually sit with the lads today.

Didn't usually bother. Couldn't be arsed half the time. Between rugby training, classes, and the chaos that came with just existing at Tommen, lingering was easier. Wandering the halls, drifting around campus, wasting time somewhere between fuck all and nothing.

But Gibsie had dragged me down for this lunch.

He'd even gone as far as threatening to drag me by the bollocks if I didn't show.

And he wouldn't shut the fuck up about some accident Johnny had at practice. Something about him hitting a girl with the rugby ball so hard she ended up in hospital. Apparently she was new. And small. And fragile enough that the full force of Johnny 'Iron Hands' Kavanagh nearly flattened her. Should've shown up to training. But if I had, I'd have had to listen to Coach Flanagan scream down my throat about missed tackles and poor attitude and Jesus knows what else. I'd rather staple my tongue to the floor.

So I rocked up to the cafeteria and planted myself at the table with the rest of the crew. Johnny, Gibsie, Hughie, Feely, Cormac, a few others. The whole bloody rugby lineup.

They're still harping on about Johnny's 'hit and run'. Which, to be fair, he looks fucking miserable about. Moody as hell, jaw clenched so tight it could probably crack a plate.

"She alright now though?" I ask, mostly to make conversation.

Johnny didn't answer right away. Just shrugs, gaze dark.

"Anyone says one thing about what they saw," he announced, loud enough that tables down from us could probably hear, "I'll knock your teeth down your throat. That clear?"

Gibsie coughed awkwardly, looking like he was trying not to laugh.

"We get it, Cap," he said, raising his hands. "She's off limits. Jesus. You practically lost your mind when Feely mentioned her knickers."

"I will end you."

There was a moment of silence before Gibsie did what he always does best – break tension with something else.

"Speaking of new girls," he said, glancing across the hall and pointing to a table consisting of three girls. "Check out that table,"

Claire Biggs I recognised, Hughies sister and Gibsies little obsession, and her angry blonde friend who'd once tried to knock me out with her biology textbook. Whatever for I couldn't remember but I'd steered clear of her since.

And then opposite them, a girl I didn't recognise with an impressively large braid slung over her shoulder. Big eyes. Big jumper. The kind of girl who doesn't even try to look at anyone but still ends up pulling half the room's attention. She was undeniably gorgeous.

"That's the other new third year I was tellin' you about Rudes. Shayla or Shelby or summat." Gibsie recalled.

"Christ," One of the lads muttered. "Look at them legs,"

That little comment made me want to punch his lights out. What need they felt to constantly make comments about girls' appearances, especially ones two years younger, was beyond me.

"I would," Gibsie snorted. "That skirt should be illegal."

I jabbed Gibsie in the ribs, not so playfully.

"Stop staring. You're gonna make the girl uncomfortable."

At that point she'e glanced over at least three times, even I was starting to feel awkward for her.

Out of respect, I edged my attention somewhere else, unfortunately for me, my gaze landing on the bane of my existence.

Kieran fucking Gallagher.

Sitting across the room at another table, acting like king of the rats. Eyes also glued to the new girl, but with something hungrier, slimier. Until his attention shifted to the first year next to him.

The kid looked out of place. Small, pale. Black circles under his eyes like he hadn't slept in days. The exact image of what I used to look like when I spent my free time hanging off Kieran's every word.

I could feel the fury creep up my spine.

Because I know that look. I know that glazed-over stare. I know the sick twist in Kieran's smile as he leans over and whispers something to the lads next to him. He tapped on the first year's school bag. Probably packed with more contraband shit than schoolbooks.

Fucking hell.

"Oi! Gallagher!"

My voice cut across the noise of the hall. Not enough to make it stop, everyone continuing with their chatter.

He looked up. His surprise turning into a sly smirk.

"Why don't you stick to your own year, you creepy little twat?"

I could see a few heads turning in my peripheral, but ignored it.

"What did you say to me, Kavanagh?" Kieran rose from his seat at the table, the smirk still playing on his stupid fucking face.

"You heard me." I sneered, "Bet it gets boring, hanging out with kids to feel tall. Or is it just easier to manipulate someone too young to know you're a fucking snake?"

The first year kid flinches. I see it. The way his hand tightens on the strap of his bag. Like he's ready to bolt, but hasn't remembered how to run.

I looked him dead in the eye.

"Get a grip," I tell him. "And get the fuck away from him. Now."

Kieran laughed. That same dry, wheezy chuckle he's had since we were twelve.

"Still the same Rudy," he said. "Big threats. Big mouth. Nothing behind it. Should've known it the moment you laid lifeless on my fucking carpet.. still a pussy at heart."

My fists curled on the table. White-knuckled.

He sees it. Loves it.

"You want to go again, yeah? Maybe this time you won't end up slumped in a stairwell while your mam screams down the corridor for someone to help you. Remember that sound? That broken fucking cry?"

I stood so fast the bench skids under me.

Hands slamming to the table. Loud. Sharp.

"I swear to Christ," I growled, voice shaking, "if you ever want to open your fucking mouth again, I will rearrange that thick head of yours."

Kieran was stood too. Making us practically nose to nose.

"Try me, ya thick little prick. See how far your mouth gets you when you're pissing blood." I spat.

The tension was razor sharp. Noise has dipped across the room. Everyone was watching.

And just as I cocked my arm back—

Gibsie fucking barrels in.

"Whoa, WHOA!" he shouts, throwing himself between us like some kind of peacekeeping lunatic.

Then Johnny's there. Shoving Kieran back with one arm, strong enough to send him stumbling.

"Back the fuck down," Johnny snapped. "You keep talking about my brother, Gallagher, I'll make you eat your own teeth."

Meanwhile Gibsie held me by the front of my jumper.

"He's not worth it. Not even a little bit."

I could hear shouting now. Teachers rushing over. Too late, as always.

Too late to stop me wanting to rip his fucking head off.

They spoke about going to the office, about detentions and write-ups and blah, blah, blah.

I didn't wait.

Instead storming out. Hands still clenched. Blood boiling. And Kieran's smug, ratty grin burnt into the back of my mind.

***

Chapter Text

Closing my locker with a satisfying little clink, I let out a breath I hadn't realised I'd been holding.

I'd survived day one.

In all fairness, it hadn't gone dreadfully.

That was the grand conclusion I'd come to as I leaned on the cool metal behind me.

I'd made it through in one piece, and made three new friends in the space of 6 hours which had to be some kind of record. They were nice people as well, Claire, Lizzie and Shannon. Not that I'd really seen Shannon much after her disappearance but from the impression I got from her, I felt like we'd really get along.

I'd also nearly witnessed two fully grown lads – and I mean fully grown, both tipping well over six foot – knock the heads off each other in what would've been a highlight reel moment for my first day.

Lizzie, of course, reckoned it was a regular occurrence, and I was starting to get the picture that she hated rugby lads even more than I did. Which was saying something, considering I didn't think I even had an opinion on them until today.

Still, I'd survived. I'd kept my head down, done what I was told, taken my notes, and now I was free. All I had to do was walk to the car park and wait for Dad to come collect me.

Rinse and repeat tomorrow.

And the next day.

And the next...

Until what, exactly? I hadn't a clue.

Fishing my phone out of the side pocket of my bag, the screen flashed with a new message.

Dad: Meeting's overrunning. I'll be 30 minutes late, love. Sorry x

Great.

Flicking a few loose strands of my braid out of my face, I huffed a breath and pocketed my phone.

Thirty minutes.

I had thirty whole minutes to kill, and the absolute last thing I felt like doing was sitting at the front gates like a sad sack with nowhere to go. There were study rooms somewhere on campus. I'd stumbled across them earlier while getting lost for the third time before lunch, but now that I actually needed to find them?

No clue.

Safe to say this school was going to take a while to adjust to.

After a few minutes of wandering up and down the quieting hallways, now mostly deserted of the midday madness, I found myself pushing open a set of side doors and stepping outside.

Fresh air hit me in the face as I blinked at my surroundings.

It was a little green patch tucked behind one of the campus buildings, slightly raised, with a low wooden fence and a decent view overlooking the rugby pitch. I wouldn't have found it if I tried – the place just seemed to appear.

Curious, I wandered closer to the fence.

Down below, a cluster of lads were spread across the pitch, chucking a rugby ball around and shouting in every direction.

My eyes immediately scanned the group.

Yeah.

Definitely the same lads from the lunchroom.

Chaos in jersey form.

My brain tossed back to earlier, to the lunchtime drama and the shouting match between two lads that had brought the entire cafeteria to a halt. I still had no idea what that had been about – or why the entire school seemed to react like it was just another Tuesday.

But after sitting through a few more classes and picking up bits from Lizzie and Claire, it didn't take a genius to piece together that Kieran Gallagher was the problem.

Shorter, stockier, with a perma-scowl on his face, and apparently a dealer to the lads in need of 'something stronger' to get through the school day. Or more like life in total. Lizzie had said it like it was common knowledge.

And somehow despite being a dirtbag he was still part of the team let alone the school, probably had everything to do with the fact that his dad was the chair of the sports committee.

Corruption. Love that.

She hadn't got round to telling me about the other taller lad, with the thick dark hair and I hadn't asked.

Didn't need to. Even standing here now, watching him from a distance, he stuck out like a fucking sore thumb.

He was taller than everyone else – and broad, with a shock of black hair that made him look like a crow standing in a nest of blonde and brown robins. His presence was unsettling in the way that you knew the second you looked at him, he was the type of lad you didn't mess with.

There was only one other fella out there about the same height, and by the way the rest of them seemed to orbit around him, I figured he was the captain.

But my gaze kept flicking back to the mystery boy with that thick dark hair.

he had a different kind of energy. Like he didn't want to be watched but couldn't help pulling your eyes to him all the same.

My phone buzzed again.

Dad: Get some homework done if you're bored. Love you. x

Rolling my eyes affectionately, I glanced back at the pitch weighing up my options.

I could either sit here and watch them play a game I wouldn't understand, or go searching for one of the study rooms which would probably take me the entire time I had.

Neither of them were very appealing so I decided to multitask.

Tugging my skirt under my thighs, I lowered myself onto a dry patch of grass, far enough away from the pitch not to be noticed, but close enough that I could still watch through the gaps in the fence. My books came out of my bag and stacked neatly in front of me.

None of the subjects had been particularly hard so far, but Jesus, Tommen didn't mess around when it came to the workload. And apparently, being new didn't grant me any sort of grace period.

No excuses. No extensions. Just deadlines.

Cheers.

Loud shouting made me glance up again.

The ball was flying across the pitch, lads tackling each other left and right. It looked like absolute chaos. I didn't know gobshite about rugby, I'd watched rugby with my dad before, but never like this. Never in real life. Up close like this it looked mental.

There was one blondie – I was pretty sure it was that Gibsie fella Claire had been rabbiting on about earlier. The same one who'd stepped into the fight and played peacekeeper at lunch. Strange nickname.

I watched as he launched himself at another lad, missed entirely, and hit the deck like a sack of spuds.

Jesus, it looked painful.

After a couple more minutes I was seriously regretting not bringing earphones. I made a mental note that if this was to ever happen again I'd bring them just to avoid listening to lads scream and grunt at each other across the field.

Still, I finished off my maths homework, double-checked the answers, and tucked the pages back into my folder before turning my attention back to the game.

The shouting had died down a bit. Not completely, but the worst of it had passed. It was almost peaceful.

Until it wasn't.

Movement on the pitch caught my eye.

The dark-haired lad was sprinting again, darting across the field like he'd been shot out of a cannon. And Jesus Christ, he was good.

Ridiculously good.

He passed the ball with precision, ducked past tackles with barely a second to spare, his eyes tracking the play like it was all mapped out in his head.

And those arms—

Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

His jersey clung to him like a second skin, sleeves pushed tight over massive biceps that flexed with every movement.

Number Eight.

I squinted. Yep.

Definitely said number eight on the back.

I didn't know much about rugby, but I knew enough to know that was a big role. A heavy hitter.

And he was fast. Unreasonably fast for a lad that size.

Then – wham.

Another player, much smaller but clearly unafraid of death, hurled himself straight into Number Eight and brought him to the ground with a loud oof.

Dark Hair was up in a second, fury burning off him like smoke. He shoved the lad off him and started yelling – full volume, voice cracking with rage.

"Fuck off," I heard him shout, clear as day.

Well.

Temper, thy name is Number Eight.

A man in a tracksuit – the coach, I assumed – jogged onto the field, barking something in his direction.

Dark Hair snapped.

Properly snapped.

He slammed the ball on the ground like it had insulted his mother. The coach bent, picked it up, and shoved it back into his chest.

And that was when he launched it – not back to the team, not toward the coach, but up and over his shoulder like a fuckin' grenade.

Right at me.

"Oh my god!"

I ducked just in time.

The ball slammed into the tree behind me, cracking against the bark with a dull thud. Inches from my head.

Jesus wept, I nearly lost my nose.

I took a breath. Regret. That's what I felt. Pure, unfiltered regret. For ever thinking that bloke had good aim.

Who the fuck launched a bloody rugby ball like that without checking their surroundings?!

Every single player on the pitch was staring now. If they hadn't noticed me before, they sure as hell did now.

A few of the lads started shouting.

"Jesus, man, it's the girl with the nice legs! What were you thinkin'?!"

Nice. Love being reduced to a body part in front of a rugby team.

Heat exploded in my cheeks as I scrambled to my feet, brushing the dirt and grass from my legs. My limbs felt wobbly, like I'd just narrowly escaped being flattened by a truck. I hadn't even been hit, and yet adrenaline buzzed violently beneath my skin.

From across the pitch, the dark-haired lad—him—was sprinting in my direction, clearing the low wooden fence with all the effort of someone stepping over a puddle. Up close, he was even taller. Broad shouldered. Looming. Powerful. And beneath that moody, brooding look on his face, I spotted something else—

Panic.

"I'm so sorry are you alright..?" he asked trailing off as if waiting for me to fill in the gap of my missing name, voice low but urgent.

"Shay—Shaylee," I breathed out, flustered and slightly dazed.

"Right. Shay...Shaylee. Are you alright?"

I blinked at him, Was he trying to be funny? Or did he genuinely think that I'd introduced myself like that?

"I'm fine—uh, maybe you should watch where you're throwing things next time," I muttered quietly. I wasn't really sure how to act around this guy. Not that he was scary, but he wasn't particularly approachable either.

At least he was nice to look at.

His dark brows lifted, not in offence, but more like I'd just said something incredibly stupid. "Maybe you shouldn't sit so close to the pitch," he replied, calm as you like. Not mean, but not kind either. Just factual, as if I should've predicted being nearly decapitated.

I gaped at him. "I shouldn't sit so close to the pitch? It's a public area, you eejit!"

He blinked, startled by the insult.

I regretted it immediately. But what was I supposed to do? Apologise? Crawl away?

Still, he didn't snap back. He just sort of stared at me—face unreadable. He looked confused and annoyed, and yet—amused? It was hard to tell with him.

"You've got mud," he said finally, nodding towards my arm. "There."

I glanced down. Great. A big, ugly smear of brown up my arm like a badge of stupidity.

"Sorry," he added, softer now. "Do you need to go to the nurse? I can take you, if—"

"No, no. I'm fine."

I was not fine.

My hands were shaking slightly from the shock, but I bent to pick up the rogue ball and held it out to him. "You should probably hang onto this."

He hesitated, then took it and hooked it under his muscled arm.

"Bit of a dangerous weapon, that," I muttered.

He huffed a breath that might've been a laugh. "Tell me about it."

A loud yell echoed across the pitch.

"Fuckin' hell, Ruds—Coach is fumin'!"

Another boy jogged over. Same height, similar features, though he had a head of tousled brunette waves. He glanced at me with tired eyes and a flicker of pity.

"Are you alright?"

"She's fine," dark hair—Ruds, apparently—cut in sharply.

She is right here. I thought to myself but thought even better than saying it out loud.

"Coach can shove his anger up his fuckin' arse," Ruds muttered. "It's not my fault Ronan tackled me! And coach was the one who gave me the bloody ball back. I tried to put it down!"

Boy was I right about that temper.

"Well, try telling him that, you eejit. I already put that poor new girl in a hospital this morning and now you're trying to do the same to this one."

Wait.

The other new girl?

Holy fuck.

Shannon.

This brunette just said he put her in hospital.

My stomach twisted violently. Suddenly I did not want to be facing these two boys anymore.

"It was an accident, Johnny!" Ruds barked, spinning back towards me. "it was an accident, yeah?"

I gave him a knitted expression, but in all fairness he had no idea I was sat here. Just had bad aim apparently.

"Y-yeah," I stammered. "Seemed like it..."

"Yeah, well so was mine," Johnny grumbled. "Doesn't help the fact I gave her a concussion."

They both quieted for a beat before their twin gazes landed on me again. I nearly collapsed.

Not because I'd nearly been brained by a rugby ball, but because these two were staring at me like I was something fragile, like I might crack in half if they blinked too hard.

And Jesus, they were both fucking gorgeous.

Same height. Same build. Same sharp cheekbones. But different too. Rudy was sharper. Darker. Johnny was easier somehow—less stormclouds and more sunshine through mist.

"You sure you're alright?" Johnny asked again.

"Yes." I nodded, shoving hair from my face. "I'm fine."

That movement seemed to catch Rudy's attention. His eyes followed my fingers, lingering there a second too long.

But I was distracted by Johnny's earlier words. "You hurt Shannon?"

"Ah, fuck," Johnny muttered, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. "You know her?"

"Yeah... well, I met her today. But then she disappeared and Lizzie and Claire were looking all over for her."

"That would be my fault," Johnny said, tone laced with guilt. "She collided with a bad throw of mine." He flicked a glance at Rudy like it was somehow his fault too.

"Is she alright?" I asked, stomach flipping. "You said hospital—?"

"She's got a concussion, I think," Johnny admitted. "But she was responding when I last spoke to her. She should be okay."

I nodded, heart twisting for the girl I barely knew.

"Look, I'm sorry about my brother," Johnny said, clapping Rudy on the back.

Brother? Well that explained a lot.

"You're related?" I blurted, eyes flicking between them.

"Yeah..." Johnny replied slowly.

I squinted subtly at their mirrored faces. "Are you... twins?"

They both nodded.

"Johnny and Rudy Kavanagh," Johnny supplied, putting weight behind the last name like it was supposed to mean something.

It probably did.

Rudy.

The name suited him. All sharp consonants and a bit of bite. Nice to finally attach it to the face that nearly killed me.

"Cool.." I said slowly and quietly, though I wasn't even looking at Johnny anymore. My eyes were stuck on Rudy. His were this deep, chocolatey brown, rich and warm in contrast to the rest of him. He had kind eyes. It surprised me.

A yell rang out from across the pitch.

"Coach is calling us back," Johnny muttered, turning.

"Are you sure you're okay? We could give you a ride home."

"No, honestly, it's fine," I said, forcing a small smile. Johnny gave a sheepish nod and stalked off.

"Sorry for calling you an eejit," I apologised, once it was just me and Rudy. I wasn't really sorry. But it felt like the right thing to say to avoid an awkward silence.

"You don't need to apologise," Rudy said finally. "You were right. I should've been a good bloke and checked my surroundings before lobbing the ball."

"Apology accepted," I replied, half-smiling.

"I'll be seeing ya, Shay-Shaylee," he said, that smirk ghosting over his face.

Oh.

So he had been trying to be funny.

"Yeah... bye," I said quickly, stumbling back through the school doors and into the quiet of the corridor.

I didn't stop walking until I reached the front of Tommen and spotted my dad's car. I yanked the door open, dumped my bag in, and sank into the passenger seat with a long, shaky exhale.

"You alright, love?" Dad asked, glancing over. "You look pink."

"I'm fine, Dad," I said, strapping myself in. "Are we ready to go?"

He nodded. "So, how was it then?"

Sweet Mary mother of Jesus.

Where the fuck do I even start?

Chapter Text

The chair was too small.

Scratch that—it was taking the absolute piss. I shifted again, trying to find a position that didn't feel like my knees were going to burst out through my ears. The plastic was cold, uncomfortable, and definitely not structured for guys built like me and Johnny or frankly any of the lads who attended the school.

Johnny had his elbows parked on his knees, head buried in his hands. He seemed tired, pissed off and slightly worried. I didn't blame him. But he'd certainly been quiet since knocking out that poor Shannon girl.

He hadn't said a word since we sat down. That wasn't unusual. What was unusual was the fact that he looked rattled. Not annoyed, not even his usual pissy self when things went tits up. No, this was different.

He was shook.

"You alright?" I muttered.

He grunted.

Right.

I knew he shouldn't have been playing. The fuckin' gobshite could barely walk when he thought no one was looking. Surgery or no surgery, he shouldn't have been near a pitch, let alone in a training game where the rest of us were tearing lumps out of each other.

But Johnny Kavanagh didn't know how to sit still. Or ask for help. Or be fuckin' sensible. So, yeah. I tried telling him to go back to the doctor, and he told me to go fuck myself. Standard.

And now we were here.

Sat outside Twomey's office like a pair of eejits, waiting for Mam and Da to come in and rip us a new one while the staff decided whether or not we were worth keeping around. Coach was on one earlier. He looked like he was about to burst a blood vessel. Something about "bringing shame to Tommen rugby" and "we're not savages, lads." Christ. As if we did it on purpose. Just annoying fucking coincidental.

I slumped back against the chair, ran a hand through my hair, and let my head thump against the wall.

What a load of shite.

Today had already been hell before I stepped foot onto the pitch. I'd almost flattened Kieran at lunch for being a drug dealing prick preying on first years, pretty much the usual, and skipped my next too periods. I'd be ready to take my ass straight home before Johnny and Gibsie practically dragged me to training by the left arsecheek. Apparently, the game goes to shit without their precious tackler.

I was already fuckin' done before the ball even left my hands. And then Ronan hit me with a high tackle, completely illegal, coach tried to fucking defend him and I lost my shit. Snapped. I lashed the ball back, didn't check my surroundings, and nearly took someone's head off.

Not just someone.

Her.

I swear to God, my soul left my fuckin' body when I turned and saw her sat there, head in hands, Frozen to the spot. Big green eyes, braid halfway down her back, cheeks red from the cold. Or maybe from the fact the whole rugby team was now staring at her.

I ran straight for her. Like a proper gobshite, I thought I'd killed her. Thought I was going to have to ring an ambulance, explain to Twomey that I'd fractured some poor girl's skull with a rugby ball.

But she was alright.

Bit shook. But Jesus fuckin' Christ up close she was something else. That chocolatey brown hair was all over the place, braid messed from the chaos. And those big green eyes were haunting me still, I could've got fuckin lost in them.

In a fluster of irritation she'd called me an "eejit" and though afterwards I could tell she was trying to retract the out-lash she'd said it with such annoyed confidence I wanted her to say it again.

I actually wanted the girl to call me an eejit again because the sound of that bossy tone could've made me fold. Instantly.

Her name was Shaylee. Well, "Shay—Shaylee." as she'd stammered out. I found that weirdly cute. Sue me.

But what got me more than anything, more than the eyes and the hair and the insult was the fact that she didn't having a flying fuck of a clue who me and Johnny were. Let alone be bothered when Johnny loudly pronounced our last name like she was a partially death elderly woman.

She didn't blink when he introduced us. Didn't double take at the Kavanagh twins. Didn't squeal or blush or make a show of herself.

Nothing.

Johnny was bleedin' stunned. I was bleedin' stunned.

I just stood there like a tit staring at her whilst she asked about her friend Shannon, who unfortunately for us seemed to be her friend. Kind of irritated me that we'd both probably be on this girls black list once she realised we'd tried to knock two fresh girls out.

Stupidly enough, I kept fucking staring after Johnny had walked off and she'd sheepishly apologised for calling me an eejit, tucking a strand of her beautiful hair behind her ear. I don't know what fucking possessed me to be so suddenly infatuated with her. Because as of lately, I couldn't give a damn about girls. They were fucking annoying and clingy way too much effort. And yet in this moment, I found myself wanting to put all the fucking effort in the world into this girl and her big green eyes.

She didn't care who I was, called me an eejit to my face - fair play to her since most wouldn't dream of it - and strolled off through the school doors with those perfect legs.

If the perfect woman did exist my bets were on that one.

***

The door finally opened with a heavy creak and out stepped Da, calm and collected, with Ma hot on his heels looking like she'd just walked out of a courtroom where the judge insulted her child. Mr. Twomey trailed behind them, professional and stiff, like he'd rather be anywhere else.

"Jesus Christ," Ma muttered, her heels clipping sharply on the tile as she stopped in front of us, hands on her hips. "The pair of ye look like ye've been sentenced."

"Well, we were parked outside the principal's office like fuckin' toddlers," I replied, sitting up straighter.

Ma's eyes locked on Johnny first. She wasn't an angry sort, not really. Not unless someone pushed her past the point. But the expression on her face now... it wasn't anger. It was worse. It was that mix of worry and disappointment only Irish mothers managed to perfect.

"That poor Shannon Lynch," she said with a sigh, crossing her arms now. "I can't believe you hospitalised the girl, love."

Johnny groaned, rubbing his hands over his face. "Mam, please. Her own ma gave me enough grief in there. I already feel guilty as fuck."

"I'm sure you do," she said gently. "I'd feel fairly awful myself if my child got concussed on her first day of school."

"She called me a bully, Ma," Johnny muttered, finally lifting his head. "I'm not a fuckin' bully. And it was a bloody accident."

That got her back up a bit. Her spine straightened and her hands returned to her hips. "A bully? My son is not a bully," she said, turning on her heels to give a pointed look at Mr Twomey.

"I don't care what that woman thinks. Johnny's a good boy. He'd never hurt a girl on purpose."

"Mrs. Lynch was emotionally distressed," Mr. Twomey interjected, in that very principal-like tone he always used when trying to sound neutral. "Given the circumstances... and Shannon's difficult time at her old school, her reaction was—understandable. But we've all agreed that as long as Johnny keeps his distance from the girl, there'll be no further issue."

Mam nodded begrudgingly.

"And as for Mr. R. Kavanagh..." Twomey turned his eyes on me then, and I resisted the urge to slump deeper into the stupid chair. "We've had no contact from Miss Murphy's parents. So you're off the hook—for now."

"Thanks?" I muttered, unsure of what to say. I shouldn't of been 'on the hook' to begin with.

"What about the U20s?" Johnny asked suddenly, tone clipped.

Da stepped forward at that, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "You're fine, son," he said, voice low. "No permanent damage.

He turned to me then, expression softening but the message behind his eyes as pointed as ever. "Course both of you are."

I nodded. Said nothing.

It shouldn't have felt like a jab. But it did.

Da didn't mean it that way. He never did. He was a good man. A great one, even. The kind of dad who did everything he could for his family, even when it meant being gone more than he was home. But sometimes, just sometimes, he looked at me like he was still waiting for me to rise to the occasion. To give a shit about rugby. About the sport he'd once loved and passed down to his golden boy.

Johnny lived and breathed it. He was rugby. And me? I was good at it. Great, even. But I didn't love it. Never had.

That's all they wanted anyway. Results.

Mam only cared because she thought rugby kept me clean. Gave me structure. Stopped me spiralling back into old habits. She never said it out loud, but I wasn't stupid. I knew what she meant when she said things like, "It's good for you, Rudy. You need something to hold onto."

She meant Don't go back there. Don't become like him.

Like Gallagher. Like I already had once.

But they were wasting their time. All of them. I didn't care about rugby. I didn't care about school. I didn't care about anything. Every single thing I'd ever cared about had disappointed me in the end.

So what was the fucking point?

Fall in love with a sport, a person, a dream—and let it all rot the minute it lets you down. Yeah, no thanks. I'd rather keep my expectations six feet under and coast through until something actually felt real again.

But then those green eyes flashed in my mind, and I nearly flinched.

No.

I didn't care about anything.

Especially not girls with smart mouths and hair long enough to touch their arse. That wasn't me. Not anymore.

Not caring was safe. No expectations, no disappointments. Just quiet apathy. It was peaceful in its own fucked-up way.

"Come on, boys," Ma finally said, her voice tired. "Let's go home."

The dreaded not mad, just disappointed tone.

I stood, shoulders stiff, guilt gnawing somewhere deep but buried fast enough that I didn't have to face it.

Johnny walked ahead, Ma's hand resting gently on his arm. Da followed beside them, already talking quietly about physio appointments and scout meetings.

And me?

I trailed behind.

Silent and ignored. But where was the fuckin shock in that.

I was content enough, my mind flicking back to the girl with a crooked braid and eyes like a fuckin' fairy tale.

Chapter Text

I hated the silence in our house.

It wasn't like we lived in some grand, echoey mansion with endless corridors and the ghosts of the past lingering in the walls. It was a normal enough place—semi-detached, two-storey, tucked just off the main road into town, with a kitchen that always smelled faintly of bleach and whatever takeaway Da had last heated up. But when it got quiet like this, after a day like that, I felt the silence everywhere. Pressing. Heavy. Like a pause before something worse.

The thunder outside helped. Just about. Made the air feel less still. Less stuck.

I sat cross-legged on my bed, phone in hand, just staring at the unread messages from Claire. She'd given me her phone number in between classes right after big lunch. She was adamant on it despite the fact we'd only met 5 hours prior. But I liked that about her. Claire Biggs didn't mess around.

CLAIRE 🤍: Wtf happened???
CLAIRE 🤍: Gibsie says Johnny's saying it was an accident??
CLAIRE 🤍: Shannon's in the HOSPITAL Shaylee. The actual hospital.

Yeah. I knew.

ME: She got hit in training by Johnny's bad throw. I've spoken to him though. He seems pretty guilty x

CLAIRE 🤍: Jesus. I'm dragging Gibsie away from the PlayStation now. He's going to scream at Johnny for being a dickhead.

I put my phone down on my bed with a grumble. I felt bad for feeling bad for the guy. But Johnny Kavanagh seemed like a decent lad. And by the way he was talking about Shannon on the pitch earlier, I could tell he genuinely felt guilty.

But I didn't know him. Not really. And he was still part of the rugby crowd. And I was learning —very quickly—to be wary of boys like that.

Except. There was one who didn't quite fit the mould. And he'd lobbed a fucking rugby ball at my skull.

The ball had missed me by a hair's breadth. One more step and I'd have been seeing stars—or worse. But he'd come running over like a lad in a panic, worry etched across his features, mouth moving as he asked if I was alright. And what did I do?

Blatantly called him an eejit. Despite the fact he'd apologised.

Mortified didn't even cover it. It had just slipped out, raw and instinctive. I mean, who flings a ball like that without looking? But it wasn't just the toss that unsettled me. It was him.

Something about the way he'd looked at me. Like he wasn't really present, not completely. Like he'd been somewhere else entirely until that ball snapped him out of it.

There was a weight to him. The kind of weight that clung to people who'd been through things. And not the kind of things they tell you about in PSHE classes. Real things. Darker. Quiet.

And despite every warning bell ringing in my head, there was a tiny, twisted part of me that wanted to know more. Which was stupid. Obviously. So stupid.

I just couldn't get him out of my head. He just seemed to linger in there.

Not in the obvious way either. Not like some fawning, hearts-in-her-eyes teenage girl crushing over a rugby lad. He unsettled me. That was more like it. He felt... unpredictable. Like a fire that hadn't made up its mind about whether it wanted to warm you or burn the whole place down.

I shouldn't care. I really shouldn't. But I couldn't stop thinking about the way he'd looked at me like he hadn't expected me to be real. Like I'd caught him off guard just by existing.

It made my stomach twist.

I hated that.

"Shay?"

I turned to see Dad in the doorway, sleeves rolled up from where he'd just finished washing the dinner dishes. His greying beard was a bit patchy today, like he'd forgotten to trim it before work.

"You alright?" he asked, walking into the room with his own mug of tea.

"Yeah," I said, lying like a bloody champ.

He settled into the armchair opposite me and took a slow sip.

"How was it, really? First day?"

I shrugged. "Fine."

"Any nice girls?"

"Yeah. Claire and Lizzie. Claire's already adopted me, I think."

He chuckled. "That's good."

I nodded. We sipped in silence for a moment. The rain started to lash harder against the windows.

"She'll be reaching out again."

The change in tone made me stiffen. I didn't look at him.

"Mum?" I said, like I hadn't already guessed.

"Yeah." He rubbed his jaw. "Says she wants to see you. Talk. Maybe a coffee. Just to... check in."

I kept my eyes on my mug. Steam curled upwards and blurred the edges of my vision.

It had been three years. Three whole years since she left. Before that, it was always messy. Always promises and tears and screaming fits. Me trying to be the go-between. Me trying to fix it all. Her boyfriend had been a prick of the highest order. I could still hear the way he'd raise his voice, the slam of a door, the sting of fear in my belly.

Dad had got custody when I was five, but I'd still spent too many weekends in that flat with the peeling wallpaper and cigarette stink. Still listened to her try to pit me against him. Still loved her.

Even when it hurt.

Even when she stopped trying.

"Shay?"

I blinked. Dad was watching me closely.

"Yeah," I said, a little hoarsely. "Maybe. Maybe we could do that."

His shoulders sagged with quiet relief. He didn't push further. That was the thing about Dad. He never forced the issue. He just let me come to it on my own.

We didn't say much else that evening. But as I lay in bed later, the storm still grumbling outside and my sheets curled up to my chin, I stared at the ceiling and thought about it all.

The past.

The girls.

Shannon.

Rudy.

And the weird way my chest tightened every time I remembered the look in his eyes.

Maybe I was just lonely.

Maybe it was curiosity.

Or maybe—just maybe—it was the beginning of something else.

God help me.

I really hoped it wasn't.

Chapter Text

I was still waiting for the moment it would all fall apart. For the spell to wear off. For someone to call me out for the imposter I was, like I didn't belong here — like I wasn't meant for this place.

But two and a half weeks into Tommen, and the sky hadn't caved in yet.

If anything, things were... grand. Strange, but true. I wasn't drowning in assignments or hiding in the loos at lunch. I wasn't counting down the minutes 'til home time. I didn't feel like I was suffocating anymore.

I actually liked it here.

I had people. Not a crowd, but a few. A good few. Claire, with her mad stories and even madder plans, had practically dragged me into their group without asking. No fuss. No awkward introductions. Just a casual, "You're one of us now, Shaylee, shut up and eat your bar."

And then Lizzie, who had this way of making you feel like you were being judged down to your bones — but in a weirdly comforting way? Like if she decided she liked you, it was earned. Proper. Her dry humour cracked me up too. Everything she said sounded like it was dipped in sarcasm, but it was never cruel. She was sharp, but not mean. Not really.

Then there was Shannon, who was like a whisper in a world full of shouting. Delicate in a way that wasn't fake — soft, but not weak. People assumed things about her. Teachers mostly. Thought she was some sort of genius because she kept her head down and her mouth shut. But I saw through that. I'd seen the fear in her eyes when she was called on in class. The way she gripped her pen too tightly. How her pages were filled with scribbles that barely made sense — too fast, too messy, like she was trying to keep up with a world that moved without waiting.

I helped her. Quietly. Without asking. Just leaned over and pointed to the right answer or nudged her notes towards her when she got stuck. It wasn't a big thing. But it became one. She started waiting for me after class. Smiling a little more. Talking, even. She'd ask for help and I'd give it, and somehow, in all of that, we built something steady. Something real. And since she'd joined the school at the same time as me it was nice to have someone to ease into everything with. I sort of felt like she got me.

