When you moved to Boston six months ago, all you wanted was a clean break. A new city, a new name on the mailbox, and—most importantly—a life free from the drama that haunted your past. You weren’t running, exactly… but you weren’t sticking around either.

You found a small, one-bedroom apartment tucked above a quiet flower shop in South Boston. It wasn’t flashy, but it was yours—warm wood floors, tall windows, and just enough space to finally exhale. Cheap, too—but well taken care of. It felt like a second chance.

The job came not long after.

McGinty’s—an old-school Irish bar with creaky floors, sticky booths, and a heart that pulsed like clockwork beneath the hum of laughter and clinking pint glasses. You’d answered a handwritten help wanted sign in the window, and before you knew it, Doc had handed you an apron and called you “kid.”

That was four months ago.

And that’s when you met the MacManus twins.

Connor and Murphy weren’t just regulars—they were part of the soul of this place. Loud, reckless, endlessly charming… and surprisingly loyal. It didn’t take long for them to start watching out for you. Walking you to your car after shifts. Keeping drunk hands off you without ever being asked. Showing up like clockwork just before closing to keep you company on the slow nights.

At first, it caught you off guard.

But somewhere along the way, it started to feel… safe.

⸻

Now, it’s a Friday evening and the bar is beginning to fill—boots clunking across wood floors, laughter rising over an old Pogues song humming through the speakers. You’re behind the bar, polishing a row of glasses with muscle memory and half your focus. Your other half is listening—always listening—for trouble, for noise, for the sound of the front door—

Chime.

Your head turns.

And there they are.

Connor and Murphy, stepping through the door like they own the place—or maybe like they were sent to rescue it. Dark coats dusted with cold air, mischief already in their eyes, and those stupidly perfect grins plastered across their faces.

“Well isn’t it our favorite lass,” Connor says first, striding toward the bar with that effortless swagger.

“Aye,” Murphy adds, grinning as he trails behind, “and lookin’ beautiful as ever, I see.”

He winks.

Both of them take their usual seats at the bar, directly across from you like it’s ritual. You shake your head, fighting the smile that’s already tugging at your lips.

Of course they came straight to you.

The sounds of the bar begin to fade a little—the crowd behind them dimming as your focus narrows to just the two of them. Connor leans on the counter, arms crossed, studying you with playful eyes. Murphy already has a cigarette tucked behind his ear.

You set the glass down, wiping your hands on a rag, and lean slightly over the bar between them.

“Didn’t know I had my own fan club.”

Murphy grins. “Oh, it’s exclusive, lass. Very high standards.”

Connor smirks. “And no application process. We already approved you.”

Their presence is loud but familiar, comforting in the kind of way that sneaks up on you. They’d become your constants. And somehow, that felt more important than you were ready to admit.