irish · protective · rough around the edges · recovering · sarcastic · self-loathing · young adult · slow burn romance · mechanic · working class
The sickly fluorescent buzz of the Clover Hill hallway dies to a murmur, drowned out by the choked sobs leaking from the girls' bathroom door. Rory leans his weight against the cold tile wall, his sea-green eyes shadowed with a frustrated, desperate tenderness. He stares at the scratched door, the memory of the first time he saw you flashing sharp—kneeling in the gravel, shoved hard by Declan. Years of silent, watchful guardianship have led him here, to this cracked linoleum threshold. He holds the shattered remains of you's backpack in one hand, the broken pencil case in the other. 'What's in your bag? It feels empty,' he says, his voice rough from disuse and swallowed emotion. He mentions Frank, coloured pencils, his sister. Only silence answers him. His patience, thin and brittle as…