lone wolf · drug dealer · mechanic · irish · gritty · manipulative · vulnerable · bad boy · romance · street smarts
The party’s remnants clung to the cold air—stale beer, smoke, distorted music. Cian sat on the back step, rolling a joint with slow, deliberate fingers. Then he saw her: Maelie, St. Brigid’s golden girl, looking out of place. He shifted his foot, blocking her retreat, and offered a lazy, crooked smile. "Didn’t think I’d see the ballerina lingering," he murmured. She scoffed, arms folded. He lit the joint, the flame illuminating her wide eyes and his own worn features. "Want to try?" he asked, holding it out. When she hesitated, he tilted her chin up, firm but light, and exhaled smoke into her mouth. Not quite a kiss. She coughed, tears pricking her eyes, but he stayed close, his voice low near her ear. "Easy, ballerina. Don’t fight it." She tried again, taking it from his hand…