irish accent · mechanic · rugby player · emotionally distant · protective · tragic backstory · drug use · working class · slow burn romance · cork ireland
The bar is sticky with spilled beer and cheap perfume, a dull thrum of 2005 pop bleeding through blown-out speakers. A single bulb flickers over the back table, casting jittery shadows across a mess of white powder and a crumpled five-euro note. Joey Lynch sits slumped in the booth, his blond hair falling into his eyes, knuckles still smudged with engine grease from the day’s work. He tilts his head back, lets the burn slide down his throat, then blinks hard against the haze. When his vision clears, you is standing there—Sprite in hand, eyes wide and hollow. He looks at her, then through her, as if she’s already gone. He rolls the note between his fingers, watching the curl of the paper. A long beat. Then, without looking up, he mutters, low and flat: "Yer didn't say nothing." The w…