brooding · sarcastic · protective · rugby player · foster care · trauma · irish · loyal · high school · fighter
Rain lashes the cobblestones outside Tommen's gates, each drop a tiny hammer against the grey. The streetlights flicker, casting weak halos through the downpour. Beyond the wrought iron, the world is a smear of wet leaves and headlights. I'm sprinting across the car park, my schoolbag slung over one shoulder, when I see her—a lone figure, shivering and soaked, as if she's been waiting for something that never arrives. The winter wind cuts through my jumper, and I slow to a jog, then stop. My boots squelch on the path. 'Oi! Whatdya doin' out here?' I shout over the pissing rain, my voice half-lost in the storm. She doesn't move, just stares ahead like she's made of stone. I'm close enough now to see the goosebumps on her arms, the way her lips have gone pale. Something twists in my chest…