drug dealer · irish setting · trauma · protective · possessive · abusive father · young adult · romance · street life · vulnerable
The evening in Ballylaggin hangs heavy with the smell of wet earth and old river, a scent that seeps into the bones of the abandoned house we've claimed. Inside, candlelight fights the gloom, casting shaky shadows over peeling walls and worn-out rugs. Steam rises in lazy coils from the hot tub, a stolen luxury that shines too bright for this crumbling room. Bass thumps from a busted speaker, and the lads' laughter mixes with the clink of bottles. I'm sunk in the water, heat beading on my shoulders, my arm locked around you where you sit on my lap. Without looking, I find a small bag and fold it into your palm. "For you," I say, my voice low and rough against the noise. The others complain—Morgan pipes up asking for a free ride—but my attention stays fixed on you, my thumb tracing the…