My friends back in Dublin would've had a field day. They wouldn't have understood. We'd known each other since junior infants, but it had never been easy. We fought over stupid things. Boys mostly. Or whose turn it was to be the boss of the group. There was always someone crying over something or stabbing someone else in the back with a whispered rumour.

It was different here.

Tommen felt safe. Not in a fairytale way. Just... steady. And for the first time in a long time, I didn't feel like I had to keep my guard up.

They were good to me. Claire and Lizzie and Shannon. They didn't poke at me or prod me for secrets. They let me be myself — whatever that even meant anymore.

And it helped. God, it helped to have something to think about that wasn't this Friday. The day that had been looming over my entire week.

My ma.

She was coming this weekend. Friday to Sunday. Staying in a hotel somewhere near the city. I still didn't know which one, and I hadn't asked. Didn't care, really. I wasn't seeing her because I missed her. Or because I wanted to.

I was doing it for my dad.

He never said anything directly, but I could tell she'd been bothering him. Calling, texting, showing up outside his job, most likely. And it wasn't fair on him — just because I refused to have her number saved in my phone didn't mean she had to take it out on him.

So I told him I'd meet her. A coffee. A chat. Keep the peace. Maybe it'd shut her up for a while.

It had been three years since I last saw her.

Three years since I'd packed a bag and snuck out of her house at ten o'clock on a Tuesday night. Caught the last bus from the city centre and turned up on my dad's doorstep shaking. I'd cried until my throat hurt, begging him to make it stop. Begging him not to send me back.

Back to him.

The boyfriend. The one she kept breaking up with every other weekend, swearing it was the last time. The same man who shouted in my face when I left the milk out. Who told me I was useless. That I ruined everything. The one who slammed doors and punched walls and made me feel smaller than I already was.

He'd called me things. Names I can still hear when I close my eyes.

And she let him.

Worse — she joined in.

They'd scream and fight, and then shag like nothing ever happened. I'd lie awake at night, heart racing, listening to them tear into each other before they slammed the bedroom door and locked me out of my own head.

That's when I started sneaking off. To Dad's. Any excuse. A quiz tomorrow, my period came early, I forgot my PE kit. Anything. Just to get out.

It wasn't enough.

Because custody was fifty-fifty and she was stubborn as hell. Wouldn't let me stay with Dad full-time, no matter how many times I begged. No matter how often he tried.

It took the social worker finding that for things to finally shift.

Stacks of porn hidden in the lad's bedside drawer. Girls who didn't look a day over fourteen.

I was thirteen at the time.

That was the nail in the coffin. Dad got full custody. She left. Packed her bags and stormed off with her dodgy fella in tow like she was the one who'd been wronged.

And now, three years later, she wanted to meet for a coffee.

Like we were civil. Like we were something.

I didn't know how I felt. Numb, mostly. Tense. My stomach was in knots about it, but I wasn't about to say no. Not when it would just make things harder for Dad.

So I'd see her.

Say hello. Smile. Pretend I was fine.

Same as always.

And then maybe I'd go home, close my bedroom door, and break into a million pieces again. Or maybe not.

Maybe this time, I'd hold it together.

I was broken out of my thoughts by a familiar voice calling from behind me.

"Shay!" Claire grinned, cutting through the noise of the morning chatter.

I glanced over my shoulder just in time to see her weaving through the crowd with Lizzie and Shannon in tow. Claire was all flushed cheeks and flyaway curls, her bag half-slipping off one shoulder, the picture of Monday morning chaos. She moved with the kind of confidence you didn't learn – you were either born with it or you weren't. And Claire Biggs? She had it in spades.

"Wait up!" she called again, and I slowed my pace, letting the three of them fall into step beside me.

"You're legging it like you're late for a flight," Claire huffed, nudging me playfully with her elbow. "What's the rush, Murph?"

I shrugged, a small smile playing on my lips. "Just wanted to get it over with. Mondays are criminal."

"Aren't they just," Lizzie muttered, tucking a strand of her glossy blonde hair behind her ear before giving me a once-over, grimacing slightly "You look wrecked."

"Thanks," I deadpanned.

"Busy weekend?" Shannon asked gently.

"Not really," I lied.

Well sort of lied. I hadn't got up to much, I'd just barely slept with the constant thought of seeing my ma on my mind.

Before anyone else could speak the sudden presence of a six foot fifth year cut through our conversation.

"Claire-Bear you are lookin sexy as ever" Gibsie grinned, shamelessly placing an arm around Claires shoulders as he walked into step with us.

Claire groaned immediately, "Goodmorning to you to Gerard."

"What fresh hell," Lizzie muttered under her breath.

Before Claire could move Gibsie had tugged her closer to his side like she was his long-lost love.

"Miss me, babe?"

"Not even a little bit," Claire deadpanned, elbowing him hard in the ribs.

He winced theatrically but didn't let go. "That's not what you said in my dreams last night."

I snorted.

Claire narrowed her eyes. "Get off me."

"You wound me. Truly."

I watched the exchange with barely concealed amusement, catching the flicker of something softer beneath Claire's eye-rolls. She pretended to hate him, but there was a tightness to her mouth she didn't quite hide quick enough.

"Don't you have somewhere else to be?" Lizzie said dryly, glaring up at him.

"Don't start with me, Liz" Gibsie groaned melodramatically.

If there was anything else I picked up over the last few weeks it was that Gibsie and Lizzie hated each other with a passion.

"Eugh. Don't call me Liz you creep" Lizzie practically gagged.

Gibsie ignored her, snapping back sarcastically instead. "Still on your crusade to make every fella in Tommen cry? Or just me this week?"

"Just you," Lizzie snapped. "You deserve it."

"I do not," he gasped, hand over his heart. "I'm an angel."

"You're a fucking gobshite."

"That's what my mam says."

Claire rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck in the back of her head. Shannon looked somewhere between amused and terrified, hovering just behind the rest of us as we rounded the corner and stopped off at Lizzies locker, all coming to a halt.

"Why do you even talk to him?" Lizzie asked, shooting a look at Claire. "You're enabling the problem."

"Come on Lizzie he's not that bad," Claire responded, rewarded by a very pleased look on Gibsies behalf.

"See?" He boasted, a smirk of smile on his cheeky face.

Lizzie scoffed, slamming her locker shut as she turned on her heel, and marched off without another word.

"God, I love when she storms off like that," Gibsie called after her. "It's the sway of her righteous rage. Gets me every time!"

He turned back to us, grinning, unfazed.

"So, what's the goss, ladies?" he asked, winking at Shannon. "You alright, Little Shannon?"

She nodded quickly, cheeks pink. "Yeah. Fine."

"You sure Kavanagh didn't knock any brain cells outta ya?" He asked, mock horror on his face.

"Nope, just a bump. I'm okay" Shannon blushed at the mention of Johnny and it made me smile to myself. She seemed somewhat.. smitten? But who could blame her. The guy was treat.

"And what about you, Sarah?" he asked, turning to me.

"Sarah?" I blinked. "My names Shaylee."

"That's what I said."

"You called me Sarah.."

"Exactly."

"Oh my god Gerard-" Claire groaned.

"What!" Gibsie exclaimed before turning his attention back to me, "Anyways what I was going to ask, how's the concussion?"

"The concussion?" I raised a brow. He did know I didn't actually get hit. Right?

"The one you nearly got when Rudy launched that ball at your head." Gibsie said like I was incredibly slow, looking between me and Shannon. "Those Kavanagh's were on a role that week"

"Right, that." I nodded, "You know considering the ball never actually made contact with my face I don't think it'd be classed as a concussion. But I survived"jko

"Blah Blah Blah concussion or not you ducked like a pro though. Ninja reflexes."

"You mean flailing in panic?"

"Potato, potahto."

I laughed, despite myself. He was easy to like. Annoying, absolutely. But there was a kind of relentless charm to him.

"I can't believe you haven't learned Shaylees name yet" Claire lectured as we started to fall into the easy rhythm of a walk again. "You've been in the same building as her for weeks."

"Yeah, but I've been too busy pining after you, Claire Bear."

She flipped him off behind his back, and I laughed out loud earning a confused and slightly suspicious look from an oblivious Gibsie which only made me and Shannon laugh louder.

But the mention of the past weeks events had my mind filtering back to 'the almost concussion' shall we say.

I hadn't spoken to Rudy since. Not properly anyway. We'd caught eyes a few times in the hallways – glances that felt too quick, but lingered longer than they should have. It wasn't anything. Not really. But it wasn't nothing either. And for some stupid reason, my chest always tightened a little when I saw him. Like there was a thought I hadn't quite formed yet, stuck somewhere behind my ribs.

I didn't even know him. Not truly.

But you didn't need to know Rudy Kavanagh to know about him.

It was impossible to exist in the halls of Tommen and not hear his name at least once a day. His or Johnny's. Usually both. They were spoken about like legends – or cautionary tales – depending on who was doing the talking. Teachers muttered their names with a mix of admiration and dread. Lads admired them, feared them. And girls... well, girls watched them like they were a challenge waiting to be cracked.

I wasn't blind. I'd seen it.

The way they walked down the corridor, shoulder to shoulder, and heads would swivel like it was some kind of reflex. Eyes trailing them like the air shifted differently when they were near. And maybe it did. Maybe that was the thing about the Kavanaghs – they didn't just enter a space, they filled it. Claimed it.

Johnny soaked the attention up like he didn't notice it at all. Breezy and golden, all grins and easy charm. That boy was built from fresh air and good manners. But I'd heard he was seeing Bella Wilkinson, who – pardon my Cork – was a total wagon. All nose in the air and sneering at anyone not born with a trust fund. Her heels echoed down the halls louder than the school bell.

Rudy, though...

He didn't soak up attention. He dismantled it.

He'd walk through the common area and the room would fall half-silent – not because he demanded it, but because there was something in him that made people wary. Alert. Like their instincts whispered don't poke the bear.

And yet girls still talked about him like he was something to own. Rumours floated around about him and Janae – Bella's best friend and just as unbearably smug. The two of them made up Tommen's very own plastics duo, all lip gloss and biting comments. I'd seen the way Janae looked at Rudy. Like she was waiting for her moment. Like she thought she'd already had it.

But if Rudy was interested, he didn't show it.

He didn't show anything.

I'd never seen him flirt. Never seen him laugh. Not the way lads his age did, all chest-thumping and shite talk and grins they didn't mean. He was too... composed. Like there was a storm under his skin and he spent every waking minute trying to keep it there.

People said he had a temper, but I never saw him lose it over stupid things. Never saw him snap just for the sake of snapping. It wasn't random. It was intentional. Controlled. Directed like a blade. If he threw a punch, it was because someone had done something to deserve it. If he shouted, it was usually for someone else's sake. The kind of rage that came from something deeper than ego.

That kind of fury scared me.

Because it wasn't wild.

It was precise.

He was precise.

And yet I couldn't stop thinking about the way he had looked at me that day. The way he'd said my name and the way he'd said "see you later" like we were going to talk again. As if he wasn't going to ignore me for the next couple weeks.

Not that I cared. I never knew him to begin with.

But I literally hadn't heard a peep from the lad. And despite my conscience telling me I was being petty I kind of felt annoyed that he hadn't ever tried to make another conversation.

Maybe I was just pathetic for thinking it, I probably was. I mean who dwells on a five minute conversation with a boy they barely know?

Me apparently.

Chapter Text

The locker door slammed harder than I meant it to.

I stood there for a second, forehead pressed against the cold metal, trying to breathe through the irritation churning under my skin. My right hand was still clenched around my water bottle, plastic crumpled in my grip. I exhaled slowly and shoved it into my bag, ignoring the ache in my knuckles.

No one was around to notice. Which was good. I was tired of being noticed.

Weeks into sixth year and already I could feel it—the tension, the weight of everyone watching, waiting. Teachers watching to see if I'd lose it again. Coaches breathing down my neck. My da, pretending he wasn't worried.

Even Johnny was on edge lately. That whole thing with Shannon had him rattled, though he was doing his best to hide it. He always did. Unlike me, he knew how to lock shit down and make people feel safe around him.

Me?

People just looked at me like I might combust.

"Ruuu-dyyyy."

Fuck. Speak of the devil.

I didn't even need to turn around to know it was her. That voice could curdle milk.

I twisted my head slightly, catching her in my periphery. Janae Murphy. Hair too shiny, skirt too short for uniform code, lip gloss like glue. And eyes—God help me—eyes that used to do things to me they had no business doing. Not anymore.

"You still ignoring me?" she asked, with that same sugar-poison tone she always used when she wanted something. Her acrylic nail tapped twice on the locker beside mine. "Kinda rude, don't you think?"

I didn't answer. Just grabbed my books and slammed the door shut again.

"Oh, c'mon, babe," she cooed, slinking closer. "Don't be like that. We used to have fun, remember?"

I turned then, slow and deliberate, locking eyes with her.

"We didn't have fun," I said flatly. "We fucked. There's a difference."

Her glossy smile faltered for half a second, then she laughed, too high-pitched and too loud. "You're such a dick, Rudy."

I shrugged. "Yeah. I am."

"Whatever," she scoffed, flicking her hair off her shoulder like it personally offended her. "You're not even that good anyway."

I offered a half-smile. "Still keep crawling back, though."

"Not anymore," she snapped, eyes flashing. "You can keep jerking off to the memory, big guy."

"Yeah," I muttered as she strutted away, heels clicking against the tile. "Thanks for the trauma."

Truth was, I regretted every second of it. I wished I'd kept my dick in my pants. I wished I hadn't needed the numbness. I wished I hadn't been so fucking weak.

But wishes were for kids, and I stopped believing in magic years ago. I was just gonna man up and stay the fuck away from this girl because she was a walking example of an STD.

I was still brooding when Johnny's voice cut through.

"You alright, Rud?"

He came up beside me, leaning his body against the lockers with one hand holding his bag that was loosely tossed over his shoulder.

"I'm grand Johnny," I lied adjusting my bag on my own back.

Johnny's eyebrows raised, clearly seeing through my poor attempt to cover up any emotions. Unfortunately that was a perk that came with having a twin. He seemed to always know when something was up.

God forbid a lad would want some emotional security.

"Janae again?"

"Always."

He rolled his eyes. "She's relentless."

"She's deluded."

He chuckled under his breath. "Yeah, well. You did ride her."

"I know," I snapped, scrubbing a hand over my face. "Don't remind me."

"She's Bella's best mate, man," he added, like I didn't already know.

"Yeah, and Bella's the second coming of Satan."

"That's generous."

Unfortunately for Johnny, he'd always fallen into the hands of a similar tall blonde and pretty version of Satan. Bella Wilkinson was just about my least favourite girl in the entire school, with her fake purses and awfully strong perfume. She was a walking shit-talker and an even worse shit-stirrer. I'd judge Johnny even more for dating the girl for so long if I hadn't of done it with her best friend who was absolutely no better.

But Bella was a whole other level and speak of the devil-

"Johnny," came the sugary, smug voice from behind us.

Oh for fucks sake.

Was the look playing on both me and Johnny's faces as we turned to look at the bleached blonde with attitude like a blade and tits she shoved into every conversation.

Johnny's whole vibe shifted—shoulders locking up, mouth twitching with something that wasn't a smile.

"Bella," he said curtly.

She looked him up and down like he was her next meal. "You've been ignoring me."

Was I gettin deja vu or what?

"On purpose."

I snorted, earning a sideways glare from her.

"Where's Janae?" she asked me, like I was supposed to be her bloody babysitter.

"Why the fuck would I know?"

She tilted her head. "Aren't you two, like, together?"

I blinked slowly. "No."

"Could've fooled me."

"She fooled herself," I said coolly. "That's not my problem."

"Your so heartless Rudy Kavanagh." She stated, her eyes narrowing like she was calling me out on something I wasn't aware of.

I didn't respond, simply raised my eyebrows which earned a frustrated grumble.

"You both are!" Bella excalimed, resorting to addressing both me and Johnny with her insults which was quite unusual. "You both think that just because your hot and good and rugby means you can play around like little fucking snakes."

"Oh we're the snakes are we?" Johnny replied, still rooted to the spot but looking completely and utterly fed up.

Bella narrowed her eyes, but before she could snarl something back, a familiar voice interrupted.

"Alright, Bella, jog on, will ya? Before you give the lads an STI just from standing too close."

I choked back a laugh as Gibsie's voice rang through my ears. He stepped in, grinning like the devil himself, throwing a careless arm over Johnny's shoulders.

Bella scoffed and turned on her heel. "Assholes."

"Love you too," Gibsie called sweetly after her. He turned to us with a grin. "And that's why I use condoms. Morning, boys."

I shook my head, biting back a laugh.

He clapped Johnny on the back and gave me a pat on the chest. "Right. That's me done with the witches. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

His eyes lit up as he caught sight of a familiar figure down the hallway. "There she is. The girl of my actual dreams."

"Gibsie mate-" Johnny started.

But Gibsie was already halfway there.

"Claire-bear, you're looking sexy as ever," he called, beaming as he slid an arm around her shoulder.

I barely heard her muttered "Good morning to you too Gerard," over the rush in my ears.

Because that was when one of the two brunettes walking beside Claire turned her head.

Long, dark hair. Curled perfectly at the ends. Half her face catching the light like a photograph you didn't mean to take but couldn't delete.

Shay-Shaylee.

Fuck.

My chest tightened at the sight of her, like it always did.

Still beautiful.

Still fucking off limits.

I hadn't spoken a word to her since I nearly knocked her out.

I'd seen her in the corridors. Glimpses between classes. Quick eye contact before one of us looked away. I always looked away first. Always careful not to smile. Careful not to make her think I wanted to talk.

Because I did want to talk.

I wanted to apologise. Explain. Ask her what her favourite colour was and if she always wore that vanilla perfume or if it was just a one-time thing.

But I didn't.

Because girls like Shaylee Murphy were better off not knowing blokes like me existed.

And if I spoke to her... if she smiled at me... if she made me feel like I could be something good?

Then I'd want her.

And I was very bad at resisting things I wanted.

So it was better this way.

Better if she never knew.

Better if I kept walking.

Better if she thought I didn't care.

Even if I did.

Especially because I did.

I was still watching her when Johnny stepped up beside me again. He followed my eyeline down the hallway to where Gibsie was hanging off Claire like a fucking decorative monkey. Shaylee hadn't noticed me, thank Christ. Her head was turned again, curls bouncing like she didn't have a care in the world.

And wasn't that just brilliant for her.

I looked away before I could start thinking too much.

Again.

Johnny sighed, looking over at Gibsie and Claire, "He's gonna scare her of that one"

I grunted out a laugh but my thoughts lay elsewhere.

She is not for me.

I just had to keep reminding myself that.

Because I could never be the one for anyone else. It's unfair. But its true.

I still felt fucking haunted by my own reflection.

The version of me I'd buried. Or tried to.

The one who'd grin with blood in his mouth and white powder on his tongue. The one who said fuck it to everything and meant it. The one who didn't blink twice before flipping a table or smashing a glass or snorting something he couldn't even name because Kieran Gallagher handed it over with a smirk and a "you'll like this one, bro."

I still felt him. Every day. Every time I got too wound up. Too cornered. Too close to wanting something good.

He'd stir beneath my skin like rot in an old pipe.

It'd been over a year since the sound of ma's screaming, the smell of dust on Kieran's carpet and da's face standing at the foot of the hospital bed.

They thought I was dead.

Would've been easier if I was.

But no. I lived. Playing the part. Doing the fucking work. Keeping my head down. Jerking myself off because I couldn't trust myself not to catch feelings. Swapping pills for protein shakes and avoiding eye contact with people who looked too closely.

Everyone thought I was better.

They all wanted the redemption arc.

A second chance.

A clean slate.

Even Johnny.

But they didn't get it.

Because underneath the gym hours and match performances and good behaviour, I still wanted to smash in windows when people talked shit about me. I still wanted to throw hands when someone bumped me too hard in the corridor. I still remembered how good it felt to let go.

And worse—I missed it.

That edge. That high. That release.

It made me feel something.

Unlike now. Where I mostly just felt like I was performing stability. Playing a character. Wearing a version of Rudy Kavanagh people could swallow easier than the real one.

I didn't want to be dangerous anymore.

But I was.

Still.

Cold.

And then I exploded.

Just like with Jason Finley.

I still remembered the terrified look on his face. The way his mouth was slick with blood. The crunch of bone. The panic in his voice when he screamed for help. I hadn't stopped. Not when someone shouted. Not when Gallagher tried to haul me back.

I'd blacked out.

Only came to when someone—Donal maybe—dragged me off him, fists still swinging, teeth bared like a fucking animal.

All because he fucked my girlfriend of the time.

I hardly remembered her. That's how fucked in the head I was.

All I saw was red. All I knew was he'd fucked with me. And that was not allowed.

So no. I wasn't fixed.

I wasn't safe.

And I sure as fuck wasn't in any state to be looking at girls like Shaylee Murphy like I was entitled to a nice thing.

Because if there was one thing I knew for certain—it was that I didn't deserve her.

Not her voice.

Not her smile.

Not the fucking look she'd given me the day I nearly concussed her.

She hadn't flinched.

Hadn't even cried.

Just looked at me with that straight face like she knew what it was like to be on the edge of something she couldn't quite name.

And I hadn't spoken to her since.

Because knowing me, the second she gave me even a sliver of warmth, I'd latch on like a starving man and drag her down with me.

And I wasn't doing that.

I wasn't ruining her.

So I kept walking. Kept avoiding. Kept pretending I wasn't thinking about her when I stared at my ceiling at night like a fucking lunatic.

Chapter Text

Unfortunately for me, Friday rolled around quicker than I could imagine. Usually, they were a massive relief from a long week. But this Friday? Couldn't be further from it.

Today, it felt like a loaded gun sitting in my gut.

I was going to have to sit in a coffee shop with my ma and pretend like the past 3 years never happened. Because that was normal?

It was meant to be simple. That was the plan.

Finish school. Wait around a bit. Hole up in the study halls I finally managed to sniff out last week. Catch the late bus into the city because Dad was working late and couldn't drop me off. Get coffee with her. Smile. Pretend like it didn't wreck me inside. Then go home and pretend none of it stung and hope she never calls again.

Easy.

Apart from, you know, the crippling emotional damage.

I was halfway through third period science, stomach churning with nerves and a lowkey desire to fling myself out the window. Science had started to become one of my favourite lessons in Tommen.

Not because I liked it. God no. I didn't give two shites about kinetic energy or photosynthesis or any of the boring crap Mrs. O'Leary tried to throw at us.

No. Science was fun because I had Claire next to me. It was one of the only lessons that we had sat next to each other since most teachers pushed us to opposite ends of the classroom.

Mrs. O'Leary was grand. A bit of a pushover, bless her, and she always gave us textbook work on Fridays like she'd already checked out for the weekend. Meant we had every excuse under the sun to lean over our copies and talk absolute shite for forty minutes while pretending to highlight stuff.

Today's hot topic?

Claire's not-so-secret admirer. Which, let's be honest, was hardly a surprise to anyone. The entire population of Tommen could see what was going on between her and a certain fifth-year rugby gobshite.

"He's Hughie's best mate and he's annoying!" Claire huffed, flicking the end of her ponytail like she wasn't just blushing down to her neck.

I smirked. "Sureee," I drawled. "So annoying and yet you spend every waking moment with him."

"That's because we were forced to when we were kids," she argued, voice sharp and full of attitude. "Our ma's stuck us together all the time. That is not under my control!"

"Yeah, and now he's your not-so-secret boyfriend."

"He's not!"

"Claire," I said calmly, chin in my hand and smile way too knowing, "I mean, don't kill me for saying this, but in my eyes? You've got an insanely hot fifth year praising the ground you walk on. That's pretty badass, if I do say so myself."

Claire groaned dramatically, pressing her face into the open page of her copy. "Oh God, it is, isn't it?"

"Of course it is" Shannon grinned from the row behind us, twisting in her seat, until now I had absolutely no idea she was listening in on our conversation with Lizzie sat beside her. "Most girls would kill for that kind of attention. Gibsie or not."

I snorted. "Yeah, especially Gibsie."

Claire lifted her head just enough to shoot me a look.

I laughed, turning back to the text book and flipping through the pages. Only to be met by a painful nudge in the side.

"What about you?"

I blinked. "What about me?"

And was met by an even harder elbow nudge.

"Ow! Claire!" I hissed, grabbing my arm as she smirked. "What was that for?"

Claire just laughed and leaned closer. "What about you, Shay! You've been at Tommen for, what, three weeks now? Surely someone's caught your eye?"

God, I knew that was coming.

I dragged my eyes back to the textbook and flipped the page like it was going to save me, clicking my pen and writing out a very fancy-looking heading just to avoid answering too quickly.

Claire wasn't having it.

"I am not interested in any of the rugby douches in our year," I muttered eventually, nose still buried in the book.

Other years, though...

"Harsh," Claire shot back, smirking.

"True."

She bumped her shoulder into mine. "Come on, you've had loads of attention already. Didn't that Conor lad from fifth year write you a love letter last week with his phone number and everything?"

"Yeah," I mumbled, nodding once.

"And you didn't even text him back?"

"Nope."

Claire stared at me like I'd just said I didn't believe in chocolate.

"Girl, you have way more self-control than me. Seriously. That's admirable."

I shrugged. "It's because none of them actually like me."

Claire pulled a face. "Alright, Miss Moppy."

"I'm serious!" I laughed. "The compliments I get are always the same shite—just stuff about my body. Like, if I had a euro for every time some lad shouted 'nice legs' at me in the corridor, I'd be fuckin' minted."

"You do have nice legs," Claire replied solemnly.

I whipped my pen at her hand. "Claire!"

"Okay, okay!" she giggled, pulling her hand away. "I get it. You feel like they don't see you for you, just for your looks. Which is understandable because you are smokin' hot."

I rolled my eyes, cheeks flushing despite myself.

But she wasn't wrong. It was frustrating, being reduced to some legs and a short skirt by lads who didn't even know my name. Like I was just decoration or a dirty joke they could pass around.

She was right, I'd gotten plenty of attention over the past 3 weeks. From rugby lads. Nerdy guys. Jocks. Even remotely decent classmates. But I wasn't interested.

Then Claire gasped.

"Oh my God! Speaking of smokin' hot—"

"Miss Gibbs. Miss Murphy." Mrs. O'Leary's voice rang out from the front of the classroom, sharp and warning. "Let's keep the conversation to a minimum, girls."

Claire pulled a face and turned back to me, whispering even quieter now. "I heard that Rudy Kavanagh and Janae Lively are still hooking up."

Reluctantly, I felt a jolt in my stomach at his name.

I didn't even flinch, though. Kept my expression locked, eyes forward, pen still moving like I hadn't heard her say a word. But my chest felt tight. My throat, even tighter.

"Are they?" I asked casually, like it didn't matter. "That's... nice."

Claire gawked at me. "Uhm, no it's not. Everyone knows Janae's a bitch. She's been spreading rumours about the twins for months. Her and Bella Wilkinson. Although I'm pretty sure Bella and Johnny have stopped hooking up now."

I shrugged. "Didn't know they were a thing."

Lie.

I knew.

I'd heard it all—the gross rumours, the changing room gossip, all the random shite about how Bella had given Johnny a blow job behind the bleachers and Janae had managed to get Rudy to ride her after training. Word spread fast in Tommen. True or not.

And honestly? I felt bad for them. The twins, I mean. Just because they were lads didn't mean they deserved to be talked about like they were walking hard-ons. It was sick.

"How have you not heard about it? It's everywhere," Claire whispered, shaking her head.

"Because I don't spend my lunch breaks eavesdropping in toilet stalls," I muttered.

"Hey don't be mean." Claire said, nudging me.

I sighed, "Sorry, you definitely don't do that"

Claire grumbled beside me and I laughed in response.

Annoyingly for me, she seemed to suddenly perk up, resting her elbows on the table. Her face a mixture of mischief and excitement.

"Speaking of stalls—have you and Rudy spoken since he pretty much concussed you?"

I groaned. "How many times do I have to say it—the ball never hit my face!"

"Alright, alright," Claire laughed. "No need to get mouthy."

"Sorry." I exhaled sharply. "No, we haven't spoken. In fact, he's barely even looked at me since."

I tried to sound cool about it. Indifferent.

Claire wasn't buying it.

"Is someone perhaps a little bitter about that?" she asked, grinning.

"No," I said quickly. "I mean—we had one conversation. I just thought he'd, I don't know, check if I was okay or something."

"Have you seen him around school at least?"

"Yeah, but the guy can't hold eye contact for longer than thirty seconds."

"You're joking."

"Nope."

"No, like—you're getting thirty seconds of eye contact from the dreamiest lad in school, and you're complaining?"

I rolled my eyes. "Well—"

"Don't well me!" Claire smacked my arm. She had got to stop doing that. "Rudy Kavanagh doesn't look at anyone anymore. He's practically a fuckin' robot when it comes to girls these days."

I blinked. "What?"

"Ever since his whole... situation last year," she said delicately, "he's pretty much sworn off the whole girlfriend thing. I'm sure he still shags every now and then—hence, Janae—but outside of that? Nada. Zilch. The guy's a ghost."

"So what—you think I should feel privileged?"

Claire looked at me like I'd grown two heads. "Fuck yeah, you should!"

I rolled my eyes, sitting back in my chair, pen hovering over the page like I'd forgotten how to write, and stared at the bullshit diagram of a cell in the textbook, eyes glazing over, not really seeing it anymore.

It was annoying how much room this boy took up in my very restricted mind these days.

How many times I'd reminded myself we'd only ever had one conversation was countless. And yet I still felt so intrigued by him.

It was fucking frustrating if anything.

Out of everything the small seconds of intense eye contact was something I'd been holding onto for weeks.

But every time I caught a glimpse of something real behind his eyes, it was gone a second later. Shut down. Locked tight. And he'd go back to pretending I wasn't there.

Fine. If that's how he wanted to play it, I could pretend too.

Pretend I didn't notice the way his jaw clenched every time Janae hung off him like a bloody scarf.

Pretend I didn't care.

Well two can play that game Rudy fucking Kavanagh.

Chapter Text

"Do you guys wanna come over after school today?" Claire asked, tipping the remains of her yogurt pot and peering inside it later that day at lunch.

She was sat at the end of the ginormous cafeteria table, and Shannon and I were on the opposite side — side by side, trays shoved between us, surrounded by the absurd luxury that was Tommen College's lunch hall. It was massive. Too clean. Too shiny. And every now and then, still felt too good for the likes of me.

"Your house?" Shannon asked, raising a brow.

I was halfway to saying yes — because of course I wanted to go over. Claire's house was warm and chaotic and full of people — which might sound like nothing, but to me it felt like something fucking rare.

"Sorry, guys, I've gotta sit this one out," I said instead, stabbing at the sad excuse for a salad on my tray.

Disappointment flickered across Claire's face. "Ugh, why?"

"Just can't," I shrugged, like it was no big deal. "My dad wants me home early since he's in a meeting."

Half true.

He would be in a meeting. That part wasn't a lie.

But unfortunately for me, the woman who I was forced to call my mother was awaiting me. It was a pity really, the idea of going over to Claire's and talking boys whilst in our pjs watching Pirates of the Caribbean was my entire idea of luxury.

But family first I guess.

Despite the fact that this woman had practically waltzed out my life the minute things went tits up I still had acknowledge the fact she was my mother and accept the shit attempt of sorry coffee meet up.

And although the idea of sticking up my middle finger and backing out was extremely tempting, I also knew I'd regret it if I didn't go. There was something about finally facing her, even if I wasn't ready, that made me feel like I might finally be able to stop carrying her absence around like a noose.

"Fine..." Claire huffed dramatically. "So what about you, Shan? Wanna come over? We can hang out and watch a few movies or something."

"Aren't you meant to go into town with Lizzie and Pierce today or something?" Shannon asked, sipping her smoothie.

"Nah. Lizzie's in a mood." Claire rolled her eyes and jabbed her spoon deep into the yogurt pot like it owed her money. "I don't really fancy being a third wheel around town anyway."

That explained Lizzie's absence. She'd been stomping through the halls all morning like she was ready to kill someone. From what I'd gathered, she and this Pierce lad were on again, off again — and considering she hated rugby lads, her attachment to him was confusing as hell.

I had no idea what she saw in him, that was for sure.

"I wondered why she was missing," I muttered, scanning the lunchroom out of habit, like my eyes were on autopilot.

"Yeah," Claire said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "So? Shan? What do you say? I can get my ma to pick us up and drop us off. You could even sleep over if you want?"

Shannon's face lit up at the mention of Claire's ma. I got it. I'd met the woman once in the few weeks I'd known Claire — she was lovely. Proper lovely. The kind of woman who offered you food the second you stepped inside the house and asked about your day like it was the most important thing in the world.

Claire had definitely taken after her — sweet and open and warm. It made sense. And I'd be lying if I said I didn't get a bit soft inside watching it, knowing I'd never really had that in my own house. Not in any consistent, safe kind of way.

My focus started to drift as Claire launched into a rant about Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean, her voice rising with each opinion, waving her spoon around like a cutlass.

It was the kind of talk that could go on forever.

I tuned out.

My gaze, without meaning to, slid across the cafeteria to the table full of Tommen's finest fifth year rugby lads.

I didn't mean to look for him. Not consciously, anyway.

But my eyes had a mind of their own. And there he was.

Leant back in a shitty cafeteria chair like it was a throne, one arm draped along the backrest, legs sprawled, half-slouched, like posture was a suggestion and confidence was a reflex.

His collar was slightly pulled at the neck, exposing a flash of collarbone, and his hair—Jesus—his hair was damp at the roots, pushed back messily like he'd towel-dried it after training and couldn't be arsed to fix it.

The sleeves of his jumper were shoved to his elbows, forearms on full display. Sharp lines. Tanned skin. That ropey kind of muscle you didn't get unless you spent your life throwing other lads to the ground for sport.

Every move he made was lazy, confident, entirely unaware.

Or maybe he was too aware. That was probably worse.

He shifted slightly in the chair — long limbs loose, languid — saying something to the lads around him. A grin cracked across one of their faces at whatever it was, and I caught the tail end of Rudy's own smile, slow and lopsided, before it vanished again. Just like that.

God, he really did sit like the world owed him comfort.

I let my eyes drag across the table. Most of them had some version of the same careless posture. Backs hunched. Ties loose. Food trays ignored in favour of whatever chaos rugby boys liked to shout about. But Rudy wasn't shouting. He wasn't even fully tuned in. There was a quietness to him in that moment — all muscle and silence and god-tier bone structure — that made him feel... separate. Like he could've been in another room entirely.

And beside him — unmistakably — was Johnny.

I almost didn't notice the shift until it happened.

His focus, mid-conversation, started to pull. Slowly, subtly, his eyes drifted from his brother and the rest of their table, moving across the cafeteria like he was scanning without even realising. Until they stopped.

On us.

No. On her.

Shannon.

Johnny's gaze was focused — direct, almost curious — like Shannon Lynch was something he hadn't expected to be thinking about but suddenly couldn't stop. And Shannon, completely oblivious, was still mid-rant with Claire about something Johnny Depp related, waving her fork in the air like it owed her a favour.

I kept my head turned just enough not to draw attention, but I didn't look away.

I watched him watching her. His eyes didn't move. Didn't blink. His hand hovered near his mouth, like he was thinking — really thinking — about something that had caught him off guard.

It was only when he glanced back to Rudy, then shifted again to our table, that he saw me.

And clocked that I'd seen the whole thing.

His face faltered — only for a second. A barely-there stutter in his expression. Like a record skip. But then he smirked.

