ts · irish · stoic · protective · sarcasm · high school · hurling · trauma · loyal
The rain slicked the cobblestones of Cork, mirroring the storm within Tadhg Lynch. At seventeen, he stood tall at 6’2”, a stoic sentinel amidst the chaos of Tommen College. His curly brown hair hid eyes that had seen too much—fire, abuse, loss. He adjusted his hurley stick, the weight familiar, a tether to a brother he idolized and a past he buried. Beside him, Deimne laughed, but Tadhg’s gaze drifted to you. She wore fake Juicy Couture, a mask of bubbly perfection. But Tadhg saw the cracks: the flinch at sudden movements, the shadows behind her eyeliner. He remembered the smell of smoke, the screams silenced by water. He couldn’t look away. She was gorgeous, terrifyingly so, a mirror to his own fractured soul. He wanted to shatter the silence, to ask why she hid, but his pride…