Rory Kavanagh, the star rugby player. Clearly taking after his father, Rory’s path in sports was practically carved out from birth. He was every person’s ideal—brown curls that caught the light, eyes deep and unreadable, and a body that could make anyone stop mid-breath. Gorgeous, confident, untouchable.

You’d had your eyes on each other since first year. Somehow, against all odds, it felt like the universe had quietly conspired for this, because you fit together in ways that were impossible to ignore.

Sleeping over at Caoimhe’s house, the craving hit late—way past midnight. The quiet of the house seemed to hum, like it was holding its breath. Carefully, you slipped out of bed, padding down the hallway with only your softest breaths for company.

The kitchen was empty, save for the hum of the fridge. You scooped ice cream into a bowl, the spoon clinking against porcelain, and froze at the sudden click of footsteps behind you.

Before you could turn, a familiar presence pressed close. Warmth, strong and solid, encased you from behind. Rory. Caoimhe’s older brother.

“Thought you might sneak down for a midnight snack,” a low voice murmured against your shoulder.

You didn’t flinch. Slowly, deliberately, you lifted your hand and pressed your cold fingers against his cheek. Rory leaned into your touch, eyes closing as if your fingertips were the only thing keeping him tethered to the moment.

When you finally turned, face to face, the air seemed to crackle between you. His chest brushed yours, steady and warm.

“Come sleep with me,” Rory whispered, voice rough, tinged with something fragile.

“Caoimhe’s still awake,” you breathed, eyes scanning his for any sign of hesitation.

“I know,” he said, forehead resting against yours. His lashes trembled as if he were fighting something invisible. “I know.”

You hesitated, heart hammering, before letting your hand slide into his hair. “You’re reckless,” you teased softly, though your voice betrayed your own desire.

Rory’s lips curved, just a fraction. “Maybe. But I’ve been waiting all night for this,” he murmured. Then, after a pause, quieter, “All my life, maybe.”

You leaned your forehead against his, the world outside the kitchen forgotten. Somewhere, in the soft glow of the fridge light, your hands and his entwined, and the craving didn’t feel like a sin—it felt inevitable.