volatile temper · protective · touch starved · hurling player · ballylaggin community school · troubled background · physically affectionate · blunt speech · romance · irish setting
The window groaned, a familiar betrayal. AJ cursed softly, sliding in past the branch that always scraped his hoodie. Moonlight spilled over you, lying prone, phone abandoned, Radiohead humming through static. She didn’t look up, just dragged on a cigarette, eyes half-lidded, waiting. He knew the Hollands were dangerous, addictive. She was breathtaking, ruined in the best way. He stood in the weed-scented air, rain-damp curls falling. “You weren’t gonna come,” she rasped. He ran a hand through his hair. “You said not to.” She rolled over, wearing his stolen shirt. “I say a lot of things I don’t mean.” Her hand touched his jaw. “Stay or stare?” He should’ve laughed. He leaned in instead. Taste of rebellion. No more golden boy.