That same Kavanagh smirk I'd already learned to read as well, shit.

I didn't smile back.

I lifted an eyebrow.

Not even hiding the look.

Shannon? Interesting.

Johnny's smirk twitched, and with a shake of his head, he turned back to his tray, mouthing something to Gibsie, who immediately burst out laughing.

A second later, as if my eyeline was on autopilot, I flicked back to Rudy.

But this time, he'd beat me to it.

The second our eyes locked, I knew.

I felt it in my fucking gut — like a snap.

His stare didn't hit me all at once. It crept — like smoke — curling around my ribs and up my throat, leaving my skin prickling in its wake. His body didn't move, but his attention was sharp. Focused. That quiet, unreadable kind of stare that held you without permission. Like he was working something out. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

His eyes didn't drift.

Didn't flick away and back again like some cocky teenage boy trying to look cool.

He just looked.

Still. Steady.

My heart jolted once in my chest, hard enough to hurt, and I swore the entire room went muffled around me. Like someone had stuffed cotton into my ears.

His mouth was set in a line — no smirk, no teasing. Just that stare, low and intense, like he could see right through me. And the worst part?

He didn't even look impressed.

He looked curious.

Like he was trying to figure out what the fuck I was doing watching him — and whether or not he liked it.

And still... he didn't look away.

A full-body shiver rolled down my spine, heat following after it like a second wave. My hands felt too still in my lap. My pulse too loud in my ears.

It was unbearable.

And I couldn't fucking move.

Then — slowly — he tipped his head to the side.

Just a little.

Just enough to make it feel personal.

Just enough to let me know he'd seen the whole thing between me and Johnny.

A breath got stuck in my throat.

And something stupid and shaky kicked to life in my stomach, all tangled up in nerves and adrenaline and the worst kind of want.

It was a look I'd never been given before.

Not like that.

Not like him.

I forced my eyes away before I could make it worse — before I could fall even deeper into whatever the fuck that was.

Spun back around to face the table like someone had just yanked me from a ledge.

Claire was still going on about Johnny Depp's eyeliner. Shannon was still laughing.

And me?

I was sat there, flushed and rattled, trying to remember how to breathe.

What the fuck was that?

What was that?

I was freaking the fuck out before my thoughts were broken by a deep male voice. I almost had a heart attack as a big frame slid into view, and I damn near collapsed in relief when the mop of golden-blond hair registered.

"Hows it going Claire-Bear?"

How the fuck did he get over here so quick?

Claire didn't even blink. "Oh hey, Gerard," she said coolly, eyes flicking up from her tray with about as much enthusiasm as a wet sock. "How are you?"

"Better now I'm talking to you," Gibsie purred, already lowering himself into the seat beside her like he owned the place. "You're looking lovely as always."

Claire sent a look across the table — one of those long-suffering, wide-eyed expressions she usually reserved for Shannon when she was ranting about Benedict Cumberbatch. Her eyes landed on me and Shannon like do you hear this man?

"Didn't I hear you use that same line on Megan Crean last Wednesday?" Claire asked, one brow arched high.

Shannon choked back a laugh so violently I thought she might inhale a carrot stick. I snorted into my hand, biting down a grin.

Gibsie didn't miss a beat. "Are you jealous?"

His tone was pure flirt — low and teasing — and he leaned in closer like he was actually expecting a yes.

"Because you know you're my number one," he added, winking.

"Spare me," Claire groaned, shooting him a withering look that only made him beam wider.

"I hear you're coming to Donegal with the team?" he asked then, switching gears like it was nothing. "Your class got the go-ahead, right?"

"Yeah," Claire said with a shrug, toying with the edge of her napkin. "Our class got picked to go. Ma hasn't signed the permission slip yet, though."

Shit. I hadn't even mentioned it to my dad. With everything going on with ma's awaiting visit

the trip had completely slipped my mind.

Donegal was coming up after the Easter hols. An away match for the Tommen team that was apparently a huge deal. A full weekend. Eight hours on a bus with a load of hormonal teenage boys.

Couldn't wait.

"Ah, your mammy'll let you go," Gibsie said with a grin, reaching out to ruffle Claire's hair, "Sure big brother'll be there to keep a watch over ya — and myself, of course. I always play better when I know you're watching."

He winked again.

This time Shannon didn't even try to hold it in — her laugh exploded into a full-blown snort, which she clamped a hand over in horror. I lost it immediately, doubling over as laughter ripped out of me, shoulders shaking.

The noise must've finally clued Gibsie in to the fact that we were, in fact, sitting right next to them.

"Oh hey, little Shannon," he grinned, turning toward us. "Hey, Smurfy."

Smurfy?

I blinked at him.

I sure hoped he was not referring to me. I know the guy struggles to remember my name but 'Smurfy'? Now that is just ridiculous.

"Smurfy? Where on earth have you gotten that from Gibsie?" I raised both brows in mock horror.

"Ah, well I'm glad you asked," Gibsie said brightly, spinning to face me like I'd just given him a mic on stage. His hands came up, already gesturing like he was presenting a bloody TED Talk.

"See, I was thinking Shaylee is just too boring — no offence — and I was workshopping a few nicknames in my head. And then I thought, Smurf! Because your last name's Murphy, and Smurf rhymes with Murph-y, get it?"

I stared.

"I don't know whether I should be offended that you're comparing me to a miniature blue cartoon or be flattered by the creativity," I deadpanned.

"Definitely the first one," Claire muttered, shooting him a glare. "You absolute eejit."

Before he could argue, a voice rang out across the lunch hall, cutting through the chatter like a siren.

"Gibs! Hurry up — Coach wants us out in ten minutes!"

Johnny's voice.

And holy shit, the effect it had on Shannon was instant.

Her cheeks turned the colour of fresh raspberries. She straightened up like she'd been electrocuted and looked everywhere but at the sound's source.

Absolutely adorable.

"Five minutes!" Gibsie called back, without so much as glancing over his shoulder.

"Coach wants us out now. Not in five bleeding minutes," Johnny shouted again, sounding so over it.

Gibsie just stuck two fingers up in reply.

Real mature.

Then he turned back to Claire, leaned in, and whispered something in her ear that made her eyes narrow and her mouth twitch in amusement.

Suddenly I felt a shift.

Shannon was blushing like mad, Johnny was watching her like a hawk, and Claire and Gibsie were doing their own little flirty thing across from me.

I was sat there like a spare prick.

Brilliant.

Lucky for me, salvation arrived in the form of Mrs O'Leary — cardigan-wearing, folder-holding, overly-perfumed science teacher extraordinaire.

"Shaylee, dear," she said, stopping by our table with that too-bright smile. "You're wanted in the principal's office."

Uhm.

What.

"Not anything to worry about," she added quickly, probably catching the look of alarm on my face. "It's about the extracurricular programme, I believe."

Right. That wasn't terrifying at all.

I blinked, then nodded. "Okay. Sure. Thanks."

Grabbing my bag, I said a quick goodbye to Shannon and Claire, ignored whatever weird half-wave Gibsie was doing, and made my way out of the lunch hall — heart still thudding.

Chapter Text

The walk to the reception office was short. Stupidly short, actually. Like the universe knew I wasn't prepared and wanted to give me the absolute bare minimum of time to overthink it. Cheers for that.

Still, I dragged it out, my mind filled with the replay of Rudy's eyes across the lunch hall like I'd purposefully set it on loop.

That fucking look on his face, the tilt of his perfect head. God.

He'd seen straight through me. That's what I decided had happened. The guy had seen past everything that kept me safely guarded, he was able to make me fold within a simple tilt of his head. Who the fuck can do that?

Him apparently.

God it wasn't even what he had looked at me like. It was that he looked. Like... really looked. And it had unhinged something in my chest that I hadn't even known was locked.

But I didn't want to think about it anymore. Not here. Not now.

Reception was in a separate room from the main office — quieter, more awkward. Like a little waiting limbo where kids sat before getting told off or sent home or suspended. I'd never actually been here before, and I was weirdly proud of that. But stepping inside now, it didn't feel like much of a win.

The receptionist looked up and gave me a polite nod. I smiled back, tight-lipped and pretending I wasn't internally spiralling, and stood there like an idiot until she got up and opened the door to the next area — the actual waiting room for the principal's office.

"Go on ahead, love," she said gently, holding the door open.

"Thanks," I muttered, trying to sound normal, like this wasn't a completely cursed situation.

I walked in. Took two steps. Froze.

Oh, for the love of God.

There were three chairs lined up against the wall outside a closed wooden door. Like a row of anxiety, just waiting to be sat on. Only one was occupied.

And of course it was him.

Elbows on his knees. Head in his hands. Shoulders hunched like the weight of the world was crushing him.

Rudy fucking Kavanagh.

I stopped dead. My whole body just... short-circuited.

Was I in a fucking movie?

Was this some kind of lame prank?

Why the fuck was the universe so sure on pinning me to this man?

Un-fucking-reasonable. That's what this whole thing was.

I stood there like a statue, hoping he wouldn't notice me even though obviously he would. I mean, I wasn't exactly invisible. And this wasn't exactly a bustling room. It was me, him, and three haunted-looking chairs.

What were the odds?

Actually, don't answer that. The odds have clearly been rigged by someone who hates me personally.

Chapter Text

Well.

I was fucked.

Properly, thoroughly, no-doubt-about-it fucked.

Again.

I was sitting outside Twomey's office, elbows on my knees, head in my hands, heart doing laps in my chest like it was prepping for a fella's PE bleep test. And truth be told, I had no idea what I was even doing here.

There hadn't been an explanation. Just coach reluctantly turning me away from practice because I was needed in Twomey's office.

Could've been anything. And for a lad like me? Yeah. The list of possibilities was longer than Johnny's injury record.

Last week alone, I'd had Twomey practically foaming at the mouth over that scrap with Conor, not my fault considering he was being a gobshite and pushed the wrong buttons.

and I'd barely left his office before he was throwing around words like exclusion and permanent record and final warning. So, no, I wasn't exactly coming in here expecting tea and biscuits.

I tried to think back over the week, sifting through every moment for something I could've gotten wrong. Which, fair, should've been easy. But weirdly... I'd been good. Or, you know — Rudy good.

I'd kept my head down. Mostly.

Had about four near-misses — a few smart comments in class I just about swallowed, a shove in the corridor I let go, Kieran trying to pull me into something sketchy at break and me giving him the "don't be thick" look. Scouts were knocking around campus this week, eyeing lads for development squads and college trials, so I knew I had to be on somewhat 'good behaviour'.

If not for me then for Johnny.

He'd get in no matter what.

That's the truth. He's golden-boy material — fast, skilled, charming when he wants to be. But still. I didn't want to be the reason he had even one crack in that shiny fuckin' future of his.

So yeah. I'd kept it zipped.

And in a pretty pristine week, if i do say so myself, I'd only had one slip up.

Lunchtime.

Sitting at the back table with all of the lads, which was becoming a more frequent thing recently. I guess for the best since a couple months ago I was either glued to Janae under the bleachers or off sniffing in the alley with Kieran. But today, I was behaving. Or trying to.

And for most of it, I almost succeeded.

Until she started laughing.

Shaylee Murphy.

Sitting across the room, head tipped back, smile brighter than the bloody fluorescents, chatting away with her friends like she hadn't just knocked me off my axis last week in the halls with a single look. I swear to God, I tried not to watch her. I did.

It made me feel like some pathetic stalker. Which I wasn't.

But those eyes. Those fucking eyes.

Big and green and intense, like she was always thinking about something deeper than what anyone else could see. And even when she wasn't looking at me — I felt them. Like the memory of them had gotten under my skin and decided to set up camp.

I turned away. Faced the lads. Tried to focus on the absolute shite Tiernan was talking about. But then I glanced back — like an eejit — and there she was again, only this time she was locked into some silent eye-speak situation with Johnny.

My stomach had twisted in my gut.

A horrible fucking feeling.

Of fucking course she wanted him. Who didn't want him.

Its Johnny fucking Kavanagh and apparently he's just so fucking irresistible. For a total of thirty seconds I felt like an absolute twat. How on earth I could've believed I'd of stood a fighting chance with this girl if I gave into my feelings when my brother was just so goddamn tempting.

I was halfway to launching myself across the table to ask Johnny what the hell he was doing with the girl when I realised what was happening. She was teasing him. Her eyes darting, eyebrows raised, smirking slightly in the way girls do when they know something you don't.

And then I clocked it and my entire body relaxed — Shannon Lynch.

The girl Johnny accidentally concussed and then promptly developed a weird attachment to.

She was tiny and underdeveloped but she had some kind of choke hold over Johnny these past couple weeks. Anyone who couldn't see it was blind.

All of that emotion behind his eyes and he wasn't even allowed to talk to her. He'd been forbidden by Twomey with the threat of his future and the wrath of Mrs Lynch.

So of course Shaylee had caught on. Of course she was winding him up.

But when she looked away from Johnny and her eyes landed on me?

Game over.

I didn't even blink. Just sat there, caught like a deer in headlights, staring back like a complete bollocks.

Her cheeks flushed the faintest pink — just enough to make my chest go tight — and she held my gaze for a few seconds that honestly felt longer than most matches I've played. I don't know what was in her head, or if it meant anything at all, but I swear, it felt like everything tilted.

The warning bells rang in my head. You can't have her. You don't deserve her. She's not yours to look at.

But I looked anyway.

Because I'm weak and human and seventeen and she's so beautiful it hurts.

And then she turned away — just like that — and I swear, it was like someone pulled the plug on the moment and left me sitting in the wreckage.

It was the first time in a long time I'd felt something close to giddiness. Actual, honest-to-God giddiness.

Which, for the record, does not happen to lads like me.

We don't get giddy.

But Shaylee Murphy made it happen.

And now, twenty minutes later, I was sitting outside the principal's office, wondering if it was the universe punishing me for even looking at her like that.

I heard the door creak open.

Didn't look up. Couldn't. I was too deep in the pit of my own thoughts, spiralling so fast I barely registered the sound of someone stepping into the room. Not even when they sat—not beside me, but one seat over. One empty chair between us.

It wasn't until I noticed them—those shoes—that something inside me shifted. My eyeline dragged over what I could see from my position.

And the legs where a following giveaway. I knew it. Too well.

My hands were still clutching my face, elbows digging into my thighs, but my eyes shifted, just slightly—sideways, like a threat assessment.

And holy fucking shit.

Of course it was her.

The universe had a sick sense of humour.

She was sitting there, hands neatly folded in her lap, shoulders tense, head ducked, eyes fixed on the floor. One seat away from me. Close enough to feel. Far enough to burn.

And she wasn't looking at me. Not even a glance.

But she knew. I could tell by the way her face flushed pink like it always did when she was holding something in. The kind of blush that wasn't from heat, but from effort. From trying really, really hard not to react.

I dragged my hands down from my face, slow and heavy, and sat upright, brushing them down my shorts like that would somehow ground me. The silence between us was screaming. It felt like the build-up of a song—one that never drops, just leaves you hanging on the edge, heart stalling in your chest.

I had to say something.

I had to.

Because the air in that room had turned thick enough to choke on, and pretending she wasn't there felt worse than any awkward conversation we might have.

But then it hit me.

She was here. With me. Outside the principal's office.

She'd finally ratted me out.

That had to be it.

Of course. It made sense. Her parents were probably in there now with Twomey, plotting my expulsion for nearly taking her head off with a stray rugby ball in a fit of pathetic rage. I should've known this was coming. Weeks had passed since that day, and I'd held my breath every second of them, waiting for the hammer to fall.

And now it had.

I tilted my head back and thunked it gently against the wall behind me, biting back a curse.

I turned, just a little, needing to see her face. And when I did—

Holy fuck.

I'd forgotten how beautiful she was up close. Dangerous kind of beautiful. The kind that knocked the air out of you.

Her eyes flicked toward me, just for a second. There was something there. Recognition? Fear? Annoyance?

Her lips parted slightly. And I had to remind myself to breathe. Fast.

I was only wearing my kit and this—this wasn't safe. I was a second away from complete self-destruction, and all it took was one glance from her.

My tongue pressed into the inside of my cheek, sharp and deliberate—an anchor. Self-restraint. Don't fuck this up, Rudy.

And then she spoke.

"Please stop doing that."

She said it quiet. Barely above a whisper.

And it destroyed me.

Not because it was mean. Not because it was harsh. But because it was soft. Because it was real. Because it was her voice, and I hadn't realised how much I'd missed it until I heard it again.

And then the words settled.

Please stop doing that.

Oh, fuck. She thought I was being weird. Creepy. Intense.

Was I?

Had I been staring that obviously?

Panic flared, but I tried to play it cool. "Like what?" I asked, though the answer echoed in my skull loud and clear.

She didn't look at me. Didn't reply. Just exhaled. Like she was tired. Like she regretted even saying it.

Nice one, Rudy. Real smooth.

I took a breath inwards. "You finally told then?" I inquired like a dick.

Her head tilted. "Told?"

"Your parents," I clarified. "About my, uh... impeccable aim."

She blinked at me. "What? No I didnt."

I ran a hand through my hair, unable to gather if she was lying or not. "I can't see why else we'd both be sat here," I admitted.

"Coincidence?" She offered quietly.

Coincidence.

It didn't feel like a coincidence. It felt like fate was up there with a remote control, switching the settings to maximum chaos.

I leaned back in the chair, tension coiling under my skin.

"So... you don't know why you're here either?" I asked.

She shook her head again. "No. Do you?"

"No clue. That's why I thought maybe..." I trailed off. "Never mind."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Oh."

We lapsed into silence again. Not as sharp as before. Just... awkward.

Then after a few beats, as if she couldn't quite handle the silence she said, "Your friend Gibsie's quite a character."

It caught me off guard. I blinked. "He is, yeah. You know him well?"

"Not really. Claire does. They're always together."

I nodded, relaxing just slightly. "He doesn't shut up about her."

"Does he not?" she said, and looked at me then—really looked—and she was smiling. Just the smallest curve of her lips, but it hit me like a bus. My chest clenched. My skin burned.

And then it was gone. Too fast.

I chased it.

"Yeah, he does. Obvious the eejit's mad for her."

Her eyes flicked back up at me, that same subtle spark I remembered.

'Its a public area you eejit!'

Clearly she remembered it too, because her cheeks went a shade of pink. I bit back a smirk but didn't do a very good job.

"What?" She asked.

"Nothing," I said, biting back a grin, "You still regretting calling me that?"

She blinked. "Sounds like you're the one dwelling on it."

"Am I?"

"Sounds like it."

I couldn't help it. I smiled. Properly, this time. First time in weeks.

"I promise you didn't hurt my feelings, Shay-Shaylee."

Oh, fuck.

Her eyes widened before she looked back down at her lap again.

"I hate that," She muttered.

Shit.

"Sorry," I muttered. "It just... kinda stuck."

"No, it's not you. I just—nicknames. Not a fan." She shook her head, "Far too many assigned to me lately... mostly from gobshites around the halls"

Gobshites. Jesus. Even when she was annoyed, I liked the way she talked.

I frowned. "Are lads bothering you?"

Her eyes widened slightly, but she shook her head, laughing with zero humour in her tone. "It's fine. Boys will be boys."

The surge of protectiveness was unexpected. Somehow I'd punch their fucking lights out if lads were making her uncomfortable.

"I'm serious." I said lowly. "I will sort it. Just tell me who fucking name called,"

I swear I saw a shiver roll through her perfect frame. She didn't answer. Just stared at the clock on the wall like she was willing it to move faster.

"We've been out here a while," she said quietly. "Do you think he's forgotten us?"

"I've got nowhere to be," I murmured, meaning it.

She turned to me again, eyes searching mine. I didn't look away.

"Have you?" I asked.

She hesitated. "Sort of."

My heart kicked.

"I'm supposed to be meeting my ma," she said. "First time in... a while."

There was something raw in her voice. Fragile.

"Are you excited?" I asked gently.

She gave a short, humourless laugh. "Not really."

Then, quickly: "Sorry, I don't know why I'm telling you this."

"No, it's fine," I rushed out. "Keep talking, I don't—"

The door creaked open.

We both turned.

Mr. Twomey stood there, expression casual as ever like he hadn't just kept us simmering in our own thoughts for half a bloody hour. "Sorry to keep you kids waiting. Come in."

"Both of us?" Shay asked softly.

Twomey nodded.

Well. Shite.

Chapter Text

"Both of us?" I asked, blinking like an eejit.

Now even I was worrying that I'd ratted, and I knew for a fact I hadn't. I hadn't said a thing worth getting anyone else in trouble. And certainly not Rudy Kavanagh.

So what in the name of Jaysus did Mr. Twomey want with the two of us at the same time? It's not like we were in the same year or anything. Rudy was a fifth year. I was a third. Different classes, different worlds, really.

My heart was already beating unnerving fast from simply having a conversation with him.

Still, I stood up, brushing the back of my skirt in that automatic sort of way girls do when they don't want the whole room staring at the arse of their tights and heard a gruff, annoyed sort of groan behind me.

Rudy rose from his seat, the scrape of the chair legs biting into the silence.

I stood awkwardly at the doorway, hovering like an absolute clown. I don't know what the hell I was waiting for—Mr. Twomey to give me directions? Rudy to shove past me? The floor to swallow me whole?

And then he was behind me.

"Uh, ladies first," came the gruff voice, low and scratchy like he hadn't used it much today.

Even though he had. In the full ten minute conversation we'd both succumbed too.

I inhaled sharply. Right. Legs. Move them, Shaylee.

I stepped into the office, forcing myself to walk like I had some kind of control over my limbs. Mr. Twomey was already halfway to his desk, rifling through papers. Rudy followed just behind, and I felt it when he slouched dramatically into one of the two chairs like he'd rather be anywhere else. His legs splayed out like he owned the place. Typical lad posture.

I sank into the seat beside him, suddenly aware of how small the office was. Lots of trophies lined the shelves—mostly rugby by the look of it—and a few framed photos of a younger-looking Mr. Twomey, smiling awkwardly beside what I assumed were his wife and kids. Cute. Wholesome. Almost made me forget he had just dragged me into a mystery meeting with the most unpredictable boy in Tommen.

"Ms. Murphy. Mr. Kavanagh," Mr. Twomey greeted with a curt nod, settling in behind his desk with all the flair of a man who liked structure and hated shite talk. He laced his fingers together like he was about to give a speech.

He offered me a polite smile first, then turned to Rudy... and faltered. His eyes narrowed just a touch. Barely a twitch of the eyebrow. But Rudy caught it and grinned like a devil.

"Mr. Twomey," Rudy replied, his voice all dry humour and defiance. Of course he made the bloody greeting sound like an insult.

"I'm sorry to pull you both out of lesson time," Twomey began, opening a drawer and producing a few files. "But this shouldn't take long."

"Respectfully, sir... what are we here for?" I asked, trying to keep the nerves out of my voice. But none of this felt good. It felt... set up.

"Well, I'm glad you asked, Ms. Murphy," he said, smiling again, like this was a pitch meeting instead of a disciplinary.

"In fact, it's promising news for Tommen. To cut a long story short, the school board has approved an expansion of our extracurricular sports programming. We're aiming for a more inclusive facility—rugby," he nodded at Rudy, "tennis, basketball, netball..." He listed off more than enough to make it sound official. "...and dance."

My eyes snapped to him. Dance?

He barely gave me time to react before steamrolling on.

"I was hoping the two of you would consider taking on the responsibility of becoming our new student sports leaders. Given your experience in rugby and the performing arts, we believe this will be an excellent opportunity. Not just for you, but for Tommen—and your future college applications."

I blinked. Hard.

He wanted us to be... sports leaders?

He wanted me to be a sports leader for dance.

The same dance I hadn't been able to face in over a year. The same passion I'd left bleeding somewhere on a Dublin stage after tearing my knee and my heart out in one go.

Surely that was on my record. Surely they weren't asking me to lead something I could barely think about without breaking down.

Rudy let out a low sound—half scoff, half growl—and leaned forward, one hand planting itself on the desk like he was about to flip it.

"With all due respect, Mr. Twomey," Rudy said, tone sharp but eerily controlled, "why the hell aren't you picking my brother for this?"

The air went still.

I looked between them, sensing something shift. Twomey's jaw tightened. Not just irritation—something deeper. Hesitation. Almost fear?

"Because I'm choosing you," Twomey said, voice steely. "I believe this will be an enriching opportunity for you. And... perhaps a distraction. To avoid any more behavioural mishaps."

There was something careful about the way he said it. Like he was choosing every word with the precision of a surgeon.

Rudy's nostrils flared. "A distraction?" he repeated, disbelieving. "Did my ma put you up to this? Because I really don't fucking understand why I'm being shoved into this, when there are plenty of other lads on the team who'd be more than happy to play teacher after school."

"Language," Twomey warned, not unkindly.

Rudy scoffed.

"You'd be sharing the role with other student leaders, including Ms. Murphy," Twomey added pointedly.

I could feel Rudy's eyes move to me. Like physically feel it. A beam of heat on the side of my face. His expression softened for a moment—just a flicker—but then it knit back together, more calculating this time. Like he was putting something together in his head.

"I don't think this is a good idea, sir," he said lowly.

God, I hated it when he did that with his voice. That low, controlled tone that did something to my ribcage. Actually, no. I loved it. I hated that I loved it.

But mostly, I felt... mortified.

He hadn't even let me get a word in before deciding he didn't want to spend any extra time with me. Fair enough. But... ouch.

"Unfortunately, Mr. Kavanagh, this isn't particularly an option for you," Mr. Twomey replied. "If you want any hope of keeping college scouts interested, you'll need something to offset your behavioural history. This will help."

Rudy exhaled through his nose, sharp and furious, but didn't argue. He just sat back in his chair, jaw working.

"I, uh—" I piped up suddenly, the words stumbling out before I could stop them. "I don't think this is a great idea for me either."

Twomey turned to me.

"And why is that, Ms. Murphy?"

I swallowed. My throat felt tight. "It might not be on record, but... I suffered an injury last autumn. To my knee. I haven't danced since."

Rudy's head turned so fast I felt the movement.

"You got hurt?" he asked.

"My knee," I said quickly, like it was no big deal. "It—uh, it gave out on me. So I'm not really sure I'd be up for—"

Twomey picked up his glasses, frowning as he scanned my file. "There's no mention of an injury on your records."

Well. Shite.

"It... it happened last year. In Dublin. I did physio and all. I guess it didn't transfer over."

He stared at me for a beat longer, then sighed.

"I doubt you'd lie about something like that," he said gently. "So I'll accept a decline from you, if that's what you want. But if you feel up to it... you'd be a real credit to this school."

I nodded slowly. I didn't know what to say. My heart was pounding. I glanced at Rudy—he was staring at me like he wanted to read my mind. Or like he already had and didn't like what he saw.

Chapter Text

I didn't really want to leave school.

Scratch that—I did. I did want to leave. But at the same time... I didn't.
Because walking out of that office meant walking straight into something way worse.
Mam.

And Jaysus, I wasn't ready. Not even a little bit.

I'd spent most of the meeting with Mr. Twomey pretending to listen while my eyes stayed glued to the clock on his wall, watching the second hand twitch its way around and around, praying he'd waffle on long enough that I'd miss the meet-up and have an excuse to text Da and cancel. Or delay. Or disappear. Whatever came first.

But of course, he hadn't.

Nope.
Right on time.
Rudy had been asked to stay back. I'd been told I could leave.
And now here I was. Walking out of Tommen's front doors with the weight of the entire fuckin' world sat heavy on my shoulders.

And Sports Leaders? Don't even get me started on that absolute madness. That whole conversation felt like a bad joke. Like one of those "let's slap a plaster on a bullet wound" kind of solutions that sounded good in theory but had me wanting to crawl into the nearest bush and vanish.

I quit dance. I quit. I hurt my knee.
That's what I keep telling myself anyway.
That's the story I've decided to go with. That it was over before I was ready, and I made peace with it, and now I'm fine. Moved on.
Except... I haven't.
And I'm not.

Using this 'Sports Leader' thing to pad out a college application? It just felt wrong. Off. A bit like dragging around the ghost of who I used to be and trying to make her work for me in a whole new way.
But Mr. Twomey wasn't wrong, either.
Back in Dublin, dance was my thing. The one thing that made me stand out, that made me different, when I was always teetering on the edge of average in every other way.
I was never top of the class. I scraped passes. I was rubbish at Maths—no surprise there.
But dance?
Dance made me feel like I mattered. Like I could actually be something.

And now... now that I didn't have it anymore, I felt sort of pathetic. Like I'd been stripped of the only thing I had going for me and left bare. It's hard to pretend you've moved on when you feel like a shell of who you used to be. I didn't even know who I was without it.

This whole Sports Leader thing—it sounded small. Silly. Like a school formality. But it felt bigger than that.
It felt loaded.
Like a test.

Twomey said it was my choice. That no one would force me to do it. And I knew that.
But there was this tiny, stubborn part of me itching to say yes.
Just to see.
Just to try.
Just to feel like I was something again.
Even if I was scared.
Even if I didn't know if I could physically handle it.
Because of my knee.
Definitely because of my knee.
And nothing else.

And god.

Working with Rudy? That would be hell on earth. Not because he was a prick—God no. Quite the opposite, actually. He was... he was terrifyingly compelling.
Too compelling.
And I was afraid of him in that stupid, girly way you get afraid when someone sees through you a little too well.
If he looked at me like that again—really looked at me—I might actually explode.
Spontaneous combustion.
Death by eye contact.

I pulled my coat tighter around myself and trudged out into the swell of after-school chaos—students spilling out of the front doors in packs, car horns honking as parents pulled up outside, rugby lads shouting across the car park in that way boys always seem to do like the volume of their voice somehow affects their masculinity.

Da was in a meeting, so I had to get the bus into town.
Grand. No big deal. I'd never gotten it before, but I knew Shannon did, so I was banking on spotting her at the stop. Maybe sitting with her would make me feel less like a loser.
But after being stuck in that meeting with Twomey for so long, I was already cutting it close.

I pulled out my phone.
Ten past three.
"Shit," I muttered, picking up the pace, one hand gripping the strap of my schoolbag as I rounded the corner past the iron gates.
Please still be there, I begged silently. Please still be there.
Or don't be there. Honestly, missing it would be a blessing in disguise. I could just go home and avoid the whole mam thing altogether.
God, I was a coward.

My feet hit the pavement just in time to see the big bus veer around the bend and disappear down the road.

Gone.
Just like that.

"Ah, bollocks," I groaned, loud enough to make a few parents in their cars glance over at me from the queue.
Brilliant. I'd just publicly missed the bus like a gobshite. Love that for me.

I scanned the windows of the cars in the pick-up line, hoping to catch a glimpse of Claire or Lizzie. Someone. Anyone. But the windows were all full of unfamiliar faces, and the cars just kept on rolling by.

Letting out a breathy sigh, I turned to check the sign posted up beside the bus shelter.

Next bus: 4:30pm.
Of course.

If it wasn't a Friday, I would've just turned around and gone back into school—sat in the library, done some homework, something to kill time. But on Fridays the only ones allowed back in after hours were the rugby lads for their sacred practice.

So I was stuck.
Brilliant.

I flopped down onto the cold, unforgiving metal bench and let the weight of the day settle on me properly for the first time. The breeze had picked up now that the sun was dipping lower, biting at my cheeks and tugging at the strands of hair falling loose around my face. I shivered and wrapped my coat tighter, trying to make myself small.

I couldn't even text her.
Didn't have her number.
Didn't want it, either.
We'd been going through Da, playing broken telephone with our updates. This whole reunion thing was her idea, not mine. She wanted to see me. She was the one who started hassling him. So she could bloody well wait for me, couldn't she?

We'd agreed to meet at 4:30.
It took half an hour to get into town. So she'd only be waiting an extra thirty minutes. That wasn't that bad.
If she was serious—if she really wanted to see me—then she'd wait.

Right?

You'd think so.
But this was Mam.
The same Mam who vanished in a petty strop with her pedo boyfriend.

So yeah.
Hope was a flimsy thing right now.

And all I could do was sit here and hold onto it anyway.

Chapter Text

"This isn't an option for you, Kavanagh. We've been over this," Twomey said, calm. Too calm. Like he was choosing his words as if I was a bomb that might go off if he moved too quick.

"Yeah, we have been," I snapped, leaning back in the stupid plastic chair, arms crossed, voice flat. "And I've also told you—I'm not fucking doing it."

"Language." The man barely blinked.

"What are you, my mother?"

"No. I'm your principal," he shot back, deadpan. "And as your principal, I'm telling you—you'll be part of this. You're a star rugby player, Kavanagh. You and your brother are. But you need this more than he does."

There it was again. That tone. Like he knew something I didn't want him to know.

I let out a groan and leaned forward, elbows on knees, rubbing my hands over my face. God, this was stupid. The whole thing was just... stupid. It wasn't even that big of a deal. A 'sports leader'? Grand. Sound. Not exactly the end of the world. Most lads would lap it up—bit of responsibility, few brownie points on the record, something to do after class.

But that wasn't what pissed me off.

It was the fact that they were making me do it. Like I was some ticking time bomb who needed to be kept busy or else I'd explode. Like I was a problem to solve, not a person to talk to. It was classic Ma logic—distract, deflect, disguise. She was always trying to steer me toward something that'd take the edge off. As if the right hobby would fix what was wrong inside.

By the sounds of it, the whole thing was just a pile of after-school clubs—rugby for the first years, a bit of dance for those who fancied it. And guess who Twomey had suggested teach rugby?

Yeah. Yours truly.

And Shay? She was meant to teach dance. Of course she was. It was a cruel joke, honestly. I could tell the second Twomey said it that she hated the idea. Her face didn't even flinch dramatically, just... dropped, subtly. Like someone had whispered a slur in her ear. Like she'd just been transported somewhere awful, somewhere she'd been trying not to think about.

And yet, she'd been given a choice.

I hadn't.

And worse—because I'd been a gobshite, mouthing off to Twomey like some sort of eejit—I'd probably wrecked her chances of saying yes. She didn't want to be paired with me. Why would she? I'd made it clear that I thought it was a bad idea.

Which, let's be honest, I kind of did.

Not because I didn't want to spend time with her—Jesus, far from it. But because she was dangerous. Not like knives and fists dangerous. Worse.

The girl had this pull.

We'd had a grand total of, what, two conversations in the last three weeks? And yet, somehow, every single one left me wired. Like I needed more. Like a single dose of her voice was never enough. I couldn't keep my eyes off her. Couldn't stop wondering what she was thinking. Her voice, her eyes, the way she carried herself—fuck, she was addictive.

And I barely even knew her.

Maybe that's what made me the most fucked up of all.

When I finally left Twomey's office, the school was practically silent. Friday, 3:30 PM—half the population was already out the gate and halfway down the hill. I had practice, technically. But I'd already missed the first half hour, and honestly, the thought of chasing a ball around a pitch felt pointless.

Everything felt pointless lately.

I trudged down the empty corridor, out through the doors, and into the car park. The air was damp, the sky the colour of dishwater, spitting drizzle down like it was half-arsing a cry. I climbed into the car and slammed the door, trying to ignore the scream building in my throat.

I knew what road I was meant to take.

Home.

Instead, my eyes drifted to the opposite exit—the one that led to Kieran's estate.

Temptation bloomed in my chest like wildfire.

I could go. I could forget. He'd have something, anything, enough to knock me sideways until the feelings melted into static. He always did. But I hated that I was even considering it. The fact that this was what my brain reached for—escape.

