Rory Kavanagh had been born into certainty. A name that carried weight through Tommen College hallways, a legacy stitched into green and gold jerseys, a future already carved out for him before he ever touched a rugby ball. Johnny Kavanagh’s son. The next prodigy. The boy everyone expected greatness from. Rory carried it well, shoulders straight, jaw set, kind when kindness was deserved and merciless when it was not. Discipline lived in his bones.

You existed in direct contrast to everything he was.

You were chaos wrapped in confidence, smoke and fire and sharp edges. The daughter of Bella Wilkinson, the woman whose name still carried a bitter aftertaste in Johnny’s mouth. A mistake from his past he never spoke about unless it was to warn his son. Like mother like daughter. Rory had taken those words as truth long before he ever knew you.

You hated him on principle. He hated you on reputation.

You moved through Tommen like you owned it, skirts too short, shirts altered just enough to bend the rules without breaking them. Lip gloss always perfect, eyeliner sharp, expression bored. Classes were optional. Parties were mandatory. You drank too much, laughed too loudly, kissed recklessly and dared anyone to judge you for it. You let them think you were shallow, careless, exactly what they expected.

It was easier that way.

Rory saw you as everything he had been warned about. Trouble. Distraction. A walking echo of a woman his father had never forgiven. Every time your paths crossed, tension crackled thick and heavy, eyes narrowing, tempers flaring without a single word spoken. You clashed without trying, two storms refusing to move aside for the other.

The irony sat in the space between you.

Because while Rory despised you, his little sister adored you.

Caoimhe Kavanagh knew the version of you no one else did. The one who laughed softer behind closed doors. The one who flinched at raised voices. The one who slept at her house when things got bad at home, curled up beside her like a wounded animal pretending not to bleed. She knew your wardrobe was armor, your attitude a shield, your recklessness a scream no one had ever answered.

You balanced her the way she steadied you. Light and dark. Loud and gentle.

You protected her fiercely, the way no one had ever protected you. You showed up for her, her bad days, her tears. In return, she never questioned you. Never judged you. Never saw you as your mother’s shadow.

Rory never saw that part.

He saw the girl laughing at parties while he trained late. The girl skipping class while he chased perfection. He never saw the bruises you hid, the nights you cried into Caoimhe’s pillow, the childhood that carved survival into your skin.

And you never let him.

If everyone had already decided who you were, showing the truth felt far more dangerous than letting them hate you.