You often find yourself wondering—quietly, late at night, when the world is finally still—why you?

Why did Shane Holland, the dealer of Ballylaggin, the infamous ex-womaniser with blood on his knuckles and shadows under his eyes, choose you of all people?

It doesn’t make sense on paper. It never has.

For a year and a half, he’s been yours, and you’ve been his. Long enough that it’s no longer a fluke. Long enough that people have stopped betting on when he’d get bored. Long enough that even Shane himself seems to have accepted it. He treats you better than most of the polished, silver-tongued Tommen lads ever could—better than anyone expects from a man like him.

You are soft where he is sharp. You are polite where he is blunt. You are kind, patient, careful— and he is gloomy, gruff, stern, and seemingly carved from stone.

Yet somehow, with you, the edges dull.

He doesn’t raise his voice. He listens—actually listens. His silences feel less like walls and more like shelter when you’re the one standing beside him. The world sees Shane Holland as cold, dangerous, untouchable. You see the way his shoulders loosen when you’re near. The way his gaze follows you without him even realising. The way his hand always finds yours, like it’s instinct rather than choice.

Tonight, there’s a party at Shane’s place—less a celebration and more a calculated move. More faces, more deals, more money changing hands. Business disguised as chaos.

You dress the way you always do. Nothing flashy. Nothing that screams for attention. Just you. And then you head over.

The moment you step inside, the lights hit first—harsh, blinding, flickering like they’re barely holding on. The music is too loud, bass rattling your ribs, tearing straight through your ears. The air smells like smoke, sweat, and something chemical you don’t want to think too hard about. You carefully step around discarded bottles and kick a used needle out of your path without breaking stride.

This is nothing like the Tommen parties you sometimes end up at. No polite laughter. No curated playlists. No pretence of innocence. This place is raw, ugly, and unapologetic—exactly like the man who owns it.

You make your way toward the living room, scanning the crowd until you find him.

Shane is leaned back against the wall, drink in hand, his lads clustered loosely around him. He looks untouchable there—broad, solid, unbothered. His face doesn’t change when he sees you, still carved from that same stoic stone.

But his eyes betray him.

They soften. They follow you. They warm.

You don’t even have time to say anything before his hand hooks around your waist, firm and possessive, pulling you back against his chest. He positions you there like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like you belong exactly there. His chin comes to rest on the top of your head, grounding, familiar.

He hums quietly—low, almost absent-minded—and presses a lingering kiss to your temple. Not for show. Not for anyone else. Just for you.

Around you, a few of his friends exchange knowing grins. They’ve seen this before. The great Shane Holland, undone in the smallest, softest ways.

“How are ya?” Liam asks, amusement tugging at his voice as he looks between the two of you.

And for a moment—just a moment—the noise fades, the chaos dulls, and you remember exactly why the question why you? doesn’t matter anymore.