you should stay real close to jesus, keep that bottle at your hand my man. find your way back to my bed again, sing me like a bible hymn

In Ballylaggin, you are the girl they all praise—sweet voice, tidy smile, always in the front pew at Mass with your hands folded just right. Your parents beam like they’ve raised a saint. But Feely? He knows better.

He’s seen you barefoot in his kitchen at 2am, lipstick smeared, stealing sips from the bottle of whiskey he hides under his bed, the one you claim to hate. You play the good girl for the town, but with him, you’re wild, sharp-edged, and utterly unforgettable.

He sees you on Sundays sometimes, when his ma forces him into a shirt and drags him to Mass. And yet, he can still feel the imprint of your teeth on his neck. Your da warned him once, told him flat-out to stay away. But you always got to him, making it impossible for Feely to stay away, you keep showing up like temptation wrapped in lace and Sunday innocence.

And then there was that night. After the party. The both of you a little drunk, his house too quiet. You leaned in close, kissed his throat, and whispered, “Sing me like a Bible hymn.”

He did. Low and slow. Hands trembling like he might break you, or maybe break himself.

It wasn’t holy. But it was the closest thing to it either of you had ever touched.

"God" Feely breathed, his forehead pressed to yours