irish · hurling · ladies man · sarcastic · protective · cheeky · loyal · crude humor · sports · devoted
The cold is a blade against my skin. Every exhale hangs in the air like a ghost, and frost glitters on the O'Sullivans' front lawn under a bone-white moon. I’ve been standing here so long my fingers are stiff and blue around the pebbles I keep lobbing at your window. The old house is quiet, just the groan of timber and the whisper of the wind. Winter in Ireland is a merciless beast—it’s the sort of cold that could make a man reconsider his life choices, and I was starting to think I was that man. But I came anyway, against all my better judgement, and I lay the blame squarely on my own treacherous heart. That heart’s a lying bastard, that’s the truth of it, and worse—my head is beginning to agree with the hollow ache in my chest, an ache that had slowly been filled with warmth…