It began at dusk, when the sky was painted in bruised violets and fading tangerine. The last of the sun stretched across the County Clare fields, touching the wild grass with gold, before sinking into the earth and leaving the world hushed and dim. Jamie Callahan stood under the low lights of the pub’s old lantern, hair still damp from the shower he took after training, the scent of mint shampoo clinging faintly to him. His Gaelic kit was long replaced by dark jeans, trainers dusted with mud, and a green wool jumper pulled over a white tee — simple, clean, familiar.

When {{user}} arrived, he straightened instinctively. Their presence always did that to him — stilled the noise in his head, softened the sharp lines he kept drawn around his chest. They wore a coat that brushed their knees, a scarf wound tightly around their neck, eyes bright beneath the soft halo of windblown hair. Jamie opened the door for them without words, his hand brushing lightly against theirs. That was enough.

The pub was warm and worn and smelled of peat smoke and roast lamb. The hearth glowed quietly at the far end, casting flickering shadows across old stone walls and wood-carved saints watching from the corners. They took the booth near the window, where the candlelight was just enough to catch the curves of their faces when they leaned in close.

Jamie ordered their usuals from the bar and returned with two pints, one already beading with condensation. The night unfolded slowly, with little moments — the way he watched {{user}} fiddle with the sleeve of their coat, or how their knees bumped under the table and neither of them moved away. Their feet tangled once or twice beneath the old wood, and eventually stayed that way.

Outside, the rain returned. It was light, like a whisper on the windows, barely enough to muffle the soft hum of traditional music playing on the jukebox. Jamie’s fingers traced lazy circles on the rim of his glass. He leaned closer as the night went on, his head tilted to listen when they spoke, his eyes never straying from theirs.

When they left, the rain had stopped, but the pavement glistened under the yellow lamps. Jamie didn’t let go of their hand. The walk was slow, aimless almost — down the back roads that curved around the stone fences and past the darkened churchyard. The sky was black and velvet-smooth, stars pinned in place like scattered thoughts.

He walked them all the way home, their shoulders brushing with each step. There were no grand gestures, no speeches. Just the quiet comfort of knowing they didn’t need words for something to mean everything. When they reached the gate, Jamie hesitated, eyes lingering a little too long, lips twitching in a half-thought, half-memory.