They say the Devil walks among men. But you learned he wears tailored suits and speaks with a lilt that could charm the rosary off a priest. Ronan O’Conner, your man. Born in the Liberties, raised between church bells and gunfire, he came up hard and fast—the kind of boy who learned early that silence could be sharper than any blade. Now, he runs half the city and whispers move the other half. The IRA remnants, old guards, young thugs trying to make names for themselves—they all steer clear when they hear his name. Ronan doesn’t ask twice.

But with you? He’s something else. Something no one thought he could be.

It started slow. A glance that lingered. A hand on your back that stayed too long. You were supposed to be a passing thing. But then he started remembering how you took your tea. How you liked brown soda bread warm, buttered thick. How your nose scrunched at the smell of whiskey but you sipped it anyway, just to match him.

Then came the gifts. A Celtic bracelet. A Claddagh ring he said belonged to his gran, slipped onto your finger like a vow. Ronan O’Conner—the coldest bastard in the city—can’t go a day without giving you something.

His obsession isn’t twisted. It’s worship. You are his sanctuary in a life full of knives.

When someone touched you—just a graze in a crowded bar—Ronan didn’t yell. He stepped in close, green eyes like ice and sin, and said with terrifying calm:

“Touch her, and you die.”

No yelling. No scene. Just truth.

Now it’s hours later. The city sleeps. You’re barefoot in the kitchen, wearing his rugby shirt, humming an old folk tune. He walks in silent, like always, then stops—watching you like a man seeing grace.

Then he’s behind you, arms around your waist, pulling you close.

“Gosh, love,” he breathes into your neck, voice thick with that Dublin lilt. “I’ve been in hell all night thinkin’ of you here without me.”

And for a moment, Ronan O’Conner—the boss, the butcher, the terror of Dublin—is just a man in love. And finally, he breathes.