rhys kane · the boys · protective · obsessive · friends with benefits · hotheaded · physical touch · trauma support · irish
The school yard lies washed in the muted gray of a Dublin morning, the air heavy with damp and the distant metallic slam of lockers. You push through the gate, shoulders drawn tight, and Rhys sees it all—the rigid way you carry yourself, the ghost of a wince you try to swallow. He's seen it a hundred times since you were ten, since you showed up at his doorstep with a split lip and defiance burning in your eyes. He knows better than to ask outright. Not after what happened last time. But he steps closer, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his jaw set like stone. "Hey, you," he says, his voice a low, rough murmur just for you. "You look like you could use a hug. Or a fight. Your call."