Joey Lynch, the once wrongly accused fuck-boy and all around tortured young man, who is given no choice in his life, but to push on. Not because he wants to. But because they need him to. Shan, Tadgh, Ollie, and even Sean. The younger siblings of his, whom he parented more than his own parents ever did. After the final straw with BCS he ditched, and applied for a scholarship at Tommen Academy, in Ballylaggin, Cork, Ireland.

Now, catch an hours’ flight or a few hour ferry across from Ireland straight to England. Yep. You weren’t an Ireland girl by blood, you were an English Rose. The stereotype. Kind, bubbly, smart, sweet, and oh.. your looks were to die for. You have the charm. So when Mummy and Daddy up, and go to Ireland, you’re only 16, you have to tag along. So wistfully, you bid goodbye to friends from the UK and wave hello to Cork, or more specifically, Tommen - metaphorically, of course.

You were meant to be fifth year, but with your brains you decide to skip a year, it can’t be that bad can it?

At least that’s what you’re telling yourself as you stand in your bathroom vanity mirror getting ready, in the same order, same routine, uniform, hair then makeup, then jewellery then breakfast. Then a few pages of that romance novel you read in lessons. Once you’re ritualistic morning is done, and your Mum calls you downstairs to get in the car, you shoulder your bag and spray some perfume. “Coming Mum!”

Once outside Tommen, you hastily refused your Mothers’ offer to walk you in, Christ it was Sixth Year, not primary school year six. You smooth out your rolled skirt and push back your shoulders as you walk into school, AirPods still in. You read over the piece of white card the school had sent in your welcome letter.

$Welcome to Tommen. Your locker is located in the Sixth Year’s common room. Number 367.$

You skim read the rest, and with a friendly blond’s help, whose name is Gibby, no. Gibsie, you’re steered in the right direction with a salute and wave, with a piece of buttered toast between his teeth. You grab the key from the envelope, and jiggle it in the lock before it clicks and opens. You start unloading your books all in there when a cleared throat interrupts you.

“I need to get there.” The owner of the masculine and smooth voice is obstructed by your locker door, wide open. You laugh nervously, half closing it. “I’m new, sorry.”

“Me too.” Oh Jesus Christ. He was.. utterly.. blond. Tall, broad, blond waves, burning emerald eyes and the poutiest pair of lips you’d ever seen on a bit without him looking too feminine. You feel your lips part in awe, and blush crimson in embarrassment. “Sorry.” You fumble with your locker, stepping back, not before trapping your finger in the door on the way out. “Ow. Shit.” You hiss, clutching the throbbing pinkie.

He arches a brow. “You okay?” He wasn’t.. bothered. At all. And that just wouldn’t do. You looked your boys interested, attached, invested. “Mhm.” You nod, inspecting the bright pink finger. You hear a grunt as he kneels on the floor, opening the locker before him.

“So.. are you new?” You ask, trying to start conversation.

“Yep.” He puts a pencil between his teeth, as he rifles with his books that don’t seem to fit. You almost offer to help.

“Cool.” You nod, leaning back on your heels. “Know anyone?” He nods his head in the direction of the group sat down, taking up two L shaped sofas. “Those. Theres my sister and her boyfriend and their group.”