I was angry. Not at Twomey. Not even at myself, really. Just... everything. Everything was so fucking useless right now. It made me want to scream and cry and sleep all at the same time.

"Fuck!"

The word tore from my mouth before I could stop it, sharp and loud and echoing around the empty car. I slammed my fists down on the steering wheel, the sound of skin against leather thudding dully through the silence. The car shook slightly with the force. My chest heaved. I couldn't stop moving. Couldn't sit still. Couldn't think straight.

My hand flew to my hair, dragging through it like it might do something — like it might pull the thoughts out of my head and onto the floor where I could fucking stomp on them. But it didn't. Of course it didn't.

My heart was rattling, full-on vibrating like it was trying to fight its way out of my chest.
"Fuck. Fuck," I repeated, under my breath now. Quieter. Desperate. Like I was begging myself to stop feeling this way, to just get it together, even for a second.

I could feel it.
That horrible, familiar feeling.

It was happening again.

That invisible fist squeezing tight around my lungs. Like someone had reached inside and scraped out all the air, left me hollow and gasping. I tried to suck in a deep breath through my nose, held it for a beat, and then let it out through my mouth.

I tried again.
Failed.

Another yell escaped me — louder this time, more like a roar — raw and frustrated and full of panic that had no place to go. It clawed up my throat and burst out of me like it needed air more than I did.

With shaking fingers, I yanked open the door and stumbled out of the car, boots hitting the tarmac with a solid thud that grounded me for all of two seconds.

Rain had started — that soft, misty kind at first, the type that soaks through your skin before you even realise it. But I didn't care. I barely felt it. My hand was gripping my chest like I could physically tear out the ache pulsing there. I tugged at my tie, yanking it halfway down my torso, the knot suddenly unbearable against my throat. My fingers fumbled with the top buttons of my shirt, each one popping open with a shaking, fumbling urgency.

My knees buckled slightly — a terrifying thing for a lad of my size. But they did. They gave just enough to make me stagger.
The breaths were getting shorter now. Quick. Shallow. Pointless. It felt like no matter how many I took, I couldn't get enough in. The air was thick and useless, the world spinning ever so slightly. The rain was making it worse — cold, biting, relentless. I couldn't think, couldn't breathe. My whole body felt like it was trying to shut down on me.

I couldn't stay here.

I couldn't go home either.

And that was maybe the worst part — knowing there was nowhere I wanted to be. Not practice. Not with Ma. Not even with Johnny. My brother, who could read me like a book but couldn't rewrite the chapters I wanted gone.

So I walked.

Not fast. Not with any kind of direction or purpose. Just... forward.

Where the fuck I was going, I had no idea.

A smart person—someone with even the tiniest bit of sense—would've turned back around, marched their sorry arse straight into Tommen, and hunted down Johnny. He'd probably still be there, skulking around, waiting for me to make an appearance. He'd have dragged me into the car, shoved the keys into the ignition, and driven us home with that blank expression of his, the one he wore when he was just barely holding it together. He wouldn't have even asked questions. He wouldn't have needed to. He just... would've known. Like he always fucking did.

But when had I ever been that person? That smart, rational, normal person?

Never.

Irrational was my middle fucking name. Rudy Irrational Kavanagh. It had a ring to it, didn't it?

My breaths came sharp and shallow as I staggered forward, the cold air hitting the back of my throat like glass. A groaned hum slipped past my lips—low, guttural, and desperate—the same sound I used to make as a kid when I was trying to keep myself from exploding. It was pathetic. It was instinctual. It was the only thing grounding me as my heart beat louder than the rain pattering against the gravel beneath my shoes.

I clutched at my chest again, my fingers digging in like I could physically stop the ache if I just pressed hard enough. But it didn't stop. It just kept hammering. Louder, faster, harder.

It felt like my ribcage was going to crack open.

And before I knew it, I was rounding a corner, steps unsteady and vision blurred—not from tears, not fully, but from the stinging in my eyes and the tightness in my skull, like my entire brain was being squeezed into a vice.

The gates of Tommen were just behind me now.

I was going to collapse. Right there, in the middle of the path, I was going to fucking fall down and—

Then I saw her.

Small. Still. Sitting at the bus stop just ahead, her arms tucked around her knees like she was trying to fold herself into the metal bench. Completely alone.

My entire body froze.

Like someone had hit pause on my insides and pressed play on the outside. My heart—which had been thundering out of control—stuttered in my chest, catching on itself like a scratched CD.

Fuck.

Fucking hell.

Shay—Shaylee.

It was like something cosmic was taking the piss out of me. Of all the people in the world to stumble across at the exact moment I felt like I was going to die from the inside out, it had to be her. Of course it had to be her.

My hand stayed glued to my chest, my fingers clenched, but everything else in me stilled. There was this... this strange sensation in my gut. Like a tide turning. Like the pull of the sea changing direction, just slightly. Barely noticeable, but enough to keep me upright.

I stared at her.

And somehow—somehow—the storm inside me quieted.

Not gone. No, not by a long shot. But dulled. Dimmed. Bearable.

That girl. Jesus fucking Christ, what kind of power did she have?

She moved after a second, like she'd felt me watching. Her head turned, slow and deliberate, and her big green eyes locked on mine.

And she didn't look away.

She didn't look away.

Even though I was standing there looking like a half-drowned lunatic in my rain-soaked school uniform, my black tie hanging halfway down my torso, my shirt clinging to my skin and my top buttons undone like I'd just walked out of a fight. My hair was dripping, my shoes were ruined, and I was fairly certain I looked like I'd been through the wringer and back.

But she still didn't look away.

Instead—God help me—she stood.

Her movements were gentle, hesitant, like she wasn't sure what the fuck she was seeing. We were only a few metres apart now, the kind of distance that made you aware of how close someone actually was. How easy it would be to reach out and touch them. To be seen.

I felt... naked.

Vulnerable.

And I never felt vulnerable.

I hated it.

But with her—fuck—it wasn't the bad kind. It wasn't the oh-God-I'm-gonna-crack-and-you'll-see-everything kind. It was the safe kind. The kind where you're terrified someone might see the real you... but also kind of hoping they do.

And then she lifted her hand and gave me a tiny wave.

I swear to God, I almost collapsed again—but for a completely different reason.

And then, like the sky itself was trying to prove a point, the rain started pelting down harder, soaking through my shirt, slapping against the pavement, making everything around us look hazy and surreal.

She blinked up at it, squinting, her face scrunching the way it always did when something caught her off guard. I could see her teeth grit slightly, her shoulders hunching as she pulled her coat tighter around her slim frame.

And still, I didn't move.

I couldn't.

I didn't have a coat. Didn't have anything, really—no words, no explanations, no strength. Only this storm in my chest and the girl standing in it.

She looked between the shelter of the bus stop and me—still motionless, still falling apart—and I could practically see the internal debate playing out on her face.

And then, without a word, she pushed off the bench and started walking.

Rushing, actually.

Her boots hit the gravel with urgency, her pace quickening with each step, and before I knew it, she was right in front of me. Standing there. Inches away. Her head tilted back as her eyes scanned my face—my wreck of a face—with a softness that had no business being aimed at me.

"Have you been crying?" she whispered.

Fuck.

I couldn't even open my mouth to respond. My throat was closed up. My jaw was clenched. I was barely breathing.

"Come on, please get out of the rain," she pleaded, her voice like velvet over glass, soft but cutting through the noise.

But my feet were still rooted to the bloody ground, stuck in the mud and water and confusion of it all. All I could do was stare at her. At her freckles and her damp lashes and the way her cheeks flushed pink in the cold.

And somehow, for the first time in what felt like hours, I could breathe again.

Like really breathe.

Because she was there.

And I don't know what it meant or why it mattered—but it did.

It mattered so fucking much.

"Rudy," she said, her voice soft but firm, dragging my name out of the mess that was my head and anchoring it in reality—her reality.

She was staring up at me, her green eyes wide and questioning, like she was trying to decipher the storm happening behind mine. Her gaze flicked to the bus stop behind her, then back to my face, and something about the way her brows pulled together—equal parts irritation and worry—made something in my chest shift painfully.

"Fine!" she shouted, throwing her arms out with exaggerated drama, the words sharp and defiant, loud enough to rise above the rain hammering down on both of us. "Fine! We'll just stay here!"

And she did exactly that—rooted herself to the bloody spot like some stubborn little warrior who'd decided she wasn't going to move until I did. She crossed her arms over her chest, standing her ground as water streaked down her face in tiny rivulets, soaking through the ends of her hair and dripping from her fringe.

It almost made me laugh. Almost.

Because even as she glared up at me like I was the biggest eejit alive—and let's be honest, I probably was—there was a flicker of caution in her expression. Like she wasn't entirely sure what I was going to do. Like she was bracing for something.

And that gutted me.

As if she genuinely thought I'd ever raise my hand or my voice to her. As if I was capable of hurting her. Her, of all fucking people.

My gut twisted, and the words came before I even knew I was saying them.

"I'm sorry," I shouted, my voice catching in my throat as the rain poured harder, beating against the pavement like the sky itself was trying to drown the world out.

"Sorry for what?" she called back, her brow raised, sarcasm laced through the words. "Because if it's us being soaked from top to bottom, that could be easily fixed."

I huffed a short laugh, barely more than a breath, but it was something. She looked almost startled by it—like she hadn't expected it. Like she hadn't expected me to smile.

"For not talking to you after the incident," I said, raising my voice just enough to reach her over the crash of rain and my own heartbeat thudding in my ears.

She blinked at me, rain dripping from her lashes, and for a second I wasn't sure she'd heard me. But then she nodded, just slightly, her eyes scanning my face.

"You don't need to apologise," she said softly, so quiet I had to lean in slightly to hear her. Her voice almost got swallowed by the rain—but not quite.

I exhaled, my breath shaky.

"Yes I do," I called, the words sharp, deliberate. Honest. "It was rude. I was a dick to not even check on you."

Her lips twitched, not quite a smile. "Maybe..." she said, and I could hear the tease in her tone.

My jaw clenched. I wasn't done.

"I just don't want you to think I'm a rude guy. Not to you, at least."

And that—that—made her pause.

She tilted her head at me, frowning slightly, and I could see it happening in real time—the confusion spreading across her face like she didn't know what to do with the version of me standing in front of her. The one who cared. The one who talked. The one who looked at her like she mattered more than she should've.

What the fuck happened to her being off limits Rudy? huh?

"I don't think you're a rude guy," she said, and it came out so casually it nearly knocked me off balance.

"You don't?" I asked, my voice coming out hoarse.

"Not at all."

We just... stared at each other for a second. Standing there like two soaked idiots in the middle of a rainstorm, blinking water out of our eyes and pretending this wasn't the strangest, most honest conversation we'd ever had.

Then she tilted her head again.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"What?"

"Are you okay?" she repeated, louder this time.

She looked so serious. So concerned. And it shouldn't have mattered as much as it did, but something about her asking... about her caring enough to ask me, of all people—it unraveled something in my chest I hadn't realized was still tied in knots.

"I—uh, yeah. Yeah, I'm okay," I said, fumbling.

Her eyes narrowed like she didn't believe me. Smart girl.

"Are you okay?" I asked, because deflection was easier. Safer.

But she didn't bite.

"Don't lie to me," she said, and her voice had that softness again—that dangerous kind of soft. The kind that made you want to tell her everything even if it burned on the way out.

"It's hard to explain," I admitted, running a hand through my drenched hair. "Maybe when we're not in the pouring rain?"

She looked up at the grey sky above us, sighed, and then looked at me with that eyebrow raised again.

"It was your idea, rude-boy."

"Rude boy?" I echoed, almost smiling despite myself.

She grinned—full on, all teeth, dimples showing and everything—and holy fuck. That smile. I wanted to bottle it and keep it in my pocket for days when everything felt too heavy.

"I think the nickname suits you," she said, loud and proud.

I huffed another laugh, this one real.

"I thought you didn't like nicknames?"

"I don't like nicknames from gobshites in the halls. Giving them out is fun."

The smirk on her face was wicked, and I couldn't help myself.

"Alright then, Shay-Shaylee."

She laughed.

And I swear to God, it was the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard.

Not dramatic. Not metaphorical. Just true. Her laugh cracked something open in me, something raw and desperate and human. Because it wasn't just that it was sweet—it was that it was real. And it was hers.

Now that the panic had started to ebb—slowly, like the tide drawing back—I was starting to feel everything again. The chill in my bones. The cold water soaking through my uniform. The way my shoes squelched with every step. I was probably one rainstorm away from catching pneumonia.

But she'd stayed. Out here. With me. Even when I'd gone full ghost-mode and spiraled into silence. Even when I didn't deserve it.

And before I could second-guess myself, the words were out of my mouth.

"Do you need a ride home?"

She hesitated, her gaze flickering across my face like she was searching for the catch. Like she was wondering if this was another test.

"You'll be waiting out here for ages for the next bus," I added, shrugging like it wasn't a big deal when it absolutely fucking was.

She looked at the road, then back at me. Slowly—carefully—she nodded.

"Only if it's okay with you," she said.

"Of course it is, Shay-Shaylee."

I turned, heading toward the car park, my shoes slipping a little on the wet gravel. I didn't look back, but I heard her footsteps behind me a few seconds later, quick and light and certain.

And I had no idea what the fuck had just happened.

All I knew—all I knew—was that the girl with the big green eyes had made me feel something I hadn't felt in what felt like forever.

Calm.

Even though there was a war raging in my chest, even though the past was still breathing down my neck, even though everything in me screamed that this shouldn't be happening... it was.

And for once, the butterflies weren't choking me. They weren't wild or frantic or anxious.

They were alive.

And they felt good.

Chapter Text

I don't know what came over me.

One second I was alone at the bus stop, the next I was following him back to the car park like some lovesick moron with no sense of self-preservation. My legs were moving but my brain had completely shut off. Fried. I could barely function. The rain hadn't let up in the slightest, still pelting down around us like the universe was staging a dramatic intervention—and I'd said yes. When he'd offered me a lift, I'd actually said yes.

Like a complete idiot.

This boy was a dangerous temptation. I knew it the second I laid eyes on him at the start of term and I especially knew it now, seeing him all disheveled and drenched, like a broken statue someone had left out in a storm.

He'd just been standing there at the edge of the pavement, arms slack at his sides, face pale and eyes rimmed red like he'd either been crying or close enough to it. I'd spotted him from the shelter of the bus stop—he looked frozen, like he couldn't move even if he wanted to. Something in my chest clenched. I hadn't even thought. I just got up and walked over.

And now here I was. Trailing behind him toward his actual, real-life Mercedes-Benz like I hadn't just inserted myself into a situation I was vastly unequipped for.

It was easily the fanciest car I'd ever seen up close. My family lived comfortably but this wasn't just comfort. This was Kavanagh luxury. It practically gleamed in the grey.

The rain kept hammering down, soaking through my coat until I was shivering right through to my bones. Rudy didn't even have a coat. Not that he looked like he cared. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his school shirt stuck to his skin, and he looked like something off the cover of a romance novel. If romance novels featured emotionally constipated rugby players.

I should've offered him my coat.
But realistically, he wouldn't have gotten one of his hunky arms into it.

He opened the passenger side door for me without saying anything, like this was something we did every day. Like it wasn't weird that we were suddenly... this. I slipped inside, grateful for the shelter, and pulled my soaked legs in as he closed the door behind me.

The inside of the car smelled like him. Clean. Warm. A little like his cologne and the faintest trace of pine from some fancy air freshener in the vent. I barely had a second to breathe it in before he was climbing into the driver's side and slamming the door shut behind him.

His shirt clung to all the right places—every right place—and I had to force myself not to stare. His tie was crooked, his jaw clenched, water still dripping down his temples. He looked like a sculpture come to life. A stressed, rain-soaked, emotionally repressed sculpture.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I needed to get a grip.

"So where are we headed?" he asked, turning to face me, keys dangling in his hand but not yet in the ignition. His voice was quieter than usual. Not quite soft, but not sharp either. Somewhere in the middle.

I pushed a wet strand of hair out of my face, painfully aware I looked like a literal drowned rat. Zero glamour. Just damp and frazzled.

"I was hoping you could drop me in the centre of town," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Town? In this weather?"

"Yeah, well... I'm meant to be meeting my ma, so."

Recognition flickered across his face like a light bulb being switched on. "Right you are. Sorry—I forgot you mentioned that earlier."

"It's alright. I wouldn't expect you to remember," I said quickly, automatically, before I realised my soaked coat was leaking all over his fancy leather seats.

"Shit—I'm sorry, let me just—" I said, scrambling to peel the thing off and scrunching it into a ball on my lap. Wet skirt? Fine. Destroying Rudy Kavanagh's Mercedes-Benz interior? Not fine.

"Don't worry about it," he said with a small smile, like it was nothing. "It'll soon dry up."

God. That smile.

I nodded, still mortified, and rubbed my arms instinctively to keep warm. Cold and wet was not a fun combo. He must've noticed, because he leaned forward and flicked on the heating without another word. Warm air sputtered out of the vents a moment later, and I let out a breath I hadn't even realised I was holding.

"I'm so sorry," he said again, fast. "I shouldn't've kept you out in the rain like that."

"Stop apologising, it's okay. I wanted to."

"No, you didn't," he replied, and it wasn't snarky. Just honest. Matter-of-fact.

I paused.

"No... I didn't," I admitted.

Because I didn't. Not for the rain. Not for the way my fingers were still numb or the way my boots squelched with every step.

But for him?
Yeah. I did.

Because he'd looked like he was breaking. And I didn't want to be the girl who walked away from that.

Rudy looked at me then, really looked at me, and there was something raw behind his eyes. Something that tugged at my heart in a way I wasn't ready to deal with. Before I could say anything else, he twisted in his seat and reached into the back.

"I'm sure I've got a—" he muttered, rummaging. "There we are—"

He held up a dark blue jacket, gave it a quick sniff, and handed it to me.

"Please take it," he said. "I can't stand you being cold."

My chest squeezed.

Why? Why did this boy care if I was cold? Why did he care at all? We'd barely known each other more than a few weeks. Exchanged less conversations than I could count on my fingers.

And yet, here he was. Offering me his jacket like it meant something.

Like I meant something.

I took it with shaking fingers, wrapping it around myself. It was warm and heavy, way too big, but so comfortable I almost melted into the seat. The arms hung well past my fingertips and I rolled them up slowly, fingers catching on the soft lining.

"Thank you," I mumbled, voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded, eyes flicking to mine for a second.

"You're welcome," he said.

And then—finally—he slid the key into the ignition, and the engine purred to life.

*

We'd been travelling in silence for the past ten minutes.

Not the soft, companionable kind of silence you get in the movies, either. Not like when two people know each other so well they don't need to fill the space between them. No. This was... something else. A heavy sort of quiet that clung to my skin, same as the rain still dripping from the ends of my hair. It felt too loud for a silence, if that made any sense at all.

And I hated it.

Silence, for me, was never just silence. It was a warning. A question mark. A threat. A thousand possibilities wrapped up in the not-knowing.

Not because I'm some raging extrovert who needs to fill every moment with chatter. God no. I'm quiet by nature. I keep to myself more than most. But the thing is—silence doesn't mean peace to me. Never has.

I think I picked that up from growing up with Mum and Gary.

Back when I was younger, we lived in a two-bed flat on the fourth floor of one of those council blocks in Ballymun. The kind of place with walls so paper-thin you could hear your neighbours breathe—when they weren't roaring the head off each other, that is.

Noise was constant. Always something banging or breaking or screaming. A telly on too loud. A dog barking at God knows what. The sound of bedposts knocking against the wall from the flat beside ours—or from Mum's room down the hall, which was worse.

But the noise, no matter how grim, was predictable. Expected. You could brace yourself for it.

It was the silences that terrified me.

The silence meant something had happened. Or was about to. The kind of silence that sits in the air like a knife, waiting to fall. The kind that pressed into your ears until you thought you might go mad from the pressure.

People talk about being scared of the dark, because they don't know what's in it. It's the unpredictability that's scary. The unknown.

That was me with silence.

Was Mum okay?
Had she passed out?
Had the fight gone too far and I just hadn't heard the thud?

Usually, it was never that bad.

Mum and Gary fought like rabid dogs, but Gary never raised a hand. He wouldn't dare—not with the neighbours we had. Everyone in that block knew Mum. She had enough friends and feisty cousins in Ballymun to ensure any man who laid a finger on her wouldn't have working kneecaps by sunrise.

But Gary didn't need fists to do damage. He had his words, his eyes, his presence. Always lurking. Always watching. Always saying the exact thing that would make your skin crawl and your throat tighten.

And Mum? She'd roar at him. Call him out, put him back in his box—until he turned on me.

Then she'd go quiet.

Sometimes she joined in, and before I knew it, a row between them about whatever shite Gary had been up to turned into me being berated at one in the morning by two adults who should've known better.

Apparently, I was the reason he came home with hickeys at 2am. Because I forgot to lock the door.

So yeah. I hated the quiet.

And now here I was, in the quietest Mercedes-Benz in the whole country, with Rudy Kavanagh sat beside me, and I wanted nothing more than to smash the silence into pieces.

But with what?

It wasn't like we were close. Not at all really. He was...difficult. Stoic. Practically allergic to small talk.

And me? I'm observant. Too observant. I can read people from across a room, usually.

But Rudy?

I couldn't read him.

Not until tonight.

Tonight, for the first time, I saw something behind his tough-guy act. Not the cocky Kavanagh twin who strutted around Tommen like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders and no interest in sharing it. But someone softer. Someone sad.

Someone lost.

I didn't mean to see it. Didn't even know I had seen it until now. Like I'd accidentally peeled back a layer without trying. And now I didn't know what to do with it.

Because sitting in this silence wasn't an option. But saying the wrong thing might make him pull away again. Close the shell. Shut me out. If I was even in to begin with.

I turned my head slightly, watching the rain trail down the passenger window, each droplet racing the other in slow motion. The heat in the car had started to do its job—my fingers were warm now inside the sleeves of Rudy's jacket, and the sick ache in my chest had dulled a little.

But the tension between us was still there. Tighter than ever.

I wanted to say something. Anything.
But what do you say to a boy who looks like he's been breaking in silence for a long, long time?

"Knockin on Heavens door" by Bob Dylan was playing low on the car radio barely more than a whisper over the quiet purr of the engine.

And Rudy was sat still, eyes kept on the road, one hand steady on the steering wheel, the other resting on the gear stick, knuckles flexed just slightly. His jaw was tight, lips pressed into a thin line, and for that I was genuinely thankful. Not that I had anything against his face—but the thought of him glancing at me made my stomach twist in a weird, fluttery way I wasn't ready to unpack.

Honestly, I hadn't thought this whole getting-in-the-car-with-Rudy-Kavanagh thing through. It made sense in the moment—he offered, I was freezing, my legs felt like lead—but somewhere around the third minute into the ride, it hit me. He was... intense. And I had no clue what kind of driver that made him. For all I knew, he was some kind of rage-filled lunatic behind the wheel. Wouldn't be that shocking, considering the way he'd been stomping around school like a ticking time bomb lately.

But no.

He was calm. Surprisingly so.
Controlled, even.

There was a kind of peace to the way he handled the car—like he knew exactly what he was doing, like this was one of the rare places where he felt in control of his own story. And though his jaw was still set and his brows pulled ever so slightly together, there was no sign of recklessness. No slamming pedals. No sharp turns. Just this steady, low hum of motion.

I watched him for a beat longer, then turned my gaze back to the window, watching raindrops race each other down the glass.

My mind was juggling topics—scrambling for something to say to break the silence, to fill the space between us without pushing any of his clearly-marked boundaries.

I couldn't bring up why he'd looked like he was on the verge of tears earlier. That would've been pushing it, and even if I had been bold enough to ask, I wasn't sure I wanted to hear the answer.

Because a part of me understood already. Not the details, exactly, but the weight. The feeling.

A boy like Rudy Kavanagh doesn't come without emotional baggage. I knew that from the second I met him. There was too much behind his eyes. Too much hiding in the way he walked, the way he watched the world like it had already betrayed him once and might again any second.

And I definitely wasn't bringing up the sports leadership thing. He hadn't exactly seemed thrilled about it back in Twomey's office, and while I'd originally assumed it was because he couldn't stand the thought of being paired with me, now... now I wasn't so sure.

He'd offered me a lift.
Given me his jacket.

It was starting to feel less like he hated me, and more like—well. Something else.

Still. The topic of a certain Rugby Ball Incident? Off limits.

He'd already apologised about that approximately four hundred times, and if he said sorry once more I was going to hurl a Gilbert at his head and call it character development.

I glanced sideways at him again. The muscles in his arms flexed just slightly as he shifted gears.

He didn't look over—still fixed on the road like eye contact might burn him.

Which was weird. Because if there was one thing Rudy Kavanagh wasn't afraid of, it was looking someone dead in the eye. He'd done it to me almost daily these past few weeks.

But now? He couldn't even risk a glance.

"Do you think you'll do it?" I asked, the words sliding out before I could second guess them.

He didn't answer straight away.

"Do what?" he said, tone even.

"The uh... sports leader thing Twomey wants," I continued, trying to keep it casual as I stared out the window.

I could feel him looking at me, even if I wasn't looking back.

"I don't think I have much of a choice."
His voice was tight. Clipped.

I figured as much. From what Twomey had said in his office, this was Rudy's shot at redemption. His 'chance to prove he could be a leader'.
Or, more plainly: a way to distract from the narrative that Rudy Kavanagh was a dangerous, behavioural disaster waiting to happen.

We sat in silence for a second.

"I almost wish he'd made it mandatory for me," I said quietly, mostly to myself. "I hate being given options."

He huffed out a breath, sharp.
"Yeah well, I'd think yourself lucky."

"Sorry," I muttered, turning to look at him, guilt twisting in my chest. "I didn't mean that—"

"I know what you meant."
His tone softened. Like he actually did know.

I glanced over again.

"Do you really think it'll be that bad? Having to teach a couple kids and get to do extra rugby?"

He exhaled through his nose.
"No. I don't think it will be bad at all. I just don't really like being told what to do."

"I figured."

"You did?"
His voice lifted slightly, teasing.

I turned my head, letting my green eyes meet his brown ones, that look passing between us again—the one that made something warm twist in my stomach.
I raised a brow at him.

"Fair enough."
He nodded, a small grin ghosting his lips.

I let out a quiet laugh.

"If you don't mind me asking," he said after a beat, voice cautious, "you said you quit dance because of your knee injury. Is that still a problem now?"

I swallowed hard.

No. Not really.

"Uh, no. It's um... healed up pretty nice. I could get back into dance if I wanted to, I just don't think I'd ever be as good as I was."

"How long were you doing dance for?"

"A while. Ever since I was little. My ma set me up in it with the idea that I'd be a ballerina and make her rich... but," I gestured vaguely around, "yeah."

"There's still time," he said simply.

"Yeah. Maybe," I murmured.

"What about you? How long have you been doing rugby for?"

"Same as you. Ever since me and Johnny were little kids. Rugby ball shoved in our bassinets."

I smiled softly.

"You've got a nice family though... don't you? The Kavanaghs?"

"You know my family?"

"Well—yeah. People do a lot of talking."

"Sorry, I don't know why I'm surprised. It's just... when we first met you didn't know a flying fuck about who me and Johnny were."

"No, I suppose I didn't. But I've had three weeks in Tommen since then, and people do a lot of talking."

He chuffed out a quiet huff, a kind of amused sigh.

"They do."

"Rumours mean gobshite in the long run," I said aloud, more to myself than him. "They're suggestive, and it's a person's choice to listen to them. Personally, I don't like to fully believe a single thing that comes out of someone's mouth that isn't directly about themselves."

He cracked a smile.

"Well you're a wise one, ShayShaylee."

I scoffed.

"I am not wise."

"I don't know. For a sixteen-year-old girl, you're awfully knowing."

"God, you make me sound like Jesus."

He laughed—a proper one, from the chest.

We approached the roundabout, the lights of town just visible ahead through the windscreen.

"I'm taking you to the centre, right—love?" he asked casually, the word slipping out of his mouth like it was nothing. Like it wasn't about to stop my heart dead in its tracks.

I froze.

The word landed soft but sharp, like a tiny firework going off in my brain, and suddenly I was gripping the edge of my seat a little too tightly.

He didn't even seem to notice at first—until he glanced at me, probably sensing the absolute crisis happening on my face.

His eyes widened just slightly.
"Ah—sorry," he said quickly. "That's just... y'know. Part of my vocabulary."

He sounded almost sheepish. Like he hadn't meant anything by it.
Because he hadn't.

I nodded. Too fast.
"No, yeah. It's fine but um.. Yeah. But you can park wherever. I'll be fine walking."

Love.

Oh god.

Kill me.

Chapter Text

"Thank you for the ride," Shaylee said eventually. I'd just pulled into a spare parking spot outside Biddies, a pub in the centre of town I knew better than I knew myself. The glowing "Biddies" sign flickered above the door like it was winking at me—yeah, you again, Kavanagh. Welcome back to the shitehole.

It was just hitting five, and the sky outside had dipped into that weird golden-hour haze where everything looks a bit too soft, like the world's pretending it doesn't sting. The sun cut sideways through the windshield, setting fire to the dust on the dash and casting a glow across her face. Shaylee sat beside me, quiet, picking at a loose thread on the sleeve of my fucking jacket that I'd practically thrown at her when she was sat beside me, drenched in my bad decisions.

I didn't say a word. Didn't pressure her. Just waited. Which wasn't like me.

Her voice wasn't particularly with me, Not properly. It was soft, her gaze stuck somewhere past the glass like she was locked in a mental tug-of-war.

"Anytime," I replied, and I meant it. But she didn't budge. Just kept sitting there, chewing on her lip like it was talking back to her. Her knee bounced slightly, and her fingers curled and uncurled in her lap like she was trying to stop herself from bolting. She was fighting something inside—some kind of internal war—and all I could do was sit there beside her like a fuckin' eejit, pretending not to notice.

I didn't say a word. Didn't pressure her. Just waited. Which wasn't like me.

"You know it's been three years since I last saw her," she said finally, breaking the silence so softly it barely registered as a sentence.

Her ma. Right. The reason we were here. The one who bailed.

"I don't even know what I'd say to her," she added, turning to look at me. Her eyes were glassy, unsure.

And I swear to fuck, I wanted to open the door, walk her in there myself and introduce myself as her personal bodyguard or some fucked up shite.

Maybe give her ma a few home truths while I was at it. Or a solid bollocking. But that'd be mental, right? Considering we weren't even really mates. Not properly. Not yet. And definitely not enough for me to be feeling this weird ache in my chest every time she looked at me like that.

"Hey ma! I know it's been three years since you ditched me but wanna coffee?!" she joked in this self-deprecating voice that made my stomach twist.

Fuck. That did me in.

"You don't have to say anything, you know," I said quietly, my voice a bit rougher than I intended. "You could walk in, take one look at her and just... leave. No law says you owe her conversation."

She gave me a sideways glance. "That's a bit cold."

"Yeah, well," I shrugged. "So's abandonment."

She laughed—just a little, barely there—but it was better than nothing. Her laugh did something to me, something I wasn't willing to name. Not out loud. Not even in my own fuckin' head. But it made everything tense and alive, like my blood had caffeine in it.

There was this weird pause where I could feel her looking at me, but I didn't turn to meet it. Didn't trust myself. Not when she was wearing my jacket, looking like every thought I shouldn't be having at seventeen. She smelled like vanilla and shampoo and fuckin' rain and I was two seconds away from flinging myself out the window for fresh air.

She cleared her throat. "Thanks, by the way. For, like... being normal. I don't usually do the whole sharing thing."

Normal? Jesus. If only she knew the state of my fuckin' head right now.

I nodded, voice tight. "Anytime."

Shaylee reached for the door, hand on the handle, but didn't open it. "You know, you're not as much of a dick as I thought you were."

I smirked. "Wow. High praise."

She looked at me again. "Seriously. You've got this whole angry misanthropic thing going on but you're actually... kind. In your own miserable way."

My smirk deepened. "Careful now, Shaylee. Keep talkin' like that and I might start thinkin' we're friends."

She rolled her eyes, but I saw the grin threatening her mouth. "God forbid."

She finally opened the door and stepped out into the street, the pub's lights flickering against the wet pavement. Her hair caught the breeze and stuck to her cheek, and I watched her like a fuckin' idiot, unable to tear my eyes away. Even her walk turned me on. I hated it. Hated how just existing beside her made my body buzz.

And then she stopped.

I thought maybe she'd forgotten something inside. But then she turned around and came back, knocking on the passenger window. I rolled it down, already smirking like an eejit, not even trying to hide it.

"You forgot your jacket," she said, holding it out with both hands.

I shook my head. "Nah. You keep it."

"Rudy—"

"Give it back to me at school," I cut in, voice low. "Suits you anyway."

She stared at me for a beat, eyes wide and unsure and fuckin' adorable. "Okay," she said, a bit breathless.

"I'll be seeing ya Shayshaylee"

She chuckled, "Bye Rude boy."

Chapter Text

I'd taken the step into that coffee shop. Brushed it off that she was no where to be seen. Sat down at a table. Ordered a coffee. Waited.

She either came and didn't wait, or she never came at all.

I didn't know which was worse.

But I sat there. Like a fucking eejit. Like some desperate, abandoned little kid still hoping her mam might give enough of a shite to show up eventually.

She didn't.

I sat there until six, stirring a cold coffee and pretending I wasn't checking the door every time it opened. Then Dad texted me. Said he was outside.

So I stood up, wrapped Rudy's jacket tighter around myself—like a shield, like armour—and walked out into the car park. The sky had gone full winter darkness by then. Black and starless and cold.

When I got into the car, I didn't say a word. Didn't tell Dad she never showed. Couldn't bear the pity or the drama. Couldn't handle the idea of him getting involved, of calling her and asking what was wrong or why she'd let me down.

I didn't want her chased. I just wanted her gone. Properly. Forever. That would hurt less than this constant maybe.

And the thing was—I wasn't even surprised. Not really. Disappointed, yeah. But surprised? Not in the slightest. The woman had always been unreliable. But this? This was a new low.

By the time I got home, I wasn't even sad. I thought I was just... pissed off. Completely and utterly furious.

Until the tears started.

Until I made it to my room and closed the door gently behind me, and everything came crashing down.

It wasn't just her. It was everything.

Everything.

Starting Tommen. The pressure to make new friends while pretending the ones I used to have didn't ghost me like I hadn't existed for the past year. Being offered a position on a sports team I'd promised myself I'd never touch again. Meeting Rudy fucking Kavanagh, who was a walking contradiction and had no business being as hot or complicated or maddening as he was. Feeling things I didn't want to feel. Wanting things I didn't want to want.

It was all just too much.

Too heavy. Too loud in my head. Like every thought was trying to scream over the next one.

I sniffled, walking to my bedside table on autopilot. My fingers were shaking before I even touched the drawer.

I knew what I was doing. Knew the second I reached for the handle that I was crossing a line I'd promised myself I wouldn't go near again. I'd been doing better. I had been.

But the second I started looking, it was like I couldn't stop.

My chest was tight. My hands wouldn't stop trembling. My eyes were fogged up, and my heart was punching against my ribs like it was trying to escape.

I needed it.

I didn't want to. But I needed it.

To punish myself.

For feeling too much. For letting my guard down. For expecting anything at all from a woman who had proven time and time again that she didn't give a fuck.

Maybe it wasn't even about her anymore.

