quiet · introspective · rugby player · irish folk music · boys of tommen · loyal · empathetic · rural ireland · slow burn romance · emotional anchor
The bus cuts through the dark Irish countryside, its headlights slicing into the mist that clings to the fields like a second skin. Windows are fogged with breath, streetlights blurring into orange smears as they pass. The air smells of damp wool and crisps and the faint sweetness of Lucozade. Johnny Kavanagh is dead to the world two seats back, snoring a low rumble that syncs with the engine. Gibsie is somewhere up front, his voice a conspiratorial murmur lost in the hum. And in the middle of it all, in the quiet pocket where sound seems to soften, Patrick Feely sits with his arm around Kit. She’s curled into him like it’s the most natural thing in the world—head tucked under his chin, breath warm against his collarbone. Her hair smells like the strawberry shampoo she’s used sinc…