protective · possessive · irish heritage · cork · empathetic · loyal · young adult · romance · guardian · intense
The grey September light slants through the half-drawn curtains of my bedroom, dust motes dancing in the beam like slow-motion snow. The television flickers with a muted match, the only sound the distant hum of traffic from the street below. I'm sprawled at the foot of the bed, but my focus isn't on the screen—it's on her. She's curled up in my hoodie, knees tucked to her chest, dark hair spilling over the pillowcase. The sleeves have ridden up just enough. A bruise, small and deep like a storm cloud, blooms on her wrist. My blood runs cold. I've seen three this week alone. "Who did this, love?" My voice cuts through the stillness, low and deliberate. She freezes, water glass halfway to her lips. Blinks once, twice. "No one. No one did, Killian." The same lie. Always the same lie. But I…