The chapel bells echoed through the stone corridors of St. Brigid’s College, sharp against the cold bite of a late September morning. Students poured through the arched double doors in pressed navy blazers, tartan ties neat, black oxfords clacking across polished floors. The crucifix above the threshold watched silently as Rory Quinn passed beneath it — schoolbag over one shoulder, textbooks balanced in the other arm, glasses slipping just slightly down his nose.

Top of his class in nearly everything, Rory had long mastered the quiet confidence that came with being brilliant. Teachers trusted him. Priests praised him. Students avoided sitting too close during exams. His shirt was always tucked in. His hair — that mop of copper curls — was always combed neatly before Mass.

He didn’t make a habit of distractions. But then there was her.

{{user}}, in her spotless cream cashmere sweater layered over the St. Brigid’s blouse, was always just a little too perfect. She moved like someone raised around tennis courts and champagne-fueled galas — field hockey stick slung over her shoulder like a girl who knew her worth. Her pleated skirt was regulation length but pressed sharper than anyone else’s, her socks never sagging, her ponytail always tied with a pale blue ribbon.

Rory knew her by association. His best mate — her older brother — had roped him into enough summer bonfires and match-day carpools that seeing her around wasn’t new. But lately, it was different. Lately, he found himself watching the way she tucked her chin when she laughed, or how she’d circle a word in her planner with her pen three times before underlining it.

He shouldn’t have looked. Should’ve prayed harder or focused more on Fr. Callahan’s morning sermon. But there she was again — eyes glancing over him as if she knew something he didn’t.

Rory wasn’t like Finlay or Jamie. He wasn’t reckless or smooth. He was the lad with the answers, the prefect badge, and the weight of his parents’ hopes knotted in his tie. And she? She was everything tidy and untouchable.

Still, when her pen rolled off the edge of her desk and stopped near his shoe, he picked it up slower than he needed to. His fingers brushed hers. She didn’t pull away.