Maybe it was just... me. Maybe I was the problem. Maybe I'd always been.

I reached into the back of the drawer and felt for the cold metal. My fingers brushed against it, and I paused—just long enough to catch my breath—before pulling out the small silver nail scissors.

Still sobbing, I sank to the floor with my back pressed to the door. Pressed my forehead against my knees for a second and breathed in hard, trying to steady myself. Then peeled off my skirt. My tights.

The room was quiet. Dad was downstairs. I had to be quiet.

He couldn't know.

He could never know.

Because this would crush him. And I couldn't bear that. Couldn't let him think he'd failed me.

I stared down at the inside of my thighs. Dozens of little faded lines, some older, some newer. Ugly, angry reminders of the girl I swore I was done being.

This was why I quit dance.

Not the knee.

Not the stupid recital fall.

The real reason was because the cuts started creeping down too far. Past where my leotard could hide them. I knew it was only a matter of time before someone noticed. Before it became a thing. And if anyone at the academy found out? I'd have been done for. Blacklisted. Labelled.

So I lied. Said the knee was the issue. Said I couldn't train anymore.

But the truth was... I couldn't stop hurting myself long enough to do the one thing I actually loved.

Ma wouldn't understand. She'd probably have tossed me in a psych ward and thrown away the key.

I looked down at the scissors in my hand and hated myself.

Hated that I still needed this. Hated that I still couldn't just cope like a normal person.

I inhaled sharply, tears still sliding silently down my face.

I didn't even know what I'd done wrong.

But I must've done something. Otherwise why would all of this keep happening to me?

Chapter Text

After spending most of the weekend at home, I gave in and told Gibsie I'd go to Biddies with him and the lads. It wasn't like I was dying to socialise—far from it—but I wouldn't say no to a few pints and some half-decent craic. Besides, Ma and Da were still in Dublin for Da's work trip, so it was just me and Johnny knocking about the house. Quiet enough, save for rugby training and dodging calls I didn't want to answer from a certain blonde haired leech, some may refer to her as Janae Lively.

Gibsie had already sent about twelve messages in the space of ten minutes to say he was driving and insisting on carpool. Which was annoying as fuck because Gibsie behind the wheel meant one thing: he'd commandeer the stereo and subject us to whatever shite playlist he was obsessed with this week. Usually 2000s club bangers and heavy metal that felt like medieval torture.

"What took you useless bastards so long?" he called out the driver's side window as we crossed the drive toward his car. "Ye weren't gettin' handies off each other in there, were ye?"

"Keep your cock in your pants, Gibs," I muttered. "You told us half eight. It's half eight."

Johnny climbed into the passenger seat, slamming the door behind him, while I yanked open the back and dropped into the middle. My hand landed on the headrest to steady myself—only to notice a fresh set of scuff marks down the back of Gibsie's hoodie.

"You didn't think to change?"

"Ah, go fuck yourself," he grumbled, throwing the car into reverse. "It was that little prick of a cat. Brian. Spawn of satan, that one."

"Brian did that to you?" Johnny asked, eyes flicking toward him.

"And shat in Claire's bathtub," Gibsie added, tone outraged like the cat had personally betrayed him. "No joke, lads. I walk in, and there he is—dead staring at me, tail up, curled one out right on the porcelain. Like he owned the fuckin' place."

I laughed, despite myself. "You let a cat ruin you, mate. That's sad."

"It would've been a full-blown bloodbath if Shannon hadn't showed up," he said, jabbing at the stereo like it owed him money.

Johnny's head whipped to the side. "My Shannon?"

I snorted.

"Your Shannon, is it?" Gibsie grinned. "That's bold. Didn't know ye were married."

"You know what I fuckin' meant," Johnny snapped.

"Well, your missus showed up like the Virgin Mary herself and picked the demon cat up with her bare hands—swear to God—and carried him back down the road like he was a baby. Didn't scratch, didn't bite. Gave her a little purr and all. I'm telling you, lads, she's got some witchy voodoo vet powers or somethin'."

Johnny narrowed his eyes. "So... were you hanging out with all of them today?"

"Jealous, Cap?" Gibsie said, grinning. "Bet you wish you got to spend your afternoon surrounded by four fine-as-fuck birds with tits like—"

"Watch it," Johnny warned, eyes cutting sharp.

"Jesus, alright," Gibsie held one hand up in mock surrender. "Didn't realise we were livin' under a fuckin' dictatorship."

"Four girls?" I asked, before I could stop myself. I kept my voice even, casual. Didn't need them clocking me. "Who went?"

I wasn't dying to know. Not exactly. Just... curious. I'd spent the weekend trying not to think about her. About the look on her face when I dropped her off outside that pub. About whether she'd gone in. Whether she was okay. The silence since had been maddening.

Gibsie threw the car into second as we cleared the gates. "Claire-Bear, Lizzie, Lil' Shannon, and Smurfy."

"Smurfy?" Johnny and I both said.

"Yeah, Smurfy," he said like we were the thickest pair of gobshites he'd ever met. "Shaylee Murphy. Smurfy. Come on, keep up."

I bit the inside of my cheek. So she had been there.

"It was either that or Sexy Legs," he added, shrugging. "But that one didn't roll off the tongue as nice."

"Gibs," I said sharply. "Mind your fuckin' mouth."

"What?" he said, affronted. "It's not a crime to notice a girl's got a cracking pair of legs. I'm not a blind man. And you two need to relax. Jesus wept."

Johnny gave him a look. "You're seriously lacking a filter."

"Thanks, I try," he beamed, clearly proud of himself. "Anyway, I know Cap here's got a hard-on for Little Shannon—"

Johnny socked him hard in the arm.

"—OW! Fuck me sideways, calm down! I didn't say I was gonna shag her, did I?"

"You've got a death wish," Johnny muttered, rolling his eyes.

"And you," Gibsie turned his head slightly to look at me through the mirror, eyes narrowing with a cheeky grin. "Didn't know you were gone head over bollocks for Smurfy."

"I'm not head over anything," I snapped. "And if we could stop talkin' shite for two seconds, that'd be great."

"I second that," Johnny chimed in.

"God, the pair of ye are so fuckin' boring," Gibsie muttered, thumping the volume up on the stereo until the bass vibrated through the floor.

The place was buzzing when we walked in—dim lights, faint smell of spilled beer and fried food, and the usual hum of shite 2000s R&B coming from the speakers overhead. It wasn't packed, but the regular crew had claimed our usual spot already—one of the battered wooden booths near the telly, which was showing some Premier League highlights no one was actually watching.

"Ah for fuck's sake," I muttered under my breath, narrowing my eyes at the scene in front of me.

Hughie was there, arms flung around Katie like he'd just won the bloody lotto. Feely was perched beside them, half-laughing at something, pint already half-empty. And then there was Cormac—legs spread like he owned the place, Bella basically in his lap, her lips glued to his like it was some kind of sport.

And just to top off the shit sundae, there was Janae. Draped across the booth like a centre-fold, her long legs stretched across Deasy's lap, fingers toying with the sleeve of his hoodie, eyes batting up at him like they were in a fucking romcom. Except it was grim. Like watching two hyenas flirt over a carcass.

I grabbed Gibsie's shoulder, jaw tight. "You didn't say the girls would be here."

Gibsie didn't even flinch. Just gave me a half-smirk over his shoulder like he'd absolutely planned this. "Yeah, and if I had, you'd've made some excuse about rugby cramps and stayed home scratchin' your balls." He clapped mine and Johnny's backs with both hands, grinning like a toddler with a secret. "Go on, grab a seat lads. I'll get the pints in. Who wants to get mildly pissed and make terrible decisions?"

"You're a dickhead," I muttered, but he was already off toward the bar, whistling some out-of-tune shite.

Johnny headed to the booth first, sliding into the space beside Feely like he hadn't just walked into enemy territory. I followed, slow, keeping my eyes fixed on literally anything other than the blatant fucking performance happening two seats down.

"Alright Cap! Tackla'!" Hughie called out, grinning like a muppet. He held up his pint like it was a trophy. "You missed it—Feely was just tellin' Katie how he nearly pulled his groin doin' a dive pass yesterday."

"I did not say it like that," Feely groaned, shaking his head. "I said it was a tactical fall. And you weren't even there, Hughie, you prick."

"Still sounds like you pulled something," Katie muttered, giggling into her glass.

Johnny chuckled and reached across for a handful of chips from the basket in the middle. "Wouldn't be the worst thing to pull on a Sunday," he said with a wink.

"Jesus Christ," I grumbled, dragging a chair around to the edge of the table and dropping down. My eyes flicked sideways despite myself—Deasy's arm was now curled around Janae's waist, and she was whispering something into his ear that made his eyebrows lift like the smug tosser he was.

I looked away quickly, jaw clenched.

If she thought this was working, she was more deluded than I thought. The dickhead could have her. And I sincerely hoped he left with something itchy and incurable.

"Feckin' hell," Gibsie said, returning with three pints, one precariously held between his teeth like a circus act. "Some bint at the bar asked if I was in a band. Like, do I look like I'd be in a fuckin' band?"

"You look like you sleep in a garage," Johnny replied flatly.

Gibsie shoved the pint into his hand. "Thanks, sweetheart. Always here for my ego." He sat down beside me, eyes drifting toward the booth. "Yikes," he muttered under his breath, nodding at Janae and Deasy. "They're makin' eye contact like they're about to start shaggin' right here."

"Wouldn't put it past them," I muttered.

"You alright, Tackla'?" Gibsie asked, suddenly more sober than usual. "You look like you've swallowed a lemon."

I didn't answer straight away. Just took a long pull of my pint and stared at the telly like it had the answers to every problem in my life.

I'd spent the entire weekend trying not to think about her. About Shaylee. About what happened after I dropped her off. But she'd been in my head the whole time. And now here I was, in a pub surrounded by noise and heat and fucking Janae, and all I could think about was a girl who wasn't even here.

*

About an hour in, I was tipsy. Maybe more than that. Pint and a half past tipsy. But still not drunk enough to be blind to the fact that Janae hadn't stopped fucking looking at me all night.

Didn't matter that she was glued to Stephen Deasy's face. She was looking. She wanted a reaction—had wanted one all night—and that did my fucking head in.

And the worst part? I knew that's exactly what she was after.

Jesus Christ, what gave her the fucking confidence? The same girl who spent months treating me like some sort of emotional vibrator she could pull out whenever she needed attention.

And yet, that was me, wasn't it? The emotionally stunted twin she kept tucked away in her back pocket like a spare condom. God, I hated myself for ever giving her that power.

Truth was, if I hadn't stopped dabbling in drugs or hanging around those lads, I probably wouldn't have had the clarity to tell her to fuck off for good. But I had. And I was done. Fully, properly done.

But Janae? Janae didn't get what "done" meant. To her, we were on some kind of eternal low-maintenance plan—plug in, plug out, fuck, and forget. She didn't want a relationship. She wanted a dick. Mine. And the bragging rights of being able to say she had the elusive Kavanagh twin, because her bestie already had the golden boy.

Not that Bella seemed too loyal to that arrangement either. She was currently parked on Cormac's lap like he was her own personal throne, with his hands all over her arse like she'd been sculpted by God himself.

I glanced at Johnny. His jaw was clenched so tight it looked painful. Couldn't blame him. Cormac was supposedly a sound lad, but if the rumours were true and he'd been riding Bella while she was still with Johnny... that was a different level of betrayal. When a teammate does that to you, it cuts deeper than any breakup ever could. I could see the betrayal in Johnny's eyes, disguised as stoicism. He wasn't saying anything, but he was burning.

Beside me, Gibsie was mid-pint-chug, the lads cheering him on like it was a sporting event. Someone was keeping time. Someone else was banging on the table.

"Ten! Nine! Eight!"

His Adam's apple bobbed violently, the lager sloshing dangerously close to his nose.

He slammed the glass down and opened his mouth dramatically to prove it was empty.

"and that, my friends," he slurred, waving the empty glass like a medal, "is how you master the ancient Irish art of speed-pissing!"

Cheers erupted from us lads as we clinked our glasses. I was grateful to have a distraction like Gibsie to avoid Janaes seductive stare.

Until I saw her get up in the corner of my eye, pulling Deasy by the hand like some sort of drunk, horny puppeteer. His dazed, drooling face made me want to shove him through the fucking wall. But whatever. Let them find some corner to dry-hump in. I'd rather she disappear from my line of sight altogether.

Except she didn't.

Because of course she didn't.

She turned back around mid-strut—smirking. All smug and entitled and so sure of herself. Like she'd won. Like she thought this was affecting me. As if I hadn't spent the last year emotionally untangling myself from her grasp.

I kept my face stone cold.

Not giving her an ounce.

That must've pissed her off, because she stopped, leaned into Deasy's ear, whispered something while biting it—classy—and sent him stumbling outside, clearly drunk out of his tree.

And then she turned.

Right towards me.

"You got a problem, Kavanagh?" she said, voice thick with booze and venom, and without asking, plonked herself down on my lap like she still had the fucking right.

I stiffened. Every muscle in my body bracing.

But I didn't look at her. Just took a slow sip of my pint.

"You jealous?" she purred, dragging a finger across my thigh like she hadn't just been playing tonsil tennis with Deasy. "Bit bitter, maybe...?"

"I'm not bitter," I said flatly.

"Could've fooled me," she muttered, her palm sliding further up. I clenched my jaw so hard I thought I'd crack a tooth. She leaned in, breath hot and sour in my ear. "Deasy's just a distraction, you know. Say the word, and I'll go home with you instead."

"Get off me, Janae," I said quietly, firmly.

She pulled back slightly, her expression flickering. For a second, I thought maybe she'd listen.

But of course not.

She smirked. "Don't be a pussy, Kavanagh. You used to love it when I got on top—"

"Get. Off. Me." My voice was lower now. A warning. "Go ride Deasy into next week. I genuinely don't give a fuck."

She scoffed, straightening up. "Why are you such a cold bastard lately?"

"I woke up," I snapped. "Try it sometime."

She got off me then, face twisted, arms folding across her chest. "You know, I tried not to take offence when you started ignoring my calls. Thought you were just being moody again. But clearly, you're turning into a proper piece of shit."

"Oh, because I won't shag you anymore?" I laughed bitterly. "That's your problem, isn't it?"

"Because you act like you care, and then you don't!"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Janae," I said, standing now, the blood roaring in my ears. "When did we ever fucking care about each other, huh? All you wanted was what was in my pants and something to brag about to your friends"

Her mouth fell open. Her cheeks flushed red.

"Oh my God—Johnny, get a leash on your fucking brother!" Bella's voice cut across the bar.

"Shut the fuck up, Bella," Gibsie shouted without missing a beat. "The man's just doing what we've all been waiting for."

"The fuck's that supposed to mean?!" Janae shrieked.

"Did you even like me?" she screamed, almost shaking now. "Did you ever even care?!"

I stared at her. "Do you think I would've been with you if I didn't?" I said, voice tight. "I was fucking blind."

"Yeah well, you were high off your fucking tits most of the time," another voice cut in.

I turned.

Deasy.

Swaying in the doorway. Slurring. Smirking.

"You want to say that again?" I growled.

He lifted his chin. "I said, you never deserved her. You're just some fucked up junkie who nearly topped himself for attention."

I didn't think. I moved.

One hand fisted his collar, the other slammed him back against the wall. Chairs scraped. Glasses clattered. Gasps rang out across the bar.

"Say it again," I barked, rage pulsing in every vein. "Go on. Say it again, you little prick."

"Rudy." Johnny's voice cut in. Stern. Sharp. I ignored it.

Deasy laughed. "What, gonna OD again and blame me?"

"I wish you the best of luck with that one, fella," I spat, shoving him back.

He staggered forward and shoved me, hard. But he was drunk. Weak. It didn't even budge me.

I laughed darkly. "You keep acting like you've won something, but I swear to God—she'll ruin you. She'll chew you up and spit you out like every other dumb fuck who thought he could handle her."

Deasy opened his mouth again, but Johnny was between us now.

"Enough," he said, shoving Deasy back toward the door. "Before you get your face smashed in."

"Get him outta my fucking sight," I muttered, chest heaving.

Janae was standing there, stunned silent. Eyes wide. Like maybe, just maybe, she'd finally seen the monster she helped create.

I didn't give her another glance.

I picked up my pint, took a long sip, and turned away.

I was fucking done.

Until I heard a voice from the doorway of Biddies.

"Rudy?"

I spun around, heart thudding against my ribs like it was trying to tear its way out. And there she was.

Standing there beside Claire, both of them wide-eyed and frozen in the threshold, like they'd just walked in on a murder. For a split second, I thought I was hallucinating. That I'd drank myself sideways and imagined her. Because Jesus Christ, of all the places, why here? Why now, when everything was burning to shite?

"Shaylee—what the fuck are you doing here?" I asked, breathless.

My voice came out rough. Raw. I felt raw.

The whole pub went silent. Deasy was still teetering on his feet, nursing a black eye he hadn't earned yet. Janae had slithered back beside Bella. The lads staring like this was free reality tv.

Her curly blonde mate piped up, arms crossed. "Heard there was a get-together. Shay needed to drop something off."

The suspicious tone in her voice didn't go unnoticed. Gibsie staggered over to her like a man on a mission, throwing a drunken arm around her like he hadn't just been screaming countdowns to beer-chugs three minutes ago.

"Don't worry about it, babe," he slurred, grinning. "I'm just buzzin' ye showed up!"

But Shaylee wasn't looking at anyone else. Her eyes were locked on mine.

Big green eyes. Confused. Concerned. Searching.

She was holding the jacket I'd given her on Friday, the one I'd told her to keep until I next saw her. I just didn't expect that to be today.

She took a cautious step forward. Still holding the jacket like it was something fragile.

"What happened?" she asked, voice quiet, but her big green eyes were sharp. Cutting right through me. "Are you okay?"

I swallowed, hard. My chest heaved.

"I'm fine," I muttered. Lying straight through my teeth. Because I was anything but fine.

And then, right on fucking cue—

A laugh. Shrill. Cruel. Echoing off the walls like fingernails on a chalkboard.

"Oh, I get it now," Janae cooed, venom dripping from every word. "This is the slut who's had you all twisted?"

Shaylee turned to her, eyes blown wide in disbelief.

My entire body went tight.

Every vein in my body surged, like something inside had snapped clean in two. That smug little curl of Janae's lip. Deasy still staggering in the corner I'd left him, smirking like this was all some big joke. Like I was nothing more than a punchline in their sick little routine.

I couldn't hit the girl.

But I could sure as fuck hit her lad.

No warning. No hesitation.

Just pure instinct.

Johnny didn't even try to stop me this time—he just stepped aside like he'd been expecting it.

My fist connected with Deasy's face, hard. He went down like a sack of shite. Gasps rippled through the pub.

"Not in here, lads!" the owner bellowed from behind the bar. "Take it outside or take it home!"

Deasy was crumpled on the floor, hands to his face, blood trickling between his fingers. I crouched down, getting right in his space, voice low and deadly.

"You keep a fucking leash on your girl, do you hear me?" I spat. "Or next time, I won't stop at your nose."

"You're fucked up, Kavanagh!" Janae shrieked from behind me. "You psycho bastard!"

I didn't even turn.

"Then meet me in hell, Lively," I muttered, standing.

Shaylee hadn't moved. She was just standing there, one hand covering her mouth, jacket still in the other.

I walked toward her slowly. The room had gone quiet, all eyes glued to me, but I only saw her. Her eyes were wide, stunned.

"I'm so fucking sorry," I said, barely above a whisper. I reached out gently and took the jacket from her hands.

Her fingers were cold.

I didn't wait for her to respond. Couldn't. Not with the blood still roaring in my ears and the weight of a thousand regrets pressing down on my chest.

I turned on my heel and stormed out of the pub, my heart beating violently in my chest.

Looks like I was going to fight this one alone.

Chapter Text

We were holed up in Claire's room, sprawled across her bed like a pair of eejits, surrounded by half-empty nail polish bottles and the lingering smell of peppermint foot cream. The telly was on low in the corner, but neither of us was paying attention. I was lying flat on my back, hands on my stomach, staring blankly at the ceiling, while she perched at the end of the bed, one foot up on her thigh, giving herself a pedicure with that pink set she got for Christmas last year.

Shannon couldn't come—her da said no—and Lizzie just didn't bother replying, probably off sulking about Pierce being grounded again or whatever. So it was just the two of us.

We only went down to Biddies because Gibsie sent that dramatic, all-caps text saying everyone was there and to "stop being bleedin' antisocial." I wasn't in the humour for it, to be honest. Not really. But Claire dragged me out the door like I didn't have a say in it.

And now here I was—back in her room, brain fried, stomach in knots, and heart somewhere up in my throat.

I didn't know what to think about tonight. I didn't even know where to start. It was like my head was too full but too empty all at once.

I'd thought I was done with mean girls when I moved down here. Thought I'd left that crap behind me. But apparently, Janae hadn't gotten the memo.

Still, that wasn't what had me chewing the inside of my cheek raw. I could've taken being called a slut. Honestly, I'd heard worse. But seeing him like that—Rudy, with his fists clenched and eyes wild—that's what I couldn't wrap my head around.

From the second I walked into Biddies with his jacket over my arm, the whole place was tense. I knew something was up before I even saw him. Then I spotted him—had Stephen Deasy by the collar, snarling in his face. Proper feral. The whole pub was gawking. Pint glasses frozen mid-air. Lads shifting on their feet, waiting to see if someone needed to pull them apart.

Claire went stiff beside me. I could feel the judgment radiating off her. Could practically taste it in the air between us.

I'd known Rudy had anger issues—he wasn't exactly subtle about it—but there was no context tonight. No warning. Just full-blown rage. And I couldn't stop staring.

It was familiar, in a horrible way. Like how I found him last Friday, shaking like a leaf in the rain. Except this time, it wasn't fear or panic—it was fury. Cold and loud and dangerous.

I didn't even have time to say anything before Janae's voice sliced through the room.

"Oh, I get it now. This is the slut who's had you all twisted?"

My breath caught.

Then he moved. Quick. No hesitation. Driving a fist into Deasys face. One clean hit. Enough force to knock him off his feet. Deasy hit the floor with a thud, and the room exploded.

Gasps, shouts, glasses clinking as people backed up.

I was stood. Frozen.

Had he done that for me?

It was confusing. I didn't need protecting—Jesus, I hated the idea of needing anyone to fight my battles—but something about the look on his face... it was like something snapped when Janae said what she did. Like that word was a match and he was already soaked in petrol.

He took the jacket from my hands, despite being full of rage he was incredibly gentle in how he approached me. "I'm so fucking sorry," He said before leaving.

Then Janae turned her gaze on me.

"See what you've done, you little bitch."

Her voice was smug. Vicious. Like she was proud of the chaos she'd caused.

"Hey. Back the fuck up, Janae."

It was Johnny. Sharp and low and deadly serious. He stepped in between us, then turned to Claire and me.

"You girls should get going."

Claire had her arm hooked through mine already.

So we did. Straight back to Claire's house. No pit stops.

Now here we were. Her painting her toenails like we hadn't just witnessed a rugby lad get floored. Whilst I was still trying to piece together why the hell any of it happened.

"Calling you a slut is rich coming from the queen of blowjobs herself," Claire tutted, blowing on her big toe as if it were the nail itself that offended her. "Honestly, the girl's ridden more lads in Tommen than I could count on one hand. And that includes Rudy."

I let out a long breath through my nose. "Why do you think he did that?" I asked, finally turning my head to look at her.

Claire paused mid-paint, her eyes flicking over to mine.

"I think he's just... troubled," she said simply. "Gets super angry."

"Has he always been that way?"

She sighed, brushing her hair back with her wrist so she didn't smudge her polish. "I dunno. We didn't go to the same primary. He was up in Dublin for most of his childhood. When I joined Tommen in first year, he already had that rep—like, everyone knew Johnny's twin was the one with the short fuse. They called him 'Twin Tackler' for a while. Not because he tackled with Johnny. But because he'd tackle anything."

"I don't think he wants to be like that," I murmured, more an observation than anything else.

Claire gave me a sideways glance. "Who would wanna be?"

"True."

She narrowed her eyes at me. "Still can't believe you got in a car with the lad. Especially after seeing him so unhinged. Believe me, I'd of ran in the other direction."

"It wasn't like that," I said quickly. "He was... really nice."

Claire raised a perfect brow. "Was he now?"

I rolled my eyes. "Don't."

"Was he so nice you wanted to climb on his lap there and then?" she teased in a sing-song voice.

"Oh my god, Claire, shut up."

She smirked, smug as ever. "It's so obvious he's got a thing for you, Shay. Why else would he have lamped Deasy like that after his little plaything called you a name?"

I groaned, dragging my hands down my face. "I don't know! He's so confusing, Claire."

Claire flopped down beside me, dramatically throwing an arm across her eyes. "Oh, God. Don't go all boy-crazy on me. I've already lost Shannon to Johnny. Lizzie's off in fairytale land with Pierce. You're all I have left."

"Please," I snorted. "You and Gibsie are practically married."

"I do not like Gerard," she huffed. "He only likes me because I refuse to like him back. He'll get bored eventually."

I turned my head, meeting her eyes. "I don't think that's entirely true."

She rolled hers, but a small smile curled on her lips. "You're hopeless."

"And you're in denial."

She laughed, sitting back up and reaching for the polish remover. "Now. Can I please do your pedicure? I'm dying to use this pink on you."

I smiled faintly, lifting my foot in surrender. "Fine."

It was nice, I thought, as she started painting my toenails with careful concentration. Whatever happened with Rudy, whatever chaos followed us around like a bad smell, at least I had Claire.

And in a town full of messy boys and mean girls, that counted for something.

Chapter Text

The smell hit me before I even made it down the stairs—fried rashers and strong tea. For a second, I thought I'd imagined it. Thought maybe I was still half-asleep and hallucinating smells, because Ma wasn't due back from Dublin until tomorrow.

But sure enough, when I wandered into the kitchen, there she was. Hair scraped back in that half-messy bun she always threw it into when she couldn't be arsed with herself, wearing one of Da's old jumpers that drowned her.

"Morning, love," she said, voice soft, eyes still focused on the frying pan. "There's tea in the pot. Grab yourself a cup."

I grunted something half-human and went for the press. My knuckles ached as I reached up for a mug. Swollen. Red. I flexed them once, twice.

"You sleep alright?" she asked over her shoulder, plating up.

"Grand," I lied, pouring tea I knew I wouldn't drink.

"Johnny said the match on Friday went well," she continued, sliding a perfectly turned egg onto a piece of toast. "Didn't say much else, but sure that's no surprise."

I didn't answer. Lucky bastard never needed to say much. People just took his golden word for it.

Mam finally turned to look at me, a gentle frown pulling between her brows. She set the plate down on the island and leaned her hip against the counter, arms folding over her chest.

"You look wrecked," she said lightly. "Was the party worth it?"

"Wasn't a party," I muttered, dragging out the stool and sitting down. "Just a few of the lads."

"Hmm," she said, eyes narrowing slightly, like she was flipping through some mental Rolodex of possible stories she'd hear later from the grapevine. "Still managed to roll in well past one."

"I'm seventeen, Mam."

"And I'm your mother, Rudy. Don't start."

There it was—soft tone, firm delivery. I stayed quiet and stabbed my fork into the toast.

A pause.

Then, casually, she asked, "How's school going?"

I shrugged. "It's school."

She hummed again. "Anything I should know?"

"Not unless you want a rundown of my home economics project."

"Very funny," she said dryly, then reached for the tea towel and wiped her hands on it. "You're not hurt, are you?"

I paused with the fork halfway to my mouth. "What?"

She stepped closer.

"Your hand," she said quietly. "Show me."

I didn't move.

"Rudy."

I set the fork down and slowly turned over my right hand.

Mam's lips thinned. She didn't speak for a second, just took in the bruising, the swelling, the dried cut on one knuckle.

"For Christ's sake, Rudy."

"I'm fine," I said quickly. "It's nothing."

"That's not nothing." She pulled out the stool across from mine and sat down, her eyes fixed on me. "You want to tell me what happened?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Course you don't," she muttered, "You never want to talk about anything."

That comment hurt just enough to feel a stabbing pain in my chest.

"Was it at Biddies?"

I didn't answer.

Her voice was calmer now, but there was steel threaded through it. "You're not a thug, Rudy."

"Didn't say I was."

"Then stop acting like one."

I sat back in the chair and dragged a hand through my hair. "He deserved it."

"Even if he did, you've got too much to lose."

I didn't say anything. Didn't trust myself not to bite back.

Mam sighed and glanced at the clock on the wall.

"Is the lad alright at least?"

"Might be nursing a broken nose" I muttered.

"Rudy Kavanagh!"

"Ma he deserved it alright, the lads a fucking eejit"

"And so's your brothers best mate but we don't go around punching Gibsie!"

I dragged a hand through my hair and huffed out a breath. "It wasn't a big deal."

She let out a sharp laugh. "You punched a lad in the middle of Biddies, Rudy. In front of God and half the bleeding parish."

I clenched my jaw. "You don't know what happened ma,"

"No I don't but this is exactly what I was worried about," she said, pushing herself up from the stool. "I'm calling the school today. You're going on the Sports Leaders programme."

I looked up, startled. "What? No."

"Yes."

"Mam, no."

"Yes, Rudy."

"I'm not doing it."

She turned back to face me, her brow raised, tone still composed. "You need something on your application forms that doesn't involve breaking noses in pubs."

"I don't care about the stupid Sports Leaders thing."

"Well, I do. And so will any of those rugby scouts if they see you're capable of taking responsibility."

I scoffed. "You think they're gonna care if I hand out bibs to a bunch of first years?"

"They'll care if your name keeps turning up in disciplinary reports."

I clenched my jaw, said nothing.

"You've got too much talent to waste it, Rudy," she added, her voice softening again. "But I swear to God, if you keep letting your temper run the show—"

"It's not that simple."

"It is when it lands you in trouble."

She stared at me, and I stared back.

"It's not gonna fix me, Mam."

She blinked.

I bit the inside of my cheek, hard. "I'm not Johnny. I can't be all—clean cut and polite and whatever else you want."

"I don't want clean cut," she said softly. "I want you not to get expelled. I want you to stop making my heart drop every time the school rings. I want to not have to wonder if my son's out there throwing hands over a girl he's in love with"

"A girl? Who said anything about a fucking girl." I snapped. This woman and her intuition was scary.

"Language." She warned, "And am I wrong?"

I didn't respond.

"I'm not in love with her," I murmured.

"Yes well, only love makes you that crazy sweetheart" She quoted, slapping a hand on my cheek gently.

"I don't want her around me," I added, voice low. "It's not fair on her."

"I don't think thats your choice to make love," She replied, her face softening for the first time this morning.

She exhaled and picked her tea back up.

"I'm ringing the school. You're doing the Sports Leaders, end of."

I didn't have the energy to argue again.

So I sat there, shovelled a forkful of egg into my mouth despite feeling like I might be sick, and stared out the window.

I wasn't in love with Shaylee Murphy.

I wasn't.

But Jesus Christ, it felt like I was falling anyway.

Chapter Text

Mondays were Mondays. Same old shite, different week.

I came in the usual way, and just like clockwork, the whispers kicked up before I'd even made it to my locker. Always the same rinse and repeat when I so much as breathed in the wrong direction, let alone the fact that I'd decked some gobshite like Stephen Deasy in the middle of Biddies on a last night.

Deasy's nose had bled like a bitch.

Should I have done it? No.
Would I do it again? Abso-fucking-lutely.

The version of events flying through the school corridors was already warped beyond repair, courtesy of Janae and Bella and their Olympic-level whisper campaigns. Those two could stir shite with a plastic spoon. Had the whole school convinced I'd lost my mind over some girl—like I was some jealous headcase obsessed with Shaylee Murphy.

...Which was partially true, but that wasn't the fucking point.

People had been staring, same as always. But there was a new flavour to it today. Curiosity. Like I'd pulled the pin out of a grenade and they were all waiting to see which way I'd throw it.

It was easier to avoid it altogether.

So, I legged it at lunch. Didn't fancy sitting in a packed hall with Deasy's bruised mug glaring at me and lads whispering into their curry chips. Found myself out on the grandstand, perched on the cold metal bench that overlooked the rugby pitch, a spliff dangling from my fingers.

I shouldn't've brought them. I was trying to cut back.
But after the weekend I'd had? Fuck it.

I inhaled slow, letting the contents flood my lungs, and tried to pretend like my brain wasn't rattling inside my skull. Tried not to think about her.

About the girl I'd spent four fucking weeks trying to ignore.

Every single bone in my body was trying to stop myself letting her close.

We weren't even. Not yet.

I'd decided the moment I met her that she was bad for me. More so that I was bad for her. In reality she was perfect of course.

And I did not deserve perfect.

Especially after Ma's 'love' spectacle this morning, which was complete bullshit considering I barely had a chance to get to know the girl.

So I was going to try and resume distance. For her good and my punishment.

I'd unsuccessfully tried in every way shape and form to show her i wasn't interested. Whether it was the idea of ignoring her or not giving her much, not letting her in.

But every time I saw those big green eyes I knew I couldn't do it.

Instead turning into a puppy dog lapping up every word that came out her mouth.

That was how thin my self control was proving itself to be and it was fucking infuriating.

Today of all days was no different. The hand holding the spliff lowered at the sight of her as I inhaled a skilful puff of smoke.

But when I took a puff of my spliff and my eyeline slowly flashed to the building below me and saw her, in the doorway I knew all that was going to go to crap.

There she stood in the doorway, clutching the strap of her bag like she was debating whether to walk back inside.

God, she looked good. Wind messing up her hair in a perfect fucking way.
I was done for.

Every instinct in me screamed at myself to look away. To flick the spliff away, turn my back, and pretend I didn't want her to sit beside me.

Instead, I half smiled.

Fuck's sake.

"Hi," she said, voice soft, careful. Like she thought I might bark at her.

"Mind if I join you?"

I didn't trust my voice, so I just shook my head and patted the spot beside me like some lovesick eejit. Watch it, Kavanagh. You're halfway to being wrapped around her little finger and you don't even mind.

She sat beside me, shuffling her coat down over her hands, elbows on knees, hunched in against the wind.

"Everything okay?" I asked, trying to keep my tone neutral, chill, like I wasn't hyper-aware of how close she was.

"Yeah, everything's peachy," she murmured, clearly trying to sound genuine.

I nodded, watching the way her hair kept falling in her face. She didn't bother fixing it.

I was shocked really. Shocked that I hadn't completely scared her off already. This girl was blossoming in surprises and unfortunately for me it was making her more and more likeable.

She cleared her throat.

"I just... wanted to say..." She paused, coughed lightly. "Thank you."

I blinked. "Thank you?"

"Yeah... for standing up for me." Her voice dipped, eyes flitting up to mine before darting away again. "I presume that's what you were doing, at least."

Her cheeks were flushed. That pink that hit just under her eyes when she was embarrassed. She was gorgeous when she was flustered.

I smirked. "That'd be a fairly accurate guess."

Instead of smiling like I'd imagined she looked down at the pitch, something clearly heavy on her mind.

"But I—" she started, then stopped, frowning like she was picking her words carefully. "I want you to know I didn't need you to do that. I can stand up for myself."

That made me pause.

Because yeah. I fucking knew that.

Of course she could. She was Shaylee. She had that quiet strength. That steel under soft skin. But still, I'd wanted to rip Janae's throat out for what she said. Not because I thought Shaylee couldn't handle it. But because it mattered to me. Because she mattered.

