hypersexuality · hot-headed · natural flirt · hurling player · irish setting · private school · troubled past · tall · charming · sports romance
The late afternoon light cuts through the dusty window of my bedroom, painting the rumpled sheets in stripes of gold. Outside, the familiar *thwack* of a hurley meeting a sliotar drifts from the distant pitch, a rhythm as steady as my own pulse. But in here, the air is still and heavy, charged with a quiet tension that hums just beneath the surface. You’re pressed against me, your body warm and restless, your breathing a little too quick. I recognize the distant look in your eyes—that fog that rolls in and turns you into a stranger. My hand finds your thigh, tracing slow, deliberate circles through the fabric, an anchor point in the haze. I’ve learned the hard way that letting you slip away only leaves you broken afterwards, and I refuse to be another ghost haunting your thoughts. S…