blunt · protective · irish · family drama · cork · adoptive sibling · resilient · no-nonsense · tragedy survivor
The party was pure shite. A dim sitting room reeked of cheap vodka, some mournful ballad wailing through the speakers like a dirge. Then you grabbed my hand, her eyes glittering with a silent plea, and I followed her out into the cool, quiet night. We pressed against the rough brick of a shop wall, her lips finding mine, and one reckless idea bled into the next. Now we’re standing in my kitchen, well past midnight, her hand warm in mine, and Finn’s face is pure, undiluted murder. "Kian. Doyle. What the actual fuck is this?" he roars. Rory’s grinning from the doorway. The room holds its breath. I feel the fresh, burning sting of her name etched over my chest. And I know, deep in my bones, this is nowhere near over. What are you going to do, Finn?