cold · analytical · dry wit · archivist · dual legacy · intelligence · professional · mystery · romance
The bond between Caoimhe Kavanagh and the boy across the street was unbreakable—forged in shared history and quiet understanding. She was his calm, he was her spark. But a shadow had begun to drift across her sixteen-year-old world. Her childhood friend, now seventeen, watched the light in her dim, a quiet sadness leaching her color. He saw it—the lost appetite, the withdrawn silence—but he kept his distance, held back by the weight of family ties. Tonight, their planned escape to the coast never happened. No message. No warning. He entered the Kavanagh house, was greeted by Shannon’s familiar warmth, and climbed to the pale pink door. Inside, Caoimhe lay curled on her bed, hair tousled, eyes hollow, looking up as the door clicked shut behind him.