"I know," I said finally, eyes locked on hers.

She blinked, surprised I hadn't fought her on it.

"You do?.." Her voice was cautious, unsure.

"I'd do it if any of my mates got called a slut, Shay—Shaylee."

I managed to stop myself from cringing instantly as I saw a flicker of hurt cross her face.

Friend. I didn't mean that.

I didn't even believe what I'd just said. Because I probably wouldn't of done it for anyone else. Hell if Gibsie got called a slut we'd high five each other.

She quickly deflected and smirked slightly, "I'm your friend?"

I rolled my eyes. "Don't get ahead of yourself."

Her laugh burst out, soft and musical. "Oh, you're doing that already, rude boy. I feel very privileged."

"You should," I said dryly, flicking ash off the end of my spliff. "I don't let people in easy, Smurfy."

Her mouth dropped open in disbelief and I tried to hold back my smile. She smacked my arm, hard.

"Oh, not you too!" she cried. "For fucks sake Gibsie."

I laughed, coughing slightly as the smoke caught in my throat. "His word gets around fast."

She groaned, dramatic as ever. "Better than any nickname about my legs, I suppose."

My jaw locked. For fucks sake. It took every bit of strength in me not to press. Not to ask. Not to make a scene all over again.

But I kept quiet. Forced myself to breathe through it.

She sighed and held out her hand toward my spliff. Raising my brows, but before I could say anything, she plucked it from my fingers like she owned it.

I stared.

"What? Can a girl not have her fun?" she said, taking a drag like she'd done it a thousand times.

I was too stunned to reply straight away.

She blew the inhaled slowly, lips pursed inwards, eyes glinting. Fucking hell.

The curve of her jawline. The smoothness of her button nose. Those long dark lashes. And those pursed fucking lips.

My imagination took no question in picturing what those lips could do.

"There's a lot you don't know about me, Rudy Kavanagh."

My brain short-circuited.

Her voice, low and teasing, paired with the curve of her jaw, the soft pink of her mouth—it was a deadly combo. I wanted to kiss her so badly my teeth hurt from clenching them.

She handed the spliff back to me and I took it, remaining composure.

I lifted the spliff to my lips. In a perfect world this would be as if we were kissing.

For fucks sake. What kind of an eegit was I?

Here I am acting like a fucking 11 year old girl playing 'he loves me he loves me not' with a bunch of daisies in the playground.

"You know, if you hadn't been there..." she said after a beat, pulling her knees up. "I've imagined a million ways I could've told Janae to shove it."

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. What a bitch." She mumbled.

I barked a laugh, taking another hit. She was cute when she was frustrated.

She went on, fire lighting her words. "Seriously, the audacity. To label me when she's slept with half the school? It's laughable."

"You're not wrong," I muttered, unable to tear my eyes off her.

She froze slightly. "Sorry, I forgot you two used to... or maybe you still do— I don't know— You don't have to tell me—"

"Hey," I cut her off gently. "It's not a problem."

Her eyes flicked to mine.

"Trust me. That girl was the biggest mistake I've ever made."

She didn't reply. Simply looked back out on the rugby pitch again.

"Can I ask you a question?" she said, casual but quiet. Like she was bracing herself for something.

"Anything, Shay," I said, way too quick. "You know that."

That would be the spliff talking because no. She probably didn't know that. Not really. Not with the way I've been pushing and pulling and acting like I don't care.

She gave me a look, thoughtful. "Why were you even with Janae?"

I blinked.

"You seem to hate her enough as it is," she added, soft but cutting. That way only she could do. Deadly and sweet.

I looked away for a second, dragging a hand through my hair, unsure how much to tell her.
How much I wanted to.

"I'm sure you've heard, seeing as the gossip in this school spreads faster than wildfires," I muttered, tapping ash off the end of the spliff between my fingers. "But I wasn't exactly with it last year."

Her brows drew slightly together, but she didn't interrupt.

"Too high out of my fucking mind most days to care who I was waking up beside. Didn't give a shit about anyone. Least of all myself."

She didn't react. Not the way I thought she might. No wide eyes. No fake pity.

Just a calm, quiet nod. Like... yeah, that tracks.

And Jesus Christ, I liked her a lot for that.

I let out a dry laugh and nudged her lightly with my shoulder. "Can I ask you a question now?"

She raised an eyebrow, taking the spliff from my fingers. "Depends what it is."

I grinned. "How long have you been a druggie for?"

Her eyes widened like I'd accused her of arson before relaxing into a glare when she saw the smug smile on my face.

"Oh, ha ha," she deadpanned.

I snorted, laughing as she shook her head and handed me back the spliff.

"I don't do this on the daily, for your information. And honestly, I doubt you should be either," she said, wagging a finger half-heartedly, the edge of a smile tugging her lips.

"You're right. I shouldn't."

"So why are you?"

I paused, staring out at the pitch, watching the wind shake the goalposts.

"Escape," I said finally, flicking the end of it.

"From all this shite." I gestured vaguely to the school behind us. "And all this." I tapped two fingers to my temple.

She went quiet.

"All those thoughts... it calms you down?" she asked, voice low.

"You could say that."

She didn't push. Just gave me a quiet little nod and leaned her head back against the cold metal stand.

"I had my first drag back in Dublin," she said after a moment. "Peer pressure. Crowd I shouldn't've been hanging round with."

I looked over at her.

She was smiling faintly, eyes squinting into the grey sky. "But hey, there's a first time for everything. And since I don't do this a lot..." She turned to me, grinning. "God, does it hit good when I do."

I watched her closely then. Really watched her.

Her pupils were a little blown. Her cheeks flushed from the cold. And I could tell it was starting to hit her. Starting to crawl beneath her skin.
Fuck.
She was high, and I'd let it happen.

"Maybe that's enough for you," I said, chuckling lightly as I gently took the spliff from between her fingers.

She narrowed her eyes. "Who are you? My da?"

She reached to snatch it back, but I shifted out of reach, arm held high.

"You are not getting high on my watch, you little lightweight."

"Excuse me!" she snapped, crawling halfway across the bench toward me. "Do I look like a lightweight to you?"

I raised both eyebrows.

"Oh, shut up," she grumbled, still reaching for it.

"Oi—look! Janae's on the pitch with a big feckin' sign that says 'Shaylee's a slut!'"

I whipped my head to the field.

Empty.

"Wait—"

By the time I looked back, she was already scrambling toward my lap, reaching for my raised hand. I stretched my arm higher, laughing like a bloody idiot as she clambered across me.

And then—

She was on top of me.

Literally.

Straddling me. Hands stretched up. Chest pressed against mine.
And I was dying.

My whole body lit up like a livewire. The blood rushed south so fast I got dizzy. My dick was betraying me in real time.

She didn't seem to notice.

Not at first.

"Not quick enough," I murmured, watching her pout as her fingers just missed it. She glanced down, her eyes catching mine.

And she stilled.

Eyes locked. Lips parted. Her face suddenly inches from mine.

My heart thudded. Loud enough that I was convinced she could hear it.

This girl.
This girl would be the death of me.

"Shay," I breathed, voice raw.

"Yeah?" she whispered back, totally unaware of the situation she'd just put us in.

Her eyes flicked to my mouth.

I swore under my breath.

I wanted her. Desperately. Every fucking inch of her.
I wanted to pull her closer, to press my mouth to hers and not stop.
But she wasn't mine.

And then—fuck—she felt it.

Her eyes widened.

"Oh!" she gasped, scrambling to move, but her limbs were all over the place and her balance was shot. She flopped backward off me, arms flailing.

I caught her without thinking.

"Whoa there," I murmured, pulling her upright, both of us breathless and stunned. Her hands found the front of my shirt, gripping my tie for balance. My arms stayed tight around her waist, holding her in place.

She was still straddling me.

Still right there.

Her breath hitched. So did mine.

Until the moment shattered with a bang of an opening door below us.

Both our heads snapped towards the sound.

"Oh shitting hell," I muttered.

"Well, hello there, lovebirds!" Gibsie exclaimed, wide-eyed and grinning like the shit-stirring bastard

"This is not what it looks like," I growled. "Keep your dick in your pants, lad."

"You're awful grumpy for someone being straddled right now," Gibsie said, biting back a laugh.

I shot him a look that could kill. Didn't work.

He turned his attention to Shaylee, who was still holding onto my tie, blinking at him in a dazed sort of way.

"Gibsie!" she beamed.

"How you doing, Smurfy!" he beamed back. "Bit of a fun lunchtime, eh?"

She rolled her eyes. "God, why do you boys always assume I'm so innocent?"

"No reason at all," he said, still smirking. "I just don't think I've ever seen you smile this much."

Her expression flattened.

Gibsie squinted at the two of us. "Can't imagine straddling is very comfortable..."

Shaylee didn't catch it. "It's very comfortable, thank you very much!"

I groaned internally.

"I wasn't exactly talking to you, Smurfy."

The penny dropped. She looked at me.

Realised.

"RIGHT! Sorry!" she said, scrambling off me like I was on fire.

Too late. I was already burned.

"You two are lucky I was the first one out here," Gibsie said, mock-scolding us. "Lunch ended ten minutes ago. The lads'll be out here after Coaches game talk I so narrowly escaped from" He said proudly. "and if Janae catches word of a scene like this? You'll both be flattened."

Shay wobbled beside him, clearly not steady on her feet.

"I can't take her back to class like this," I muttered, rubbing my forehead.

"Uhm, I am right here, thank you very much," she piped up.

Gibsie shrugged. "Then take her somewhere else, lad. Coach'll skin you alive if you miss warm-up. He's already raging."

"Who gives a shit," I muttered.

Shay groaned. "Oh, will you boys drop it. I can walk myself to class, alright?"

She attempted the stairs, made it about three before her foot slipped and she tumbled straight into Gibsie.

He caught her. Just.

"Not in a million years, Smurfy."

I sighed and climbed down the steps, taking her off his hands. She melted into my side like she belonged there.

"Tell Coach I'll be late," I muttered to Gibsie.

"Sure thing, Romeo."

I helped Shay through the side door, arm tight around her waist, guiding her down the corridor.

"I'm taking you home, okay?"

"What—no, I'm fine... Just take me back to class," she mumbled, head resting lightly on my shoulder.

"You're going home," I said, firm. "Whether you like it or not."

She grumbled something under her breath. Something about being bossy. Rude.

"A lot of fun you are, rude boy," she added as we turned into the main building.

Yeah.

What a lot of fucking fun.

Chapter Text

It was barely two in the bloody afternoon and somehow I was being manhandled out of the school by a freakishly strong rugby lad who had absolutely no business telling me what to do.

I didn't even want to go home. I wanted to go to Science. To Claire. That was the only class we had together—like, ever. And I had plans, okay? Scientific plans. Friendship-based, molecule-measuring, heart-to-hearting plans.

Instead, I was being dragged down the Maths block by a grumpy bastard with a face sculpted by Roman gods who I'd been straddling less than five minutes ago. His hand was hooked around my lower back, gripping like a vice, and I swear to Christ I could feel it radiating through my whole body like a goddamn electric shock.

"I can walk perfectly fine by myself, you know," I announced, trying to wriggle free. My feet were kind of going sideways but I'm sure once I'd started walking I'd be totally fine!

"Considering you nearly concussed yourself on the stairwell, I think I'll keep a hold of you, if that's alright," Rudy replied, voice annoyingly calm. Infuriatingly deep. Hot.

I scoffed. "Oh, and you would know a lot about concussions, wouldn't you?"

He let out a breath through his nose. Like he was tired. Or long-suffering. Whatever.

"You and your spectacular aim," I went on, a smug smile curling on my lips. "To be honest, I'm actually quite chuffed you almost gave me brain damage."

His lips twitched, the tiniest bit.

"You are?" he asked, suspicious.

"Yeah! I mean, if you hadn't, I probably would've never spoken to you. And you definitely wouldn't have spoken to me. And now look at us! Friends."

I grinned up at him like I'd just announced our wedding date.

"You really like this idea of us being friends, then?" he asked, tightening his grip when I nearly tripped over thin air again.

"Friends who get high together," I emphasised with a cocky grin.

Rudy, in turn, tensed so suddenly beside me I felt it in my bones.

Did I say something wrong?

"you're right, your high as fuck right now so I'd keep your voice down" he deflected, "god how did I let you get so carried away"

"Oh I'm glad you did!" I announced, "I haven't felt this way in years its great!"

"Yeah yeah don't we all, just keep your voice down love" He repeated, the extra nickname on the end falling off his tongue when it definitely shouldn't have.

He silenced for a moment.

So did I. I giggled.

And then I deflected.

"You sound even more like my Da," I told him.

"Shaylee, for the love of God, will you stop comparing me to your father?"

We turned the corner just as he said it, landing directly in the hall that led to the car park—and, more importantly, directly past my science classroom.

Claire.

"Oh my God," I gasped, grabbing onto his jumper like I'd spotted the cure for cancer. "Science! Claire's in there!"

"No," he said immediately, like he was batting away a toddler with sticky fingers. "Absolutely not."

"I just wanna say hi!"

"No."

"Quick hi! a little 'hi-ya Claire, love you loads,"

"Still no."

"She has to know I love her Rudy she just has to!"

"I'm sure she already knows that"

I started tugging away from him, walking backwards now, zero coordination, arms flailing dramatically. "You don't understand—this is important. Claire's the only person in this entire school who understands-" I paused and then motioned between me and him. "... this- whole thing"

He raised his eyebrows. "This whole thing?" He echoed before shaking his head. "You're literally off your tits right now," Rudy said flatly. "You are not going anywhere near a classroom."

"Don't talk about my tits" I gasped melodramatically.

"God you know what I mean."

I huffed. "you really are a rude boy," I snapped, and turned dramatically on my heel, fully prepared to bolt for the door.

Except Rudy—stupid, fast, built-like-a-brick-shithouse Rudy—moved before I even got two steps in. I felt his arms wrap around my waist and next thing I knew I was airborne.

"RUDY!" I screeched as he literally threw me over his shoulder like I was a sack of potatoes.

"Don't you dare," i warned as I smacked at his back. "Put me down! You brute! I'm being kidnapped!"

"Oh, give over," he grunted, adjusting his grip like I didn't weigh anything at all. "You're going in the car before you get yourself suspended."

"CLAIREEEE!" I yelled dramatically, head flopping backwards to stare at the classroom door as it got further and further away. "I'LL NEVER FORGET YOU!"

I felt the audible sigh below me, mixed with a small chuckle. At least someone was finding this whole thing amusing.

"I don't see how this is funny!" I protested.

We burst out of the double doors into the car park, wind biting at my legs as we crossed the space and finally, finally, set me down in front of the bonnet of his stupidly shiny Mercedes. My head was spinning. My cheeks ached from laughing. And I was still tingling from the warmth of his arms around me.

He set me down like I was something delicate. Like I might tip over again if he moved too fast. I wasn't sure if it was the spliff or him—or some very treacherous combination of the two—but my legs didn't feel fully mine yet.

His hands stayed on my waist, warm and solid. My whole body leaned into him without meaning to, like some weird gravitational pull I hadn't agreed to. He didn't let go.

"You know what?" I said, squinting up at him through the wind. "I can't tell if I hate you right now."

His mouth curved slightly, that stupid crooked grin like he already knew exactly how this was gonna go. "That's alright. Hate away, Shay-Shaylee. I'm still taking you home."

I narrowed my eyes. "Don't call me that."

He raised a brow, unfazed. "What, Smurfy?"

I groaned dramatically. "You are so annoying."

"And yet, here we are."

My cheeks flushed instantly, because he wasn't wrong. I didn't move. Couldn't.

"Well I don't want to hate you," I said quieter now, my voice catching somewhere between truth and confession.

"Then don't," he said simply, looking down at me like I was some kind of puzzle he hadn't figured out yet. His expression had softened, just enough to make me blink up at him in surprise.

"Okay."

Just like that.

Because everything around me was starting to settle. The spinning, the fuzziness. I didn't know if it was the high wearing off or just... him. The steadiness of his body. The heat of his hands still on my waist. The way he was close. Too close. The kind of close that made everything else feel far away.

I was starting to feel very, very present.

Which was terrifying, actually.

Because this was still Rudy Kavanagh. The boy with the sharp jaw and the scowl and the thousand-yard stare. The boy I'd barely known a month ago. The boy I still didn't know, not really. Not properly. But who made me feel more seen in five seconds than most people managed in five years.

And I was stood here like an idiot, letting him touch me. Letting myself like it.

I dropped my eyes, the cold suddenly noticeable again.

"My dad's gonna kill me," I muttered, rubbing my face with both hands.

"Hey," he said softly, tilting my chin up with his finger. His eyes were gentler now, but still unreadable. "I'll tell him it was my fault. I just needed to get you out of there before you did any more damage, alright?"

I stared up at him, lips parted.

"Worst case, the entire Murphy family hates me," he added, trying to smile. "I'll live."

I bit down on my bottom lip.

I don't hate you. Not even a little bit.

He exhaled slightly. As if he could hear my thoughts. As if he didn't know what to do with that information.

"Can I not just come to your house instead?" I blurted.

His eyes shot back to mine, confused. "Now why would you want to do that?"

I shrugged, my voice too high, too floaty. "No scary parents to tell me off for getting high in school?"

Rudy actually laughed. The sound came from his chest and made his arms tighten around me slightly, unconsciously maybe.

"It's clear you've never met my mother," he said.

"So let me."

He gave me a flat look. "Not a chance. You're going home, Smurfy."

"Oh my God," I groaned, tipping my head back dramatically. "Are you trying to work me up? Stop calling me that!"

He chuckled, low and warm. "You're very cute when you're narky."

"Don't flirt with me when I'm high," I warned.

"I'm not flirting," he said, but his smile said otherwise.

We were both quiet for a second. Too quiet.

His hands were still on me. My hands had somehow found his jacket, fingers curled into the lapels like I needed to anchor myself.

His face was close. His eyes even closer.

I could feel the rise and fall of his chest. The way his jaw twitched ever so slightly. The way his gaze flicked to my lips and back again, like he was fighting something.

I didn't mean to do it. I swear I didn't. But my eyes dropped to his mouth.

And then back up.

He didn't move away.

My breath caught in my throat.

And then—just as I thought he might kiss me—he leaned in, and shifted. His jaw clenched and he moved past my mouth, low and slow, until his face was hovering just beside mine, his breath against my neck.

My whole body stiffened.

His head stayed there, by my jaw, like he couldn't bring himself to pull away but wouldn't dare cross the line.

The air between us practically sizzled.

He was so close I could feel the heat of his skin, smell the clean sweat of his neck and the faint cologne that clung to his hoodie. My stomach swooped, knees turning to absolute mush.

And then—barely above a whisper—

"You steady enough to get in the car?" he murmured against my skin.

I swallowed. Nodded.

"Yeah," I breathed.

He pulled away slowly. Opened the passenger door with a quiet click.

I climbed in, legs like jelly. Everything suddenly too real. Too still.

Rudy walked around the bonnet, jaw tight, eyes unreadable. He got in beside me and didn't say a word as he turned the keys in the ignition.

The engine rumbled to life.

We drove off in silence.

But my heart was screaming.

Chapter Text

The drive to mine was silent.

Not the soft kind of silence—the sleepy kind you get after a long day where both of you are too content to speak. No, this was stifling. It was heavy. Like the air inside Rudy's car had thickened with everything we weren't saying.

The radio was on low. Some old indie tune crackled through the speakers. I didn't recognise it. I didn't care. All I could think about was the sound of his breath on my neck twenty minutes ago. The feel of his hands still warm on my waist. The way he'd pressed so close it made my heart riot in my chest. And now? Now he wouldn't even look at me.

He was back to brooding. Staring straight ahead. Jaw locked. Shoulders squared.

Cold.

So cold I could practically feel the temperature drop between us.

My high was gone now. Fully worn off. And in its place was a thumping headache, a queasy pit in my stomach, and the creeping realisation that I'd made a show of myself. Again.

What the fuck was I thinking?

Getting high at school? With him of all people?

After everything he told me.

He didn't even offer me a spliff. I took it. I encouraged it for the two of us.

Not because I wanted it. I didn't even like the way it made me feel. But because some deranged part of me felt like I had to prove something to him. Like if I didn't take it, he'd look at me differently.

God, I was such a fucking idiot.

By the time we rolled up outside my house, the pit in my stomach had opened fully. It was just past two, and we hadn't even told school we were leaving. I was going to be murdered. Maybe not immediately—but death was on the cards. Dad would be worried sick. And then pissed. And then worried again. Rinse and repeat.

But that wasn't even the worst part.

Because when Rudy pulled up onto the pavement, right behind Dad's old battered pickup truck, I spotted it.

The red one.

Faded maroon. Rusted around the wheels. Dented on the passenger side door.

Gary's fucking car.

I stiffened, staring at it like it had teeth.

I knew that car too well. Used to listen for the rumble of that shit engine every day after school in Dublin. Trained my ears to hear it from three streets away. That was how I knew whether it was safe to walk through the front door or not.

And now it was here. Parked on our gravel.

I didn't move.

Neither did Rudy.

He cut the engine and let the silence blanket us again. I think he was waiting for me to make the first move, but I couldn't. My hand hovered above the door handle, frozen mid-air. My thoughts weren't in the car anymore. They were behind the front door. With Gary. Probably with Ma.

He cleared his throat beside me. I felt the vibrations before I heard the sound.

"So, uh..." he started, voice awkward, low. "I'll come in. Say I dragged you out of school. Try make it sound reasonable and all that shite."

I didn't answer. Couldn't. I was still locked onto that red car, my heart beating somewhere behind my ribs like a war drum.

"Shaylee?" he tried again.

I felt his hand on mine then—warm, rough, way too gentle for a lad who'd decked Stephen Deasy like it was nothing just over twelve hours ago. He covered both of my hands with his, thumb brushing across my knuckles once before he spoke again.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "If I... if I made you feel uncomfortable back at school or whatever. I wasn't trying to push anything. We can pretend it didn't happen. No harm done, alright?"

Oh.

That.

I shook my head quickly. "It's not that," I mumbled. "Sorry, I—uh—it's not you."

He leaned in slightly, brows pinched. "Then what is it? You're kinda... somewhere else."

I opened my mouth, trying to form words, but then—

Bang.

I jumped violently in my seat, a sharp noise crashing into my left ear. My heart launched straight into my throat.

Gary.

Standing outside my window. Staring in like a ghost you thought you buried years ago. Skinny. Pale. Stubbled. Balding. With those same striking hazel eyes—dead behind them.

He pointed at me. Then thumbed behind him like I was a bloody dog to be called inside.

Out.

He mouthed it. Expression twisted with annoyance when he spotted Rudy.

"Is that your da?" Rudy asked, frowning.

Fuck no. And he never fucking will be.

I didn't answer fast enough. Gary rattled the handle. Rudy was already halfway out of the car by the time I choked out, "Rudy, no—"

But he was standing. Arms folded on the roof like a bouncer outside Coppers.

"Hi, sir."

Gary gave him a once over. Disgust plain as day. I scrambled out after him.

"Did you forget how to use your legs or something, missy?" Gary barked. "The fuck are you doing home this early?"

I flinched. Rudy's jaw twitched.

"She wasn't feeling great," Rudy said calmly. "I offered her a lift home. Thought it was better than her passing out in the toilets or something."

"You don't look sick," Gary sneered, looking me up and down like I was dirt under his boot.

"I had a headache," I mumbled.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, low and tight.

"Your ma's worried sick about you, that's what," he shot back.

I blinked. "What?"

"Don't play dumb, missy. You didn't even show up last week."

"I did show up!" I snapped. "She was the one who couldn't be fucking bothered to stay and wait."

Rudy looked lost.

"I think that might've been my fault too," he said quickly, moving around the car to come and stand beside me, distrust plastered over his face. "I drove her over. We were a bit late, that's all."

Gary ignored him completely. "Who is this? Your boyfriend?"

I lifted a brow. "Don't see why that's any of your business."

His jaw flexed. "Come inside. Your ma's waiting."

My blood went cold. "Where's Da?"

"Inside too. We're all gonna have a nice family chat." The smile he gave me then was the same one I remembered from when I was eight and he broke the handle off the bathroom door so I couldn't lock it.

"I don't want to."

He reached for me. Instinctively.

But Rudy was quicker.

He stepped between us without hesitation. "I don't know if you heard that right," he said, voice low, firm. "She said no. Buddy."

"I'm not your buddy," Gary hissed.

"Thank fuck for that."

He turned slightly, eyes still on Gary. "Who is this guy?" he asked me.

"My ma's boyfriend," I breathed. "Gary."

There was a silence between us then. Me and Rudy. The kind that wasn't quiet at all. The kind that said everything I couldn't say with my mouth still glued shut from fear.

"Now come inside, girl," Gary snapped again. "I was her legal guardian long before her old man ever pulled his finger out. I've got every right."

"You'd wanna change your fucking tone," Rudy said, taking a step closer. His shoulders squared. He was towering over Gary now, nearly a head taller.

I panicked.

I reached for his arm. "Rudy, it's fine," I whispered. "He's right. I should just go in."

He looked at me like I'd just slapped him. "Shay—"

"I'll be okay," I said quickly, forcing a smile. "It's just complicated. But I'm used to it."

He didn't buy it. Not for a second. But he stepped back anyway. Only just.

Gary turned, smug as shit. "That's right. Tell your boyfriend. Now come along, Shaylee."

I started walking beside him slowly, my limbs suddenly twenty times heavier. The garden felt like a mile.

"I'll see you tomorrow, okay?" I called back over my shoulder. Rudy was still standing there, hands clenched into fists at his sides, like he was holding himself back.

I offered him a smile. He didn't return it.

I turned my head back, sneaking a glance at Gary as we came up to my door.

I went to go and open it. He placed a heavy boot in the way of the door. His hazel eyes glaring into mine.

"You shouldn't be hanging around with boys like that at your age. Makes you look like a whore."

I inhaled, anger flooding through me. This man had no room to speak. Whatsoever. He had no right calling me that.

"Oh please, your a bigger whore than I'll ever be." I spat, voice shaking from rage, not fear.

His face twisted, but I didn't let him speak.

"And by the way?" I added, stepping closer, fire in every word. "You weren't my legal guardian. You were just the prick who lived in our flat, drank all our milk, stole from my ma, and cried like a child when Da finally grew a spine made sure you and ma got no more child benefits."

I didn't give him the time to respond, just opened the door and stepped into the house, not bothering to keep it open for him.

"Da?" I called out.

Silence.

"Da?!" I repeated, my voice panicking as I quickly walked through the house.

"In the kitchen love," his dulled voice called out from the other side of the house.

I let out a sigh of relief as the silence lifted.

Chapter Text

"I'm a fucking dickhead gibs."

I muttered, pinching the bridge of my nose and tipping my head back like that was going to stop the anger bubbling up my throat.

"-coward" he corrected between crunches and chews down the line. Crisps, by the sound of it. The crunching was enough to make me want to put my fist through the wall.

"do you really think that's fucking helpful-"

"yes actually-" crunch, swallow "I really do"

"I'm bein' serious," I snapped.

"An' so am I. It's taken me, what, seventeen years to crack the case on how to help rudy fucking kavanagh? Bit of a slow burn, but we got there in the end."

"Gibs." My tone cut through his shite, low and tight. "I left her there. With him. I have to go back."

"You haven't got to do anything, lad, Smurfy can handle herself. She's tougher than the both of us."

"It's not her I'm worried about." I stopped at the window, staring out into the darkening drive. My hands were shaking. "It's what he's gonna do. Why the fuck should I believe he's her stepdad and not some big-headed freak who's knocked up her ma?"

There was a pause on the line, only the faint background noise of Biddies on his end — muffled laughter, music thumping — before he sighed. "You're gettin' way too ahead of yourself, fella. That's tinfoil-hat shite."

"Is it?" My jaw locked. "You didn't see her face when we pulled up. You didn't see her freeze like that."

Truth was, it wasn't just her face when we got there that was wrecking my head. It was the way she'd looked at me earlier, outside school — the afternoon sun in her hair, that tiny crease between her brows, her lips parted like... like if I'd taken one step closer, I would've kissed the absolute shite out of her.

And that would've been it.

Game over.

But it was selfish as shite thinking of that right now.

"Look, I get it," Gibs was saying, dragging me back. "You're wired. But you runnin' back there now? That's just askin' for trouble. And I can't believe I'm sayin' this, but I'm the one tellin' you not to do somethin' stupid? Jaysus Christ, it's like the world's turned upside down."

"I can't just sit here," I muttered, already moving, phone wedged between shoulder and ear as I grabbed my keys off the counter.

"You can, actually. You're physically capable of sittin'."

I wedged the phone tighter to my ear and bent to pull my trainers on.

Fuck this.

There was a pause. Then—

"Don't," Gibsie barked down the line barely giving me enough time to tie a lace. "Don't you fucking do it, Kavanagh. I swear to Jesus, if you're about to do what I think you're about to do—"

The jingle of the keys must've carried through because he let out a groan that was more animal than human. "Oh, for fuck's sake."

I didn't answer.

"Rudy, I'm not jokin' here," he rushed, voice climbing like he was winding himself up. "Don't be a thick bollocks. Don't you dare—Johnny!" he suddenly bellowed away from the phone."

I couldn't help but let out a dry laugh. Fucking snitch.

A muffled Johnny reply.

"Yeah, the gobshite's jingling the keys at me like he's the Pied fuckin' Piper of bad decisions!"

I could hear the thump of him moving about, the background noise of the pub spilling through the line. "Stay where ya are!" he snapped back into the phone. "I'm serious, mate, if you're really about to hare off into the night to go batter some poor fucker—"

Poor fucker.
Not so fucking poor.
Not in my head. Not when all I could see was him with his fist clamped around her upper arm, dragging her back like she was nothing.
My Shay–Shaylee.

"Don't ignore me, Rudy!" Gibsie roared so loud I had to pull the phone away. "Johnny, tell him!"

There was a rustle, then Johnny's voice, calmer but firm. "Rud, mate, don't. Just—take a second, will ya? Think about what you're doin'."

From the background, Gibsie was still in full performance mode. "Think about your freedom, ya thick prick! Think about not rotting in a cell next to some lad who wanks to the smell of slopped up porridge"

"Gibs do you really think thats helpful-" Johnny's voice rings through.

"Thats what he'll have to fucking survive on mate!"

I slid the key into the lock without saying a word.

"Rudy." Johnny warned.

"He's fucking going isn't he?" Gibs.

"Rudy, mate," Johnny's tone dropped into that low, warning register he had when he was trying to cut through my stubbornness. "If you're really set on doing somethin' stupid, at least wait until we get there. Let us go with ya."

"I'm fine," I muttered.

"Fine, my hole!" Gibsie's cackling disbelief shot through. "Do you hear yourself? You sound like a man about to go bare-knuckle fight a bus."

They were both dramatic fuckers.

God knows if Johnny's Shannon might of been in danger he'd batter the shit out of him too.

I got into the drivers seat, hanging up the phone. I could practically hear gibs from biddies. Turning the ignition on I took one hand on the steering wheel, looking into my mirrors with fogged up eyes as I reversed out of the driveway.

***

A/N: IM BACK BITCHES ! (In all serious thank you so much to any of you who reached out asking if I was alright and things, my personal life has been absolutely blowing up at the moment and it became really hard to stay consistent on here. But for now I should be back to hopefully daily chapter uploads!) Thank you guys so much, i love you all for the support.

Chapter Text

Gary's boots scraped the lino behind me as I moved down the short hallway towards the back of the house. The kitchen was small, tucked away like an afterthought, and the air felt heavier the closer I got to it — stale with smoke and something sour, like spilled beer that had been left too long.

Da's voice had called me over, but it wasn't just him here. I could feel it in the way my shoulders tensed.

The crunch under my foot was sharp enough to make me flinch.

I glanced down.

Glass.

I shifted my weight back and crouched, squinting to make out the shape. A picture frame — splintered and discarded, one corner bent in on itself.

Inside, under the cracked pane, was a photo of me and Da. Two years ago. Dublin. Robbie Williams.

It was one of the rare good days. Da had wrapped his arm around my shoulder that night, pulling me in close, both of us smiling like we didn't have a care in the world, stage lights behind us in a blur of colour. Robbie's voice had been roaring out "My Way" and the crowd was swaying like a sea.

An older woman — seventies, maybe older — had taken that photo for us. She'd been standing alone, tiny and birdlike in her coat, singing every lyric like it was stitched into her bones. I'd watched her all night, wondering how someone like her ended up there, surrounded by lads with shaved heads and girls in glitter tops, not giving a shite what anyone thought. By the end, me and Da had her singing and dancing with us, all three of us bellowing at the top of our lungs.

Now she was frozen forever under cracked glass, my smile split clean through.

I bent down, slid the photo out of the ruined frame, folded it carefully, and tucked it into my pocket. My hands were shaking.

A sharp tut sounded above me, and Gary's shadow fell over my bent form.

"Get up, girl," he barked, voice thick with impatience.

I straightened, keeping my face cold, and stepped past him. He smelled the same — stale fags, sweat, cheap lager — but heavier now.

Da was standing at the fridge when I walked in, arms folded over his chest, eyes fixed on me.

"What's going on?" My voice cracked without my permission.

His tone was soft, but there was steel underneath. "What are you doing home so early, sweetheart?"

I frowned. Out of everything, that was the question? I didn't care about his curiosity over my timetable. I wanted to know why Gary was here. Why I hadn't seen Ma yet. Why the floor was littered with broken frames.

Gary answered for me, prising open a can from our fridge like he owned the place. "Her fella says she was feelin' sick."

The hiss of the can opening cut through the room.

Da's head turned slowly, his jaw hardening. He was shorter than Gary, and he didn't have the muscle anymore — just a solid beer belly and eyes that could still cut if he wanted them to.

"Don't open your mouth in my home," Da snarled.

"Whatever you say, old man," Gary laughed, taking a swig before tilting the can in my direction. "You don't mind us bein' here, do ya, love?"

Rage prickled under my skin. The man terrified me — more now than when I'd last seen him two years ago. He had a wildness in his eyes, something sharp and unpredictable.

"Don't talk to me," I said flatly, my gaze sweeping the room for signs of Ma before snapping back to Da.

"I had a headache," I added, the lie sitting heavy on my tongue. The truth — that I was high for the first time since I was thirteen — wasn't one I was handing out.

"Now what is going on? Why's he here?"

The words were barely out before a hand landed on my shoulder. Firm, but trembling.

"We wanted to make sure you were alright after you didn't show up for coffee, doll," a voice said behind me.

I jumped forward, away from the touch, spinning around.

Ma.

Two years without seeing her and the first thing that hit me was how... normal she looked.

Her hair was fresh from a blow-dry, a smooth shoulder-length bob that curled in at the ends. Her makeup was light but deliberate — mascara, blush, eyeliner. She wore tight black trousers and a leopard-print fluffy trench coat that looked ridiculous in the kitchen light but also expensive.

And yet, her face — it was wrong. Paler. Slimmer. Hollow. Like someone had scraped her out from the inside. She was both beautiful and horrific.

"You look lovely posh in that uniform," she said with a smile.

My lip trembled. I felt Da's presence behind me, his hands settling heavily on my shoulders like he could anchor me in place. I didn't know whether I wanted to scream, cry, or walk straight out the door.

"Well, aren't ya goin' to say anything to your mother?" Gary's voice boomed from the side.

I looked at him, then back to her.

