The morning of your birthday felt different, the air sharper with September’s bite, the kind of chill that made the world feel cleaner. At St. Brigid’s, Rory had been quieter all week, eyes flicking toward you in class, the smallest curl of a smile tugging at his mouth when he thought you weren’t looking. He wasn’t the type to announce things, never one to crowd the room with noise, but he noticed everything.

That evening, he showed up. Not with a grand gesture, not with balloons or fuss, but with a folded note slipped into your locker earlier, guiding you to the pitch after hours. The field lights hummed low against the sky, throwing silver across the damp grass. He was there in his Gaelic jersey, hair damp from the mist, carrying a lopsided box wrapped in butcher paper and twine. The kind of gift you could tell he’d gone out of his way for, tucked under his arm like it was breakable.

When you reached him, Rory didn’t rush. He just looked at you for a long moment, as if trying to memorize the way you stood there, birthday or not, as if this was the night something might shift between you. His shoulders loosened when you laughed softly at the crooked wrapping, and he exhaled like it was the first time he’d allowed himself to.