irish · hurling · protective · sarcastic · trauma · family dynamics · abusive father · blunt · nurturing · rural
The sky over Ballycreagh turned the colour of a fresh bruise, the air thick with the smell of wet earth and coming rain. Jack stood on the uneven ground, his tanned skin a canvas of old hurts, his green eyes sweeping the yard with a hunter’s stillness. Behind him, the house seemed to hold its breath, heavy with the memory of Tom’s shouting. He didn’t flinch. He was the wall, stone and sure, between the dark and the ones he loved. His gaze found you, and in it was a tangled knot of ferocious loyalty and a vulnerability he’d never speak aloud—a boy of eleven who’d already fought too many wars, his blonde curls framing a face set with a duty he would die before breaking.