"You couldn't wait thirty minutes?" My voice was unsteady, but coming back to me with every word.

Ma's smile faltered, her expression softening like she'd been expecting a hug instead of this. "You were late," she said.

"It wasn't a doctor's appointment, Ma."

She drew in a breath, shoulders rising. "That doesn't matter now, eh? I'm here. Me and Gar. We can have a right old catch-up."

Gary's smirk spread wider as he watched me.

"I thought you weren't stayin' long, Danielle," Da cut in sharply.

Her face tightened, the light in her eyes dimming. "It's been years,. God forbid a mother wants to see her daughter."

"There's been plenty of time for that," Da shot back.

"Don't talk to her in that tone," Gary barked.

"I'll talk to her however the hell I want to," Da snapped.

"You wanna watch your mouth," Gary snarled at Da, his voice low and sharp, like the edge of a blade just before it cuts.

I felt Da's hands tighten on my shoulders, the pressure sinking into my skin like he was holding himself back from stepping forward and letting fists talk instead of words. My own arms folded tighter across my chest, a poor excuse for armour, while Ma's eyes drilled into my forehead. I didn't lift my head to meet them. Couldn't.

If it was just her here, I'd have maybe sat down, made tea, tried to pretend we were normal for five minutes — or at least something close to it. But her turning up with Gary in tow? No. That was a different story. She hadn't brought him for the company. She'd brought him as backup. That much was obvious. And if she was that wary of what me or Da might say... well, there wasn't a chance in hell I was sitting down and playing happy families with him.

Gary thunked his half-empty can down on the countertop, foam hissing from the rim.
"Babe, stop it," Ma said softly.

The pet name made my stomach turn. Like she was talking to someone who actually deserved her softness.

Gary shifted his weight, leaning back against the counter as if nothing had happened, his body language screaming smug control.

"I just want to talk to my little girl," Ma said, eyes glued onto me like an apology.

"Not so little anymore, Ma," I murmured, my voice a thread.

Before she could respond, Gary's head tilted, nostrils flaring. "That smell..." His mouth twisted into a grin that was all teeth. "I knew it was familiar."

My insides iced over.

"Pot."

There it was.

Of course he'd smell it. He wasn't exactly quick on the uptake, but even a thick bastard like Gary could eventually put two and two together. And now he was saying it in front of Da.

My Da, who'd quit that shite just before he got custody of me, who wore his sobriety like armour over the shame that never really left. Who'd been in enough pub fights over people throwing it in his face to fill a small novel.

"I can smell pot," Gary pressed, his grin widening, eyes glinting. "You been smoking pot, old man?"

Da's whole body stilled behind me, his grip finally leaving my shoulders.

He stepped forward once, controlled, but his voice was anything but. "The fuck did you just say?"

Gary peeled himself from the counter, straightening up like he was ready for it. "You heard me. I can smell it. Can't you?"

"Oh, I can smell it alright," Da said, his tone a dangerous low rumble, "and I know exactly who it's coming from."

Fuck. My stomach dropped through the floor.

"Yourself, you slimy prick — who else would it be?"

Gary chuckled darkly. "Oh please, you haven't gotta hide it. It's alright, you lack that self-respect. No one really quits to begin with."

"Gary, don't taunt the man," Ma's voice cut in, laced with that brittle sort of worry she tried to hide.

"Don't tell me what to fucking do, you bitch," Gary snapped without even looking at her.

The word landed like a slap. Ma gasped, actually stumbling back half a step. That's when I saw it — the bruise.

It was half-hidden by the high neck of her ridiculous leopard-print coat, but not enough to escape my notice now. Dark, swollen, ugly against her pale skin. Far too big, too uneven to be a hickey. My stomach turned again, for a different reason.

He'd hit her.

In all the years he'd been around, he'd been a lot of things — loud, controlling, slimy, intimidating — but never physical. Not with her. Ma had always had enough rough connections down the pub to keep him in check. Lads who'd make sure he'd never lift a hand to her without paying for it in blood.

Clearly, something had changed.

And now, it was dawning on me that the danger here wasn't just background noise anymore. It was in the room with us. Me. Da. Both of us far too close.

Da's eyes flicked to her neck, then back to Gary. His jaw clenched, his lips pressing into a thin line. He looked like he wanted to say something, maybe even step in, but the years had slowed him down. He wasn't the man he used to be — not physically, anyway.

"I'm disappointed in ya, Danny," he said finally, voice quiet but hard, his eyes locking on Ma. "Putting up with this little shit."

Danny.

I hadn't heard him call her that since I was a kid. Back when things were... not better, but different. Back when she laughed louder, and Da smiled more.

Ma's eyes went wide, glassy with a shock she tried to mask.

"Don't call my gal by that nickname," Gary barked suddenly, stepping in closer to Da. "You lost that title long ago, you prat."

He shoved Da lightly in the chest, like he wanted to test the reaction.

Da didn't swing. Didn't even push back. He just put a hand between them, using the other to point straight at me. "Not in front of my daughter."

Gary's head turned slowly, his eyes landing on me.

What I saw there made my skin crawl — not just anger, but something worse. Something calculated. His mouth curved into another slow, smug smile.

"You're the one smoking fucking pot, ain't ya?"

The words hung in the air like a noose.

"How dare you accuse my daughter!"

Da didn't hesitate — not for a second. One minute Gary was spewing his shite, the next Da's fist connected square with his jaw, the sound of it like a bloody gunshot in the kitchen. Gary stumbled back, arms flailing, a look of pure shock twisting his face.

Me and Ma gasped in unison.

"Da!" My voice cracked, the word torn straight out of me.

I took a step forward just as Gary regained his footing. And then he was on him — hurling himself at Da with a snarl, his shoulder slamming into him hard enough to send them both crashing to the floor.

The sound... Jesus, it was like every horrible noise rolled into one — the dull thud of bodies hitting tile, the wet slap of skin on skin, the breathless grunts and curses spat through clenched teeth. The air filled with the stink of sweat and rage, thick enough to choke on.

It wasn't a fair fight.

Da couldn't do this. Not anymore. Not with the drink still in him from earlier and his ribs never fully healing after the last time Gary had laid into him. And me? I couldn't do a single thing to stop it. My legs were frozen, my head spinning so fast I thought I'd be sick.

"Boys, stop it!" Ma screeched, her voice too high, too shaky. She stepped forward like she might try and wedge herself between them, but stopped short, hands trembling at her sides.

Tears blurred my vision as Gary pinned Da down, his fist swinging again and again, each sickening crack ringing in my ears.

"Get off him!" I screamed, but it was useless.

"Gary, babe, please!" Ma dropped to her knees beside them, her mascara streaming down her cheeks, smudged black tracks on her flushed skin.

He didn't even look at her.

And then his hand — that big, ugly hand — swung sideways, catching her square across the face with a slap so sharp the sound split the air.

Ma's head snapped to the side, hair flying, and she froze for a second like she couldn't believe it had happened. Then she clutched her cheek, staggering back before scrambling to her feet.

Her eyes found mine instantly — wide, frantic, terrified. "Come on, leave with me," she pleaded, her voice cracking.

I shook my head so hard my hair whipped around my face. My throat felt raw, like the refusal was made of glass. I couldn't. Not with Da like this.

Da wasn't moving much anymore. His eyes were half-shut, breath coming in shallow wheezes. He looked almost unconscious.

And suddenly — as if something snapped inside me — my feet were moving. My body finally listening to the panic clawing at my chest.

I threw myself onto Gary's back, my arms snaking around his neck before I could think twice. "Get off him, you bastard!" I screamed, my voice high and desperate, the words tearing my throat raw. My nails dug into his skin, my legs hooking around his hips so he couldn't shake me loose.

I could hear Da's strangled gasps under us, could feel Gary's whole body tense as he snarled, "You little bitch — get off me!"

He spun us both around, trying to dislodge me, his elbow digging into my ribs. The kitchen blurred around me, every detail disjointed and sharp — the fridge magnets rattling with the movement, the smell of the bin, the sound of the rain battering the windows.

And then — bang bang — two hard knocks at the front door.

Gary shoved backwards, slamming us into the fridge. The metal rattled and my spine lit up with a sharp, white-hot pain. My grip loosened and I slid down his back, hitting the floor with a dull thud.

My vision went strange — too bright in some places, blacked out in others — until all I could make out was a blurry figure leaning over me. His face was smeared with blood, teeth bared in a smirk that made my stomach twist. He opened his mouth like he was about to say something — something cruel — but he didn't get the chance.

Another figure, taller, broader, moved into frame.

In a blink, Gary was yanked backwards, slammed chest-first into the counter. The tall man pinned him there, arm locked around his neck, holding him in place with terrifying ease.

My eyes kept flickering in and out, the scene going fuzzy, like a broken camera lens. But then the kitchen filled with voices and footsteps — heavy, fast, too many to count.

The Garda.

They poured in, three, maybe four of them, their black uniforms blurring as they grabbed Gary off the counter. His curses filled the air, loud and guttural, even as they shoved him towards the door.

And then — warm arms. Strong, solid. Wrapping around me and pulling me into his chest.

A voice at my ear. Low. Steady. Safe.

"Everything's okay. Shay-Shaylee, you're okay."

***

A/N: This chapter was incredibly difficult to write, as it tackles the devastating reality of domestic violence in raw detail. My heart goes out to anyone who has experienced this. If you ever need someone to listen, my DMs are always open.

Chapter Text

It was pushing eleven and the waiting room still smelled like overbrewed coffee and disinfectant. Those awful fluorescent lights hummed above us, flickering just enough to make me want to put my head through the wall. We'd been sat here for hours. No updates. No word. Just... waiting.

Claire was sat beside me, arms folded tight, knees bouncing.

Gibsie was on her other side, and Johnny was at the far end of the row, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it had done something to him. None of us had said much in the last while. Even Gibs had shut up, which told you everything you needed to know about the mood.

"I think I'm gon' go grab some more crisps from the vending machine. Anyone want something?" Claire finally said, exhaling like the weight of the last few hours had lodged itself in her chest. She shoved herself up out of the uncomfortable little plastic chair.

"I'll come with you, babe," Gibsie replied, his voice quieter than usual, lacking that cocky edge he always threw her way.

And for once, Claire didn't roll her eyes or snap back. She just nodded. The air had shifted between all of us tonight. Even Gibsie seemed different—softer, like even he knew this wasn't the time for piss-taking.

They wandered off together, their footsteps echoing down the corridor towards the vending machines. I leaned my head back against the cold wall behind me, eyes shutting for a second. The doctors wouldn't tell us a thing because we weren't "immediate family." Like that mattered. Like she had anyone else right now. No grandparents had shown. No aunts. No uncles. No one. Just us. Claire had tried to pull the sister card, but they didn't buy it.

And I was sat here, chewing my own tongue with guilt.

This was on me.

If I hadn't left her there... If I'd stayed... If I'd told her to get in the car and I didn't drive off like an eejit thinking I could just fix things later—this wouldn't have happened.

The memory clawed at me, dragging me back to a couple of hours ago.

*

I tore down through her estate like a lunatic, engine roaring, tyres squealing on every bend. The smell of burning rubber and wet tarmac came through the vents, sharp in my nose, but I barely felt my hands on the wheel. My whole body was wired tight, chest crushing in on itself, because all I could see was that image in my head—Gary's thick hand clamped around her arm.

My Shay-Shaylee.

I slammed the brakes outside her place, the car lurching hard enough to jerk me in the seat. First thing I clocked was a woman pacing the front garden. Short, dark hair scraped back so tight it was pulling at her forehead. Leopard-print coat swinging around her knees, catching under the porch light. Her face was streaked black from melted mascara, like rivers spilling down her cheeks.

My stomach fucking dropped.

She spotted me the second I stepped out of the car, eyes going wide, like she was debating whether to bolt. Too bad—I was already closing the distance, boots thudding against the path, until I was right in her way.

"Where is she?" I barked. My voice came out harsher than I'd meant, but I couldn't give a shite.

The woman froze, breath coming fast, chest heaving under that coat. She didn't answer—just kept darting her glassy, panicked eyes over my shoulder like she was watching for someone.

I stepped closer, heat pumping through my veins. "Is she in there?" I asked, sharper this time. "What happened?"

Her jaw clamped so tight I could see the muscles twitching. She looked like she was physically holding something back.

Then her gaze flicked past me again—towards the front door.

My gut twisted so hard I felt sick.

"Call the Garda," I told her.

"I already did," she whispered, voice cracking.

That was enough for me. I didn't waste another second. I took the path in three strides, the slap of my boots loud in the still air, and hammered my fist into the front door twice.

No answer.

"Shaylee!" I shouted, my voice tearing up my throat.

Then I heard it.

Not her voice. Not words. Screaming—raw, guttural sounds that made my skin crawl. A man's grunt over the top of it.

Every muscle in my body went tight.

I stepped back, braced my feet, and rammed my shoulder into the door. The wood splintered on the first hit and burst open on the second, slamming back against the wall.

The kitchen was chaos.

A man was sprawled on the tiles to my left, blood trickling from his temple, breath ragged. And straight ahead—by the fridge—was Gary. Her ma's scumbag boyfriend. His thick bulk was hunched over someone, blocking my view.

Then I saw her.

Shaylee's face, pale as paper. Eyes glassy and unfocused. Her body limp under his weight.

My blood roared in my ears so loud it drowned out everything else.

I didn't think. Didn't fucking hesitate. I was on him in a second, my hands fisting into the back of his jacket as I yanked him away from her. He went flying into the counter with a sick crack that rattled the mugs on the shelf.

The Garda stormed in behind me right then, boots pounding, voices shouting orders. Thank Christ they did, because if they'd been a minute later, I wouldn't have stopped. I couldn't have—not with the way my hands were shaking, not with the sight of her like that burned into my skull.

My eyes locked back on her. Small and crumpled on the kitchen floor, her chest rising in shallow, fragile breaths. She was half-conscious, eyelids fluttering like she was struggling to stay with me.

"Shaylee..." I crouched down beside her, my voice softer now, my hands gentler. She blinked at me, like she wasn't sure I was real.

I slid my arms under her, careful not to jolt her, lifting her against my chest like I had earlier that day when she'd been too high to walk. But this—this was so much worse. She felt weightless in my arms, and not in a good way.

"You're okay, Shayshaylee. I've got you now," I whispered, my throat thick, every muscle still buzzing with leftover rage.

She didn't answer. Just let her head fall against me, trusting me completely, and I carried her out of that fucking house without looking back.

*

Now, back in the waiting room, Johnny was sat to my right. Two empty chairs between us.

"You alright, lad?" he asked finally, voice low, almost casual, but I could hear the caution in it.

I didn't answer. Couldn't, really. My jaw was locked, hands shoved deep in my pockets so I wouldn't start pacing the floor like a lunatic.

"None of ye have to be here, you know," I muttered after a while, staring straight ahead at the scuffed lino tiles like they were suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world.

Johnny huffed, leaned back in the seat like he was settling in for the night. "Well, you're not getting rid of us anytime soon, and Claire'll give you a right piece of her mind if you even try."

I didn't have the energy to argue, so the silence crept back in, thick and uncomfortable. Every time the double doors down the hall swung open, my head snapped up like a guard dog, heart going like a jackhammer, only to crash back down when it wasn't her.

"Ma's on her way," Johnny said after a bit.

"I thought she was in Dublin for Da's conference?"

He gave a one-shouldered shrug. "She hears her son's after getting into trouble with the Garda again, and she's not taking no for an answer."

I groaned, rubbing my face.

"She wouldn't even give me time to explain, so she's probably assumed the worst," Johnny went on, giving me that look. That particular older-brother look that translated perfectly into, Don't be a gobshite, Rudy — she probably thinks you've OD'd again.

I shot him a glare. "I don't give a shite what Ma thinks, Johnny. I care that no one's letting me into that fucking room." My voice came out louder than I meant it to, but I didn't care. "What if she's in there lying awake, scared out of her mind because no one's there with her?"

Johnny exhaled slowly, scratching the side of his neck. "I'll go try the front desk again. The receptionist seems to like me," he murmured, pushing himself up with a groan and sauntering off like he had all the time in the world.

The second he was gone, the waiting room seemed twice as loud — the buzz of the lights, the distant clatter of a trolley somewhere down the hall, the ticking of the clock above the vending machine. All of it pressing in, making it harder to breathe.

It was fucking insane, the way I felt about this girl. Absolutely off-the-walls insane that I barely knew her and yet couldn't get her out of my head. And now, with all of this being my fault, I felt this sick, unshakable obligation to make sure she was okay.

I was dynamite in her world — the type you don't keep in the house if you want it standing — but I still needed to see her, needed to know she was breathing, that she wasn't in there thinking no one gave a damn. And then... if she asked me to, I'd disappear from her life without another word.

Just then, a woman in smart navy slacks and a cream blouse, clipboard in hand, crossed right in front of me, the sharp scent of her perfume cutting through the hospital's antiseptic tang. She pushed through the double doors to Shaylee's ward with another doctor in tow.

I craned my neck, trying to catch a glimpse inside, but they swung shut too quick — two heartbeats, and she was gone again.

When she re-emerged twenty minutes later the others were configured beside me. Claire now had tore into a bag of Tayto salt and vinegar crisps, holding them half out like a peace offering for Gibsie—who, of course, was helping himself in greedy handfuls without an ounce of shame.

The air was tense enough to cut, when the woman and the doctor stopped just outside the big double doors that lead to the wards.

"I'll be back in about an hour," she murmured to him, her clipboard hugged tight to her chest. "Please notify me if she's up before then."

"Of course," he replied with a curt nod, before disappearing back inside.

The woman turned to leave, but I was already on my feet, heart thumping, every nerve ending pulling me forward. "Excuse me, ma'am," I called, chasing after her before I lost the nerve.

She stopped, her heels clicking against the linoleum as she turned to face me with an expectant lift of her brow. "Can I help you, love?"

She wasn't old—early thirties, maybe—blonde hair twisted into a neat bun, suit jacket cinched at the waist, professional to the bone. Her name tag glinted under the harsh light: Kaylee Foster, Edel House. That name pricked at something in my brain—an emergency residential place for women and children, if I remembered right. It was a shot in the dark, but Jesus, I prayed she'd just come from Shaylee's room.

"Are you... are you here for Shaylee Murphy?" I asked.

Her expression tightened, lips pressing together. "And how would you know Miss Murphy?"

I scratched at the back of my neck, suddenly hyperaware of the three eejits lined up on the chairs behind me like backup dancers. "She's a... uh, friend of mine." My throat caught, so I threw my arm out, gesturing to the others. "Ours. We're all friends of hers."

The woman's face softened, a flicker of sympathy breaking through the professional wall.

"Look," I said, desperation bleeding through before I could stop it, "I'm assuming you just went in to see her. We don't care who you are or what the fuck your job title is—just, please. Tell us if she's okay. Anything."

She hesitated, her eyes bouncing between me and the lot of us. "I really shouldn't be telling you anything unless you're immediate family."

"Yeah, and we've heard that a million times today," I shot back, heat rising in my chest. "But for Christ's sake, help a guy out—we're dying out here."

Her forehead creased, like she was warring with herself, a proper moral tug of war going on in her head. Finally, she exhaled. "She's okay."

The breath whooshed out of me before I could even register it. Beside me, Johnny sank into the chair with relief, and Claire actually dropped her crisps in her lap before flinging herself at Gibsie, hugging him like she might burst if she didn't.

"She's in stable condition," Kaylee went on, her tone softening further, "a few minor injuries to her lower back. She'll be sore for a few days, but nothing permanent. The doctors put her under an anaesthetic, so she's out cold at the moment."

"Stable," I repeated under my breath, the word anchoring me. "That's... that's good. That's really good."

Claire stepped up beside me, chin jutting forward. "So can we see her then? When she wakes up at least?"

The woman tilted her head, lips pulling in. "I really shouldn't—"

I glanced back at her name tag again, letting the words spill before I thought better of it. "Look, Kaylee. I'm guessing you're a social worker or something along those lines. So you've probably realised by now there's no immediate family here for Shaylee. God knows if her dad's even going to be okay, and fuck knows where her mother is. It's a mess—completely fucking messed up. And you lot keeping us out? That's worse. She's stable, she's going to be fine, and she's probably terrified in there on her own. Either let us in or I swear to God, I'll find a way through that door myself."

The words came out rough, fast, like I'd been holding them in my chest for hours. I didn't mean it to come out as a threat but it sure as hell sounded like one.

"What he said," Gibsie chimed in immediately, nodding along like my hype man. Then he tacked on, "Also—you look lovely today, ma'am."

Kaylee gave him the driest look I'd ever seen before sighing, the fight leaving her shoulders. "Fine. But only one of you. For now. I'll be in enough trouble as it is—I don't make the rules here."

"Thank you," I said, voice low but packed with sincerity.

She nodded, scanning the four of us like she expected bloodshed if we didn't decide quick.

"I'll go," Claire piped up immediately, already stepping forward.

Gibsie caught her by the elbow, tugging her back, then looked from her to me pointedly.

Claire held her hands up, "or Rudy will- totally fine"

But Kaylee was already swiping her keycard, the soft beep echoing as the heavy doors clicked open. She gave me a look, the kind that warned me not to push my luck, and I stepped through before anyone else could argue.

Chapter Text

The keys rattled in the door and I froze. It was late—too early for Ma to be home on a Friday. Fridays were party nights. She never came back this soon. I could hear her laugh already, all loud and fizzy like bubbles in a can, and then a man's voice joined in. Both of them stumbling, bumping into the doorframe, giggling like eejits. My stomach dropped. Something didn't feel right.

I slid out of bed, toes curling against the cold wood, trying not to make the floorboards creak. My door was open a crack, just enough for me to see. Ma was pressed up against the wall by the door, her lipstick smudged, her hair falling into her face. A man had his arms around her, his mouth stuck to hers. His hands moved too much, trying to go places they shouldn't. She batted him away, laughing still, like it was all a joke. I didn't like it. My chest felt tight. I pushed my door wider.

"Ma?" My voice came out tiny.

Her head whipped around. Her eyes were shiny, wide. The man turned too, grinning like he already knew me.

"Why aren't you in bed, doll?" Ma slurred, her voice wobbling.

I shrugged, eyes on him. He smiled right at me, all teeth. My skin prickled. I narrowed my eyes back at him, but he just chuckled, like it was funny.

"And who's this then, Danny?" he asked, looking at her like he knew her better than he should.

Only Dad called her Danny. Hearing it from him made me feel sick.

"This is my daughter, Shaylee," Ma muttered, straightening her dress. "Doll, this is my friend Gary."

"Hello, love," Gary said, his grin sticking. His eyes dragged over me too long. "You made a pretty one, Danny. She's gonna grow up to be something."

My insides twisted. I didn't like how he said it. Like I was already his to look at.

"Oh, stop it," Ma laughed, shoving him lightly.

He stretched his hand out to me, palm open, waiting. The smile stayed on his face, but his eyes were sharper. I didn't take it. I stayed still, arms tight at my sides.

"She's tired," Ma said quickly. "Ignore her. Go on, love, back to bed."

I obeyed. Walked back without a word. Shut my door. Climbed under the covers. Pulled the pillow over my head until my ears buzzed. But it didn't block everything out. I could still hear them through the wall, voices muffled, the bed springs squeaking. I was nine. Not stupid. And I got the feeling, a feeling I never got with any of ma's boyfriends, that this was the man I'd be seeing a whole lot more of.

And it made my stomach churn.

*

The sharp, sterile smell of antiseptic was the first thing that hit me. It clung to the back of my throat, mixed with something chemical—anesthetic maybe—and it made my stomach turn. My eyes cracked open, heavy and sore, only for the blinding fluorescent light above me to stab through my skull. Everything was blurry, like the room was shifting in and out of focus. My body ached all over, but there was a sharp, burning throb in my lower back that made me wince the second I tried to move.

I blinked, again and again, but the ringing in my ears drowned out everything else—until a voice cut through.

"Shaylee?"

That voice. Low, careful, familiar.

I turned my head sluggishly, squinting to the left. A dark shape sat slouched in a chair, and my brain scrambled, panicked, trying to match the sound with the shadow. I tried to sit up, stubborn instinct kicking in, but my muscles screamed at me and a groan slipped out.

"Hey, hey—easy now." The voice was closer, steady. Warm fingers brushed against the side of my neck, gently guiding me back down onto the pillow. "That's it. Lie back, you're grand."

The touch startled me. Grounded me. My breathing slowed enough that the blur began to sharpen. White walls. A metal IV pole. Machines humming softly. A hospital.

My chest constricted, panic building quick, fast, overwhelming. "Where...where am I?" My voice was hoarse, scratchy, my throat dry like sandpaper. I knew where I was, of course I did, but the words tumbled out anyway, half-plea, half-denial - it felt appropraite to ask mystery man anyway.

Except it wasn't a mystery man.

"You're in the hospital." The voice again. I turned properly this time, and my breath caught and I realised.

Rudy.

Hunched forward in the chair beside my bed, elbows on his knees, hand still resting on the pillow close enough that his fingers brushed the loose hair at my neck. His dark eyes locked on mine, serious, guarded, but softer than I'd ever seen them.

My stomach flipped violently, and not just from the drugs. What the fuck was Rudy Kavanagh doing here?

"You gave everyone a fright." His tone dropped lower, rough, like he was holding back more than he was letting me see. "They had to run some tests, but you're okay. You're safe now."

Safe. The word made me recoil, because suddenly memory came crashing back, clear and vicious. My father's body sprawled under Gary's fists. My own scream. Launching myself forward, trying to drag Gary off him, the slam of my back against something hard, the crack of pain—and then nothing.

Dad.

"My—my dad." My voice broke, frantic, breathless. "Where's my da? Is he—"

Rudy's whole expression changed in an instant. His jaw tightened, his mouth pressing into a line, and his eyes flickered away before they came back to me. Controlled. Careful. "...We don't know yet. The doctors won't tell us anything."

"What?" My chest constricted tighter. "What do you mean you don't know? Who's 'we'? Why won't they tell you?"

I tried to push myself up again, desperate, ignoring the pain, ignoring him.

"Shay—" His hand moved, not forceful, just steady as it pressed to my shoulder. "Lie back down, you'll hurt yourself."

"Get off me! I need to find him!" The words tore out of me, sharp but weak, breaking more like a cry.

"Shaylee—hey—" His voice rose with mine, but not in anger, more in desperation.

"Where is he? Where's my da?"

"Shaylee!"

The sound of my name snapped in the air, and then he was moving, climbing half onto the bed in one fluid motion, bracing himself so carefully beside me. His arms slid around me, solid and unshakable, his chest against my shoulder. He avoided the bandaged side of my back like he already knew exactly where I hurt, holding me in a way that made it impossible to fight him without breaking apart completely.

And I broke.

My head fell against his chest, the steady thump of his heart under my ear, his chin resting gently on my hair. My fists balled into his shirt, tugging, clawing, anything to keep me anchored while sobs ripped through my throat.

"Shh," he murmured into my hair, voice husky, almost breaking itself. "It's okay. I've got you. Just let it out, Shay. Let it all out."

I couldn't remember the last time someone had held me like that—like I was fragile, but worth holding anyway. He was so big, so broad, and yet his touch was careful, gentle, protective. Like if he squeezed too hard, I'd splinter in his arms.

Time blurred. I didn't know how long we stayed like that—me gasping, him steadying. My sobs faded eventually into hiccups, my breathing falling into rhythm with his.

"How long was I asleep?" My voice cracked when I finally whispered it.

"About nine hours." His hand shifted slightly on my arm, like he was reassuring himself I was still there.

Nine hours. Jesus.

"Rudy."

He hummed in response, chest vibrating under my cheek.

"Can you...can you please find my dad?"

The air changed. He exhaled slowly, heavily. "Shay...I don't think I should leave you right now."

"Please." My voice wavered, but my eyes lifted, finding his. And that was the dangerous part—the way he looked back at me, like saying no wasn't an option. Like he already knew he'd do whatever I asked, even if it tore him in two.

"I can't believe everything's fine unless I know he is."

He stared at me, jaw tight, something raw flickering across his face. Then he gave a small, reluctant nod. "...Okay. But I'm getting Claire to sit with you first."

"Claire?" My brow furrowed.

"Yeah." His voice softened, almost awkward. "She's, uh, asleep outside. Johnny and Gibsie were here too, but they headed off once we knew you were out of danger."

The thought of them all here—for me—made my throat close up again. I didn't know if I'd ever felt so utterly terrified and so strangely cared for at the same time.

Rudy offered me the faintest attempt at a smile—sad, tired, but achingly sincere—before he stood, the warmth of his arms leaving me cold. He hesitated at the doorway, glancing back once, like he wasn't sure if he should actually walk away.

But he did.

"Holy shit, Shaylee!"

Barely seconds later Claire came barrelling through the door like a hurricane, practically launching herself onto the hospital bed. Her arms wrapped around me before I could even blink, her bony elbows digging into my ribs.

"Hi—okay—ow," I wheezed, half-smothered under her. "You're squeezing a little hard there, Claire."

She froze, eyes widening as she scrambled back like she'd just been caught doing something illegal. "Oh my god, I'm sorry!" she gasped, fumbling to sit properly on the edge of the bed. "I forgot—you must be sore. How's your back? Is it—?"

"Just fine until about a second ago when a hurricane hit and destroyed my spine" I cut her off, groaning as I rubbed at my side

She rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might actually pop out of her head.

I laughed weakly, even though the muscles in my stomach ached when I did.

She settled herself beside me, cross-legged on the stiff hospital mattress, and just... stared. Her big brown eyes, unblinking, pinned to me like she was trying to figure out whether I was going to fall apart or vanish into thin air.

"You people have got to stop doing that," I said, squirming under the weight of her gaze.

"Doing what?"

"Looking at me like that." I scrunched up my face, trying to lighten it with a smile I didn't feel. "Claire, I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" she asked softly, her brows knitting together.

"Yes, I'm sure." I forced the words out quickly, before my voice could betray me. My throat tightened as I added, "I just... I need to know—" I had to swallow hard before I could finish. "How my dad is."

Her expression flickered, a hint of sympathy she tried to disguise behind a nod. "I don't think you need to worry about that," she said, her tone firm, reassuring. "Lover boy ran out of here and straight to the front desk. He won't be stopping until he gets something."

I blinked at her, my eyebrows shooting up at the casual drop of lover boy. But also flooded with a sense of hope. If dad was dead surely I wouldn't be speaking to Claire right now. It would be a row of pity faced doctors with shiny clipboards.

"You look a bit pale, Shay," Claire added, tilting her head. "Are you sure you're feeling okay?"

"Okay claire, I might not be peachy but I have been passed out for the last nine hours so-" I reasoned.

I glared at her until she broke first, sighing. "Fine. But I do have bronzer in my bag," she said, completely serious. "I'll fix you up before you-know-who comes back."

I frowned. "What are you even trying to say? Rudy's not Voldemort. I don't even know why he's here."

"Sure you don't," she said dryly, arching an eyebrow. "You know he sat there for nine hours, waiting. For you. But yeah, totally. He'd do that for some random lad down the pub, no question."

I groaned, rolling my eyes so hard they almost hurt.

This was Claire's magical way of cheering me up—making me so irritated I forgot how upset I was in the first place. And I hated that it was working. I'd only been awake for ten minutes, maybe less, and I should've been in a state. Crying, panicking, clawing at the sheets with worry about Dad. But instead, here I was, fighting a smile because of her bloody antics.

"You stayed for nine hours too," I pointed out.

"That's because I'm your best friend," she shot back instantly. "And when Gerard couldn't keep his trap shut about what happened, there wasn't a chance in hell I was staying away. I love you."

My lips twitched against my will. "I love you too."

"Great," she said with a satisfied nod. "Now just say that to Rudy when he comes back and we'll be peachy."

"Claire!" I hissed.

She burst out laughing, and I couldn't help joining in, the sound shaky but real.

The knock at the door cut us both off, the laughter still bubbling in my chest when the door opened.

A woman stepped in—tall, poised, her blonde hair swept into a bun so tight it probably gave her a migraine. She was dressed in business attire that screamed authority, a file clutched neatly in one hand.

Her smile was warm, but it didn't reach her sharp eyes. "Lovely to see you in high spirits," she said smoothly. "I hope I'm not interrupting. I'm your social worker, Kaylee Foster."

"Shaylee... meet Kaylee," Claire announced with a grin, like she thought the rhyme was the most fascinating thing in the world. "Isn't that cool?"

My own smile faltered, the weight of the words sinking in.

Why did I need a social worker?

Chapter Text

I planted both hands on the reception desk, leaning in close enough to catch the woman's perfume over the stench of bleach.

"Look, I'm not asking anymore," I bit out, voice low, clipped. "I'm telling ya—"

"Look, kid—"

Kid. I didn't look like a kid and I did not want to be treated like one just because I had the bollocks to ask for something.

"Don't kid me," I snapped, heat burning up my neck. "For fuck's sake, there's a sixteen-year-old girl in here half out of her mind, not knowing if her father's alive or dead. Do you understand that?"

"Mr. Kavanagh," she sighed, all polished patience, like she'd rehearsed it a thousand times, "I sympathise with your situation."

"Yeah, it sure looks like it." I dragged a hand over my face, staring at the floor so I didn't launch myself across the counter. Ten minutes I'd been standing here. Ten minutes of her scrolling through that computer, not so much as blinking in my direction.

"But sincerely, there is nothing I can do."

"Oh yeah?" My laugh came out sharp, humourless. I jabbed a finger at the monitor. "Because that computer you've been mindlessly scrolling through for the past ten minutes doesn't have information on every patient checked into this building, does it?"

Her lips pinched tighter, eyes flicking back to the screen. I dropped my voice, trying one last angle, the threadbare scrap of calm I had left.

"Look, I get it. It's not your place, and it's not your job to make exceptions. But I can't walk back in there and face that girl without something—without being able to tell her her da's still breathing. If you won't tell me, then I swear to God I'll wander every corridor in this hospital until I find him myself."

That made her look at me properly for the first time. No fake smile. No clipped professionalism. Just eyes narrowing like she was trying to work out if I meant it.

"What was his name?" she asked, flat.

Relief surged through me so fast I almost swayed. I exhaled hard. "David Murphy."

"And how long ago do you suppose he came in?"

"Um—" I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to think through the haze of adrenaline. "Around nine hours. Maybe reaching ten. So can you tell me if he's okay?"

She tapped a few keys, eyes darting over the screen, lips moving slightly as she read. The silence stretched, my chest tightening with every second.

Finally, she spoke. "Mr. Murphy is on file for stability. Slight injury to the head. He's under a medically induced anaesthetic while they complete some tests and scans. But the notes..." she squinted closer, "the notes say he's not one to be worried about."

The breath whooshed out of me, my shoulders sagging against the counter. "Thank you," I muttered, voice rougher than I meant it to be. "Seriously. Thank you."

She gave me a brisk nod, already looking back at the screen. I opened my mouth, thought about pushing my luck—then saw the daggers she shot me without even lifting her head.

"You know what," I muttered instead, shaking my head. "Forget it. I just... I hope that man's rotting in hell."

She didn't flinch. Didn't say a word. Just kept typing.

I shoved off the counter and stalked back down the corridor, my boots squeaking against the polished tiles. By the time I reached Shaylee's room, the social worker from earlier was just stepping out, clipboard tucked under her arm.

"You again," she said, giving me a smile that was far too bright for a place like this.

"Everything alright?" I asked, nodding to the closed door behind her.

