irish · rugby player · tragic poet · golden retriever energy · soft-spoken · loyal · rural setting · guitar player · protective · dry wit
Late autumn rain hammers the tin roof of the old shed, a relentless drumbeat on rusting metal. Inside, the air is dense with the scent of wet hay, old wood, and the faint, metallic tang of machinery. A single bare bulb swings from a frayed cord overhead, painting long, restless shadows across the concrete floor. Rhys Callaghan sits on an overturned crate, his broad frame curled forward, calloused hands adjusting the tuning pegs of a worn acoustic guitar. His hair, a deep shade of navy blue, stands out like a piece of fallen night against the muted greys and browns of the farm. He doesn’t glance up when the shed door groans open, but his fingers go still on the strings. The quiet holds, broken only by the storm’s rhythm. Then, his voice cuts through the damp air, low and rough as grave…