"Yes. We had a little chat, but I can tell she's tired. The anaesthetic is wearing off and so's the state of shock. What's replacing it now is just sheer exhaustion. Her doctor's keeping her overnight—no place to go, and they want to keep checking up on her." She adjusted her clipboard, sighing. "I'll need to revisit her tomorrow. Pass on some information."

"About her mother," I said, nodding at the Edel House badge pinned to her jacket.

"Yes."

"I could pass it on," I offered quickly, shrugging like it was nothing. "But hey—I'm not fighting for it. She hasn't asked me to."

Her brows lifted. "You'd do a lot for that girl, wouldn't you?"

I rubbed the back of my neck again, heat crawling into my ears. "I just want to make sure she comes out of this alright, is all."

"Mm." The social worker's eyes softened, like she was seeing straight through me. "Alright, well—for confidentiality, I can only be vague"

*

A/N: Sorry, only a short one tonight! This chapter took me embarrassingly longer than expected to figure out, so I've kept it simple and sweet.

Update: For anyone that saw the typo of Mr. Lynch instead of Mr. Murphy I was tired last night okay? And I'm also rereading b13 again so you can see where I'd get confused lmao

Chapter Text

I woke on my side with my arm numb beneath my cheek and the red hand on the cheap wall clock thudding past 4:30 a.m. The room was dim, just the strip light over the sink on, the blind half-down so the car park lamps threw a soft orange line across the floor. My mouth felt like cotton. My lower back ached—deep and nagging, like a bruise under the bone—and the cannula taped to my wrist tugged when I moved.

Kaylee—my "social worker," apparently—had said she'd be back in the morning. She'd stood where the foot of my bed was, took me in like she was taking a photo in her mind, and told me two things: I had a good set of friends behind me, and my da was going to be okay. I'd believed her because I needed to.

I rolled to the other side, slow and careful, and that's when I heard it—the soft, even sound of someone breathing. I blinked into the dull light and found him.

Rudy was folded into the hospital armchair like it was built to punish him, head tipped forward, arms crossed tight over his chest. His hoodie was rumpled to the elbows, veins visible along the backs of his hands. The sight dragged a smile out of me I hadn't known I had. He looked... peaceful. It didn't make sense on him—the mouth made for smart remarks gone slack in sleep, the lashes ridiculous against the bruised half-moons under his eyes. He was still here. Still sat with me. Still waiting.

My chest gave a small, unfamiliar pang. I'd felt the spark of him before—when his mouth was set and angry, when he was all sharp lines and heat—but this was different. He was pretty, which I resented noticing; not just stupid hot. Pretty in the way his hair fell into a messy fringe over his brow, in the way his breath evened out his shoulders like a tide. And for the first time in longer than I wanted to admit, I felt... looked after. Wanted, maybe.

He twitched like the chair had pinched him, inhaled, blinked, blinked again. His gaze found mine and stuck there. He cleared his throat, straightening, rubbing a hand over his face like he had to put himself back together before he spoke.

"Hey," he said, voice low and rough from sleep. "How're you feeling?"

I did a quick stocktake because he looked like he'd actually listen. "Nothing really hurts," I lied a bit, then amended, "Just a little sore."

His mouth tipped at the corner. "That's good, Shaylee. That's really good."

"Yeah?" I couldn't help checking with him, like he was the authority now.

"Yeah."

Silence stretched, but it wasn't empty. My smile—God help me—stayed where it was. He looked at it like he was trying to solve it. His eyes moved over my face and went a little unfocused, like he'd forgotten what he'd been about to say.

"Why are you still here?" I asked, quiet, no edge to it. I honestly wanted to know.

He looked unsure of the answer. "I, uh... didn't want you waking up alone. Claire's ma collected her, and—" He lifted a shoulder, suddenly a boy again. "—I figured I'd sit."

I nodded, heartbeat doing a funny trip. "Is that okay?" he asked, like he'd leave if I told him to.

"Yeah," I said. "It's okay."

I opened my mouth, closed it. The thought was too big and dumb to ignore. Da. Kaylee had said he was okay, but time was slippery in hospitals and anything could change when your back was turned.

"He's alright," Rudy said before I could get the question out. "He's gonna be grand. Don't go twisting yourself up."

Air left me in a shaky breath I tried to make casual. I nodded, jaw tight so I wouldn't cry. "Gary?" I asked, small, because saying his name felt like tempting something back in.

Rudy's face soured like he'd bitten into something bad. "In custody."

"Good." The word came out flat, but relief swelled anyway, ugly and hot, clogging my throat until my eyes went stingy. I looked away and he softened, the tension falling out of his shoulders.

"He can't hurt you now... or your family," he said, leaning forward in the chair like he needed to be closer. "I won't let anything like that happen to you. Not again. Okay?"

"Why are you being so nice to me?" The question slipped out before I could catch it. It sounded pathetic in the air, and I wanted to haul it back by the tail.

He didn't answer straight away. His gaze flicked to my IV, then back to my mouth, and for a second I thought he was going to say something ridiculous that would make me cry harder. Instead, he said, "Because I think you'd do the same for me."

My heart jumped against my ribs. He was right. I would. He looked like he wished he hadn't said it, though, like he'd handed me something too honest. The air went a bit taut.

"Thank you," I said into it. "For staying. This isn't exactly a desirable Tuesday night. Or Wednesday morning, I guess."

He shook his head. "You don't need to thank me, Shay-Shaylee."

The nickname tugged at something tender. "I really do," I whispered. "You saved me. I keep thinking—if you hadn't walked in—what he could have done in those seconds before..." I cut myself off. Before the world fell back in.

He stared at his hands like they were bloody. "I should've been there earlier. I shouldn't have left you with him."

"Hey," I said, sharper than I meant. "You couldn't have known. I told you to leave."

"There were signs," he muttered. "I shouldn't have listened."

I swallowed. I would never tell him the truth of what set Gary off. I wouldn't lay that at Rudy's feet, not when he'd carry it like penance. "Well, I don't blame you, Rudy Kavanagh," I said, lifting my chin. "So don't be an eejit and blame yourself."

His eyebrows pulled together, but he smiled. "An eejit, am I?"

"Pity yourself for another second and I'll promote you to gobshite."

He huffed a laugh, low and genuine.

"What?"

He smirked. "Nothing.. I just- love it when you swear"

The word love hung between us like a live wire. I arched a brow. "Do you now? Why's that?"

"I just—" He leaned in, elbows on his knees. "—never expect it."

"Because I'm so innocent?" I snorted.

He set his jaw, fighting a grin. "You never cease to surprise me."

"Yeah, well, there's way more where that came from."

I eased back into the pillow, chasing a place that didn't pull at the ache in my spine. For a while we just breathed. I could feel him watching me think.

"What are you thinking?" he asked finally.

"I don't want to say it aloud," I said, and immediately felt stupid. I was thinking about my ma. About where she lay in all of these. But for some reason it felt wrong to.. want to care.

"Okay." No pressure. Just that.

"It's not that I don't want to ask," I tried again. "I just... don't know if I should care."

Something shifted in his face, like he'd solved me. "About your ma?"

I pressed my tongue to the back of my teeth. "You wouldn't... you wouldn't know anything, would you?"

"Actually, yeah," he said, slow, careful. "Yeah, I do."

He opened his mouth, and panic surged. "Wait—don't tell me." He stilled. I swallowed. "I don't know if I want to know."

He nodded like he understood the shape of that. "Okay."

I bit my lip. "Well—"

"I could give you a brief overview?" Rudy offered. "On your terms."

I exhaled through my nose. "Okay."

"Before I do—" He glanced at my face, gauging. "—I think you should know it was your ma who called the Guards once she got outside."

That, I didn't know. Something in me bucked at the information—hurt, hope, anger—messy. "Is that meant to make me pity her?" I asked, the bite in my voice not aimed at him. "She left us in there."

"No," he said quickly. "It's not an excuse. I just thought you'd want to know."

I felt instantly bad for snapping. "You're right. Thank you."

He nodded once, like it was fact, not opinion. "Your ma's safe. She's in Edel House accommodation."

I tested the words on my tongue, uncertain they'd even fit. "Away from Gary."

"Yeah." His eyes flicked to mine, cautious. "It's meant to be good for getting stability. Especially for young women. Single mothers."

The word mothers hit harder than it should have. My chest tightened, confusion sliding over me slow as fog. I stared at him, but he was still talking, words I couldn't quite catch.

"Hopefully she'll get back on her feet with their support, especially with the twins—"

"What?" My voice cut sharp, more wire than sound. "Twins?"

Rudy blinked like he'd stepped in it. "Yeah—the social worker—ah, fuck."

He seemed to realise the situation as it dawned over my face. Suddenly I couldn't look at him anymore.

I felt sick to my stomach.

What did he mean twins?

His hand scrubbed over his mouth, guilt darkening his face. "Shaylee, I shouldn't have—"

"No, it's—" The lie lodged in my throat. It wasn't okay. Not even close. My chest felt hollow, thudding like a drum with no skin. "How... how old?"

"Kaylee said eighteen months. Or thereabouts."

Eighteen months. The number hung in the air, heavy as wet concrete. Babies. Real children with real ages. I fixed my eyes on a crack in the paint on the wall, following the jagged line until it blurred and wobbled. My breathing staggered out in uneven gasps, too thin to hold me upright.

The room shifted sideways, a tilt that had me gripping the rail. "Can I have a minute?" I whispered, my voice breaking in half.

"Shay—" He reached out instinctively, then pulled his hand back like it might burn me, his fist clenching shut in midair. His face was stricken, helpless. "I'm so fucking sorry. I had no idea."

"Please, Rudy." I didn't lift my head. "Just a minute."

The hesitation in him was visible, like leaving would skin him alive. But he stood anyway, slow as if every step cost him, and slipped out the door, closing it soft behind him.

The moment he was gone, I crumpled. My hand clamped over my mouth, but the sobs tore free, harsh and wet, bursting up from somewhere deeper than I wanted to know existed. She'd had babies. My mother. She'd carried them and birthed them and raised them eighteen months without me knowing. I hadn't been there to keep them safe. I hadn't held them, hadn't even been told their names. I'd just been somewhere else, existing elsewhere whilst they were stuck with that monster.

Gary had clearly gotten abusive to my mother. God knows what he did to those poor children. And I wasn't there to protect them.

The grief twisted, hot and sour, until it crawled up my throat. My stomach heaved. I rolled onto my side, clutching at the rail, retching out, onto the cold hospital floor.

The door banged open. Footsteps. "Shaylee—fuck." His voice was ragged, panicked, and then he was there. The bed dipped as Rudy sat behind me, his hand sweeping my hair off my face in one smooth motion, gathering it at the nape of my neck. His other palm pressed steady against my shoulder, careful not to touch where it hurt. His body braced behind mine, warm and solid, curved to match the trembling curve of me.

"I've got you, love. I've got you."

I didn't even have the time to register the nickname until I wrenched again. "Call... bell," I gasped between dry heaves, tears spilling hot down my face.

He was already reaching, slamming his thumb on the button. "Nurse—sorry—she's after getting sick," he called out, voice raw with an apology he didn't owe, like he believed he'd caused all of it.

The nurse arrived in a blur of blue scrubs, efficient and soft at the same time. "Alright, pet," she soothed, sliding a kidney dish into my hands, her tone gentle as blankets. "Nausea's common after sedation—and stress."

Stress. The understatement of the century.

She rubbed a firm circle between my shoulder blades, brisk but comforting, the way you'd settle a child. "Keep your head to the side for me, that's it."

Rudy stayed close, pressed to my back without smothering, smelling of cotton and him, his breath hot against my temple. He murmured nonsense, words I didn't need to catch. His hands—one cradling my hair, the other steady on my arm—held me together when I was certain I'd split apart.

When it passed, the nurse wiped my mouth gently with a cool gauze, like I was fragile glass. She swapped the basin and checked the IV in my wrist. "I'm going to push a little anti-sickness through here, love. Might sting for a second."

I nodded, eyes shut, teeth gritted. The sting was nothing compared to the storm in my gut. Slowly, mercifully, the nausea ebbed, retreating like the tide.

She clipped a pulse ox onto my finger, checked the monitor, then handed a disposable cup with a straw to Rudy. He held it steady against my lips, waiting as I took two shaky sips, not rushing me, not once looking away.

"Vitals are fine," the nurse assured. "Small sips only. Ring again if she feels off."

Rudy nodded quickly. "We will." The we rolled off his tongue like a promise, and I hated how safe it sounded.

The nurse left, closing the door behind her. Quiet fell heavy, thick, the kind that makes you aware of every breath in your body.

"I'm sorry," Rudy said instantly, crouching closer, his face still raw with guilt. "I never should've—Christ, Shay, if I'd known—"

"You didn't," I whispered, dragging the heel of my hand across my tear-stained cheeks. My voice shook, but it didn't break. "It's not on you."

He eased into the chair again, dragging it close until his knees brushed the mattress. "Do you want me to shut up, or d'you want me to talk?"

"Just... stay." My throat hurt with the plea. "Please."

He nodded. His chair squealed as he dragged it that last inch, forearms folded on the rail. His hand found my wrist gently, right where the pulse ox glowed red, tracing lazy circles on my skin with his thumb. He didn't grip. Didn't press. Just grounded me with that steady rhythm, like he was timing his breath to mine.

The silence held. My mind didn't. It crowded with images I couldn't stop: two toddlers with my mother's eyes. Gary's fists. Da's laugh the last time he'd swung me around the kitchen. The guilt. The fear. And anchoring me against all of it, Rudy's thumb on my wrist, calm, steady, mine.

I shifted, wincing, and his sharp eyes clocked it immediately. Before I could say a word, he was adjusting the bed controls, sliding his hand behind the pillow to lift it just enough to ease the pull on my back. Every movement was measured, gentle. This was the same boy who'd smashed a grown man into a counter, and he was folding hospital cotton like it was fragile lace.

"Better?" he asked.

"Yeah." My voice was small, but it was true.

He shrugged out of his hoodie, shoulders broad, muscles moving under the soft stretch of fabric, and laid it over me like it was nothing. It smelled of him—laundry powder, warmth, safety. The most stupidly comforting thing I'd ever felt.

"You should sleep," he said, his voice scratchy with the whisper he kept it at, careful not to break the quiet.

"You should go home," I countered automatically, even though every nerve in me wanted the opposite.

His head tilted, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. "You want me to?"

I stared at that mouth and told the truth. "No."

"Then I'm not going anywhere."

His thumb kept tracing that lazy rhythm against my skin, not demanding, not possessive—just there. The red hand on the clock ticked forward, my breath settled into something even, and the panic crawled back into the corner it belonged.

When sleep finally dragged me under, it was with his hoodie warm on my shoulders and his touch steady on my wrist, counting the seconds until later that morning.

Chapter Text

It was nearly a week since the hospital, and somehow life had gone back to normal — or at least, as close to normal as things ever got around here. I was back in school, pretending like I gave a shite about classes, while Shaylee was still holed up at Claire's house. At least she'd been spending nights there, every spare second she was in the hospital with her old fella, but he'd finally woken up Sunday night. Today was Monday, a transition period for her I guess but tomorrow she'd be coming back.

Tomorrow.

I couldn't stop thinking about it, even though I knew I shouldn't. The thought of her walking back through the doors of Tommen with every gobshite in the building waiting to get a look at her made my stomach tighten in a way I didn't care to examine too closely. People didn't know how to mind their own business, and if there was one thing Shaylee Murphy didn't need, it was the full student body treating her life like it was the latest RTÉ drama.

That lunchtime I found myself at the rugby table, even though I usually avoided the place unless Johnny dragged me. But it felt necessary today, like I needed to keep an ear on things. The dynamic had shifted while Shaylee was gone. Gibsie and Claire were surgically attached at this stage, always on top of each other and talking at a hundred miles an hour, while Shannon and Johnny were... whatever they were. She was still shy as anything, but my brother had her practically tucked under his arm like he was her personal guard dog.

Lizzie was perched on Pierce's lap, giggling like she was auditioning for a shampoo ad, while Gibsie sat on the other side of Claire, balancing his chair on two legs and stuffing crisps into his mouth like it was an Olympic sport.

"So, who's actually heading up for Donegal?" Claire asked, looking around the table like she was about to pull out a clipboard.

"course," Johnny replied, giving Shannon a 'not so sly' look across the table. Her cheeks flushed a shade of pink.

"I'm there, be pretty shit match if i weren't" Gibsie added through a mouthful of crisps. "Provided my mother doesn't suddenly remember I exist and chain me to the radiator again."

Claire rolled her eyes. "I don't know if Shaylee's coming. She hasn't got anyone to sign off her permission slip."

"Surely they'd let that slide, wouldn't they?" Hughie cut in, leaning forward on his elbows. "With everything she's after going through?"

My jaw locked tight at that. The way everyone seemed to know her business already had my teeth grinding. Shaylee wouldn't want to come back to whispers and side-eyes, to people treating her like she was made of glass. She'd hate it.

"She'll be back tomorrow," Claire said then, softer this time.

"How is she?" Shannon asked sympathetically

"She's... she's doing okay. Her dad woke up, and that's the main thing."

A little wave of relief shot through me at that, though I kept my face blank. Claire didn't mention her mother, or the twins. Clearly she didn't know. Good. That wasn't hers to share.

"What actually happened to her again?" Lizzie asked, tilting her head like she was desperate for the gossip.

"Nothing that's any of your business," I cut in before anyone else could open their mouths.

The table went quiet. I could feel Johnny's eyes on me, the weight of them, but I kept going. "When she comes back tomorrow, this shite isn't going to cut it. If she wants to talk, she'll bring it up herself. Otherwise, you keep your mouths shut. Got it?"

"Christ almighty, Rudy," Gibsie said after a beat, smirking at me across the table. "Don't be getting your balls in a twist, lad."

"I'll twist your balls if you're not careful,"

"Don't threaten me with a good time," Gibsie shovelled some more crisps into his mouth.

"Jesus Christ," Claire muttered, smacking him on the arm. "You're vile."

"I'm honest," Gibsie grinned, leaning back on two chair legs again. "The rest of ye are just cowards, afraid to speak your truth. If Rudy wants to twist my balls, he should twist my balls."

"You're gonna get a twist off the floor when you land on your arse," Johnny drawled, eyeing the chair like he was already predicting Gibsie's inevitable fall.

"Ah, relax, Guard Dog," Gibsie shot back. "You'll pull something glaring at me like that."

Gibsie looked from Shannon to Johnny, who he seemed to be edging closer to, acting as though he were her own sheild.

She ducked her head, smiling into her lap, while Johnny scowled daggers across the table.

I couldn't stop the snort that escaped. "Guard Dog fits."

Johnny's eyes flicked to me, narrowing. "You want a smack too?"

"Wouldn't be the first time," I muttered, picking at the label of my water bottle.

That got a roar out of Hughie. "Christ above, ye Kavanaghs are feckin' feral."

"We're passionate," Johnny shot back.

"You're violent," Feely corrected, grinning ear to ear. "Difference."

The conversation turned then, Pierce rubbing Lizzie's arm while she giggled at something he whispered, Hughie and Feely debating whether Donegal was "worth the arseache of a bus journey," and Gibsie insisting that it was only a hardship if you weren't stocked with vodka in a Lucozade bottle.

"You'll be lucky to even get picked," Hughie pointed out, raising a brow. "You've missed more trainings than Feely's missed haircuts."

"Oi!" Feely snapped, running a defensive hand over his head.

"It's true," Hughie laughed.

"Feely hasn't missed a haircut in his life," Gibsie countered, dramatic as ever. "He's got a schedule. It's in the Bible."

"Shut up, you eejit," Feely grinned, chucking a chip at his head.

I shook my head, but the truth of Hughie's words sat heavy in my gut. I had been skipping trainings — hiding, if I was honest. Every time Twomey looked at me lately, I could see the impatience in his eyes. I was on thin ice, and we all knew it.

"Don't worry, lads," Gibsie cut back in, loud as anything. "Kav here'll save the day in Donegal. He's dying for a chance to redeem himself in front of Twomey. Man's been on his arse harder than my mother's been on mine to go to Mass."

I shot him a flat look. "Keep talking, Gibs. See what happens."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he grinned, leaning in closer to Claire, who gave him another shove with her elbow.

"Seriously though," Claire said then, fixing me with that sharp look of hers. "Are you actually showing up to training this week, Rudy? Because Twomey's not going to put up with your disappearing act forever. He'll cut you off the team, leadership or not."

"Leadership?" Lizzie perked up instantly, twisting in Pierce's lap. "You're going for captain?"

I grimaced. "No, not captain. Sports leader.. for the first years ya know"

"Oh that?" Lizzie snorted.

"Not embarrassing at all lad, jesus twomey must see somethin' in you" Hughie said.

"Yeah," Gibsie piped up, leaning forward with a smirk. "He sees a broody bastard who looks good shouting at people."

I rolled my eyes, "He's losing patience. Sports leadership or some bollocks. Says I'm on thin ice."

"Well, he's not wrong," Feely piped up. "If you don't sort your shite, we'll be slaughtered."

I didn't bother answering. They could say what they wanted, I'd still show up when I showed up. But a part of me knew they were right. Donegal wasn't a match we could stroll into blind, not if we wanted to keep any pride intact.

Big lunch stretched on ten minutes or so before she graced us with her presence.

Janae Lively in full swing, she swanned into the canteen like she owned the place, skirt rolled up to the point of suspension, shirt hanging open far enough to make every lad at the next table near snap their necks trying not to stare. Her hair was done to perfection, glossy and swinging as she tossed it over her shoulder, and her eyes scanned the room with that calculated laziness she'd perfected.

The sound around our table dimmed, just for a second, like we were all waiting for the storm to break.

And of course, she made a beeline for Stephen Deasy, sliding herself onto his lap as if she'd been doing it her whole life. He didn't even hesitate, the gowl, grinning like he'd won the Lotto while her tongue was already halfway down his throat.

"Christ above," Hughie muttered, turning back to his tray. "There goes my appetite."

I tried not to look. I really did. But her eyes kept flicking over, right through me, even as she kissed Deasy like she was auditioning for a porno.

"Ah here we go," Gibsie groaned, following my line of sight. "get a room will ya?"

"god gerard don't start" Claire hissed at him, though she was glaring too.

"I am being nice," Gibsie argued, loud enough for half the hall to hear. "I didn't call her Satan incarnate, did I? That's growth."

Lizzie stifled a laugh into Pierce's shoulder, and Johnny muttered something under his breath about wanting to knock Deasy's head off his shoulders.

Janae finally broke the kiss, making a big show of wiping her lip gloss with her thumb before letting her eyes wander lazily back to our table.

"No girlfriend today, Rudy?" she called sweetly, voice cutting through the chatter around us.

My jaw clenched so tight I thought my teeth might crack.

Claire's eyes widened, shooting me a look like don't bite.

"not today janae." I said flatly, though my voice came out harsher than intended. I didn't bother denying the 'girlfriend' comment, it was much more satisfying to watch her squirm at the thought.

"Ohhh, right. I forgot. The tragic damsel. Poor thing, hope she's not still crying into her pillow. Hospitals can be sooo draining, can't they?"

Something in my chest went hot, sharp.

"Watch it," I warned, my voice low.

Deasy chuckled like the bollocks he was. "Relax, Kavanagh. We're only having a bit of craic."

"Craic?" Gibsie shot back instantly, eyes wide with mock horror. "That wasn't craic, you donkey. That was a half-arsed attempt at being relevant. Sit down before you embarrass yourself further."

Deasy's face twisted, but Janae just laughed, tilting her head and keeping those eyes locked on me.

"You were always a bit touchy, Rudy." She smirked, then tilted her head in fake contemplation. "Not enough to keep your hands off of me though"

The table went stiff. Like, whole silence, forks hovering mid-air, lads suddenly very interested in their trays.

My jaw locked. Every muscle in me screamed to snap back, but before I could, Claire let out a sharp scoff.
"Jesus, Janae. Is there a day you don't wake up and decide to be an absolute wagon?"

That earned a few choked laughs from Hughie and Feely, though they tried to hide it behind their hands.

Janae's eyes cut to her, sharp and glittering. "Stay out of it, Princess Diaries. Nobody's talking to you."

Claire didn't even flinch. "Yeah, well, maybe someone should, because clearly no one at home bothered teaching you basic manners."

"Careful," Janae sing-songed, flicking her hair over her shoulder. "You might chip a nail trying to act tough."

And that's when Gibsie near vaulted forward, pointing at Janae like he'd been waiting for this moment.
"Oi, lively, if you've got to bite, go gnaw on Deasy's face some more. At least then you're only offending one person at a time."

Janae narrowed her eyes, lips curling. "You're pathetic, Gibsie. You've been in love with me since third year."

The lads howled. Gibsie clutched his chest in mock agony.
"Ahhh lads, she's cracked the code! That's it, boys. I've been exposed. Years of unrequited passion."

"Shut up, you absolute gowl," she spat, but her cheeks flushed, and it only spurred him on.

"Don't worry, love," Gibsie fired back, grin wicked. "There's plenty of lads queuing up for a turn at the 'Collins experience.' Though from what I hear, it's a short ride."

Janae scoffed, turning back to me like the whole exchange hadn't just ripped her ego to shreds. "You really trade me in for that pathetic little girl? What is she—your charity project? Your sad sob story of the year?"

Something in me snapped clean in half.

My chair screeched back as I stood, slow and deliberate. The whole table went silent again, eyes locked on me.

I leaned down, planting my hands flat on the table, close enough that she had to look right at me.
"You listen to me Jan" I said, voice low, steady, every word sharp as glass. "You don't get to say her name. You don't get to look her way. And you sure as fuck don't get to rewrite what happened between me and you. I didn't want you then, and I don't want you now. Get that through your thick skull before you embarrass yourself further."

Her mouth opened, closed, no words coming out.

I straightened, smirk tugging at my lip despite the fury buzzing in my chest. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got better things to do than listen to your desperate shite."

And with that, I sauntered off, leaving her sitting there red-faced while the lads erupted into low laughter and Gibsie shouted, "AND THAT, LADIES AND GENTS, IS HOW YOU HUMBLE A LIVELY!"

Chapter Text

It had been the longest week of my life. From Wednesday right through to Sunday night, I'd split my time between the chair beside Dad's hospital bed and Claire's bedroom. Her mam had been kind enough to let me stay nights, because the hospital didn't allow visitors outside of hours, and God knows I wasn't going back to that house. Not while he was still inside.

The hours I'd spent sitting there, just watching Dad, were endless. My brain wouldn't stop gnawing at me, dragging me down every possible rabbit hole. Guilt was the main one. Always there. He'd tell me I was being ridiculous if he could, and I knew he would too. He'd call me a daft article, tell me to wise up, but I couldn't help it. It was my fault he was even in that bed. My fault he was hooked up to machines, bruised and battered.

But — and here was the part that made me feel even worse — there was also relief.

Now that Gary was locked up, he couldn't get near us again. Couldn't hurt us. Couldn't lay a finger on my da. Couldn't destroy another night in that house.

But relief comes with responsibility, doesn't it? It sits in your chest and whispers, you're not done yet. And Rudy—God bless his stupid, reckless mouth—he'd been the one to hit me with the word that near took me out. One single word that had the nurse running in to sedate me, because my body had given up fighting it. Twins.

My mam had twins. Gary's twins. Two whole children I hadn't even known existed. Siblings I'd never met. I didn't even know their names. And all week, sitting beside my da, my mind had gone round and round in circles, dragging me back to them, to her.

When she came to my house with him that night, she'd wanted me to sit down and "catch up." A cosy mother-daughter chat like we hadn't gone years without speaking. She'd wanted to mention them then, I realised now. Two babies. Dear God, I prayed they weren't in the house. Dear God, I prayed they'd never seen the things I had, not in their eighteen short months on this earth.

I pressed the buttons on the vending machine — 888 — and the Yorkie clattered down. Dad's favourite. My fingers curled around it, heavy hoodie sleeves slipping past my hands. Claire's joggers hung loose on me. I probably looked like shite. But I didn't care. None of that mattered.

Dad had woken up properly late last night. Today was Monday, which felt like a cruel joke. A stupid, dreary day I usually hated anyway. And tomorrow... tomorrow I'd have to go back to school. Pretend like nothing had happened. Pretend like my life hadn't cracked in half and everyone hadn't seen the mess spill out.

Claire knew. Rudy knew. Johnny and Gibsie too. Whether the gossip had spread beyond them yet, I didn't know. Tommen had a way of chewing you up and spitting you out with everyone's dirty laundry tacked to your forehead, and the thought of walking back in there tomorrow made my stomach knot. But now that Dad was awake, I didn't have an excuse not to go back. Not with Claire and her mam keeping tabs on me like hawks.

I turned the corner and spotted Lucy, Dad's nurse, leaving his room. She gave me a smile, tired but kind, and I smiled back before slipping past her.

Da was sat upright in the bed, watching the tiny hospital tv. As I walked in he wailed, at what seemed to be a failed tackle from rugby's finest.

"Surely you shouldn't be making that much of a racket in a hospital," I laughed, handing him the Yorkie.

"Well, they won't be getting any apologies from me when Munster's on," he shot back, still shouting at the telly. "Thanks, poppet."

I dropped into the chair at his side, watching him tear into the chocolate like it was a victory feast. On the table sat a hospital brownie with only one miserable bite taken out of it, abandoned like a crime scene.

"So, the nurse reckons you'll be out by Thursday," I said, pulling my knees up into the chair.

"Does she now?" He waved the remote at me, lips twitching. "Shame. I was just getting used to the buttons on this thing."

I smiled despite myself.

For a while, he just watched the match, shouting the odd curse at the ref, while I stuffed my hands deeper into the hoodie pocket. Finally, I said it. "I think I'm going to go back to school tomorrow."

He let out a cheer for something on screen before turning to acknowledge me. "That's good, love. Better sooner rather than later, eh?"

"Yeah, I guess so. It's just—"

"Just what, love?" His eyes flicked to me briefly before darting back to the telly.

I wanted to tell him. About Mam. About the twins. About the envelope burning a hole in my bag. I wondered if he already knew, if he'd been keeping it from me. My throat tightened, but the words stuck. I chickened out.

"Do you really want me to go back? I mean, I could stay here with you till you're discharged. Keep you company," I said instead.

He tutted, waving a hand. "Ah, I'll be grand. You've seen the nurses here. Lucy'll take good care of me."

I nodded. "Right."

"Besides, surely you've missed a heap of homework. You'll need to be catching up."

"I don't think that's my biggest concern at the moment, Da," I huffed, making him grin at me without looking away from the screen.

"I tried," he shrugged. He'd never been one to push grades. Getting me into Tommen hadn't been about academics. It had been about getting me out of dance, away from all the weight Mam piled onto me.

Lucy came back in then, bustling over to the monitors. "Not too fond of the brownie, David?" she teased, nodding at the tray.

"Have you tried it?" Dad said, scandalised. "It's like trying to eat the mud off Ronan O'Gara's boots."

Lucy snorted.

"Besides," he added, pointing at me, "I've got a well-trained daughter keeping me fed."

Lucy glanced at me, smiling softly. "You sure know how to keep your father happy."

"Years of practice," I replied, lips twitching.

"You doing okay, pet? Need anything? You only have to ask." She checked his IV, scribbling something on her clipboard.

"Fine, thanks."

"She's heading back to school tomorrow," Dad piped up, still engrossed in Munster.

"That's fab," Lucy said brightly. "I bet your friends have missed you."

"Yeah." I nodded, though it didn't feel true.

Then she clicked her fingers, like she'd just remembered something. "Actually, pet, could I grab you for a quick word outside?"

My stomach sank. "Uh, yeah. Sure."

I bent to kiss Dad's forehead. He waved me off without looking away from the screen. Out in the corridor, Lucy gave me a sympathetic smile.

"Miss Foster from Edel House—your mam's social worker—she's here. She's been waiting to chat with you. She's in Waiting Room C."

"Right... okay," I muttered. My stomach twisted tighter. Kaylee had been back and forth all week, trying to make plans for me and Mam. Visiting hours, "moving forward," all that stuff I had no interest in. She assumed I knew about the twins, which I hadn't until Rudy said it. Every time, I told her the same thing: me and Dad would be fine. Once he was home, things could go back to normal.

Except they couldn't. Not now. Not with two kids out there with half of me in their faces. I'd have to be heartless to pretend they didn't exist.

I walked down to the floor below. Kaylee was waiting in the sterile little waiting room, perched on a plastic chair, tapping her pen against her clipboard like she'd run out of patience with the world. The sound made my teeth grind.

When she spotted me, her whole face lit up. She jumped to her feet, hand outstretched. "Shaylee, hun."

"Hiya," I said politely, shaking her hand.

"Sorry, this'll be quick. But I spoke to your mother this morning, and she'd really like to see you."

I stared at her, throat tight. "Right... see, the thing is—"

"Yes, well," Kaylee cut me off, pulling an envelope from her bag, "she thought you'd say that. So she told me to give you this." She held it out, smiling sheepishly. "Don't ask me, I've no clue what's inside."

I hesitated, then took it.

"You know, you're the complete opposite of what I expect a social worker to be," I blurted out.

She laughed softly. "That'd be because I'm not, technically. I work for the Mothers' Institute here in Cork. They let me in here under the title, though."

"Right," I nodded, awkward.

"Well, you've got my number," she said, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "Call me if you want to talk."

I nodded again. "Thanks, Kaylee."

She left, heels clicking down the hall, and I sank into one of the chairs. The envelope felt heavy in my hands, heavier than it should. I sat down, staring down at the envelope in my hands like it might bite me. It was thin, white, ordinary – the kind of envelope that usually held bills or bank statements. But my name was scrawled across the front in Mam's handwriting, and that alone was enough to make my stomach knot.

I should've left it. Thrown it in the bin. But curiosity got the best of me.

Instead, I slipped a finger under the seal and tore it open before I could talk myself out of it.

Two photographs slid out into my lap. My breath caught the second I turned them over.

A boy and a girl. Toddlers. Matching smiles, round little faces, soft wisps of hair that curled at the ends. One in a blue jumper, the other in pink. They were giggling at whoever held the camera, like the world hadn't touched them yet. Like nothing bad had ever existed.

I couldn't breathe.

A lump formed in my throat so big it hurt to swallow. My chest squeezed so tightly it was like my ribs had been pulled in on themselves. My mam was blackmailing me – in the most literal sense. Not email. Not voicemail. Baby-mail.

And the worst part? It was working.

Because no matter how much I wanted to hate her for doing this, no matter how much I told myself I didn't care – the truth was, I did. I wanted to know them. These little strangers who were somehow mine. My brother. My sister. My blood.

My thumb brushed over their faces, over those toothless grins that looked so innocent, so unspoiled, so unlike me.

I wanted to be the big sister they deserved. The one I hadn't managed to be before, when everything fell apart. When I fell apart.

But could I? Could I really be that person when I was still barely holding myself together? When half the time, I was one bad day away from crumbling?

The more I stared, the heavier it all became. The walls closed in, my room shrinking down around me. This didn't feel like an opportunity. It didn't feel like a gift.

It felt like another chain. A brand-new lock around my throat. A weight on my chest.

And yet, even as the panic clawed up my ribs, I couldn't bring myself to look away.

I traced the edges of the photographs with trembling fingers, the paper soft and worn at the corners, like someone had handled them a hundred times before me. Maybe Mam. Maybe her way of saying, Here, this is what you're missing. This is what you could have, if you stop being stubborn.

And I hated her for it.
But God help me, I hated myself more for wanting it.