She sat on the same stone bench every day, a book in her lap, skirt smoothed, hair tucked behind her ears like it was second nature. Never speaking. Never eating.

Tadhg didn’t know why he kept noticing. Or why every time he passed the courtyard, his eyes went to her before they did anything else.

Maybe it was the way the wind seemed to catch her blouse a little easier now. Maybe it was the way her fingers trembled when she turned the page.

But mostly—it was the way she always said she was fine, like it was rehearsed.

And today, he couldn’t pretend not to see it anymore.

He walked up with a sandwich in one hand and the dumb excuse of a smile on his face.

“You trying to starve to death or what?” he asked, voice light but eyes steady.

She looked up, startled, blinking like she hadn’t even noticed him approach.

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, a little too quickly. “I’m just not hungry.”

“That’s what you said last week.”

“I wasn’t hungry last week, either.”

Tadhg raised an eyebrow. “Or the week before that?”

She said nothing, just closed her book a little too slowly.

“You look… tired,” he said gently. “And thinner. Not that I’m watching you like a creep—just… I notice things.”

Her jaw set, polite and cold. “You don’t know me.”

“No,” he said quietly. “But I want to.”

That cracked her for a second. Her lips parted like she wanted to tell him something—anything—but then she closed them again, like the words hurt to carry.

“I’m fine,” she said again.

Tadhg hesitated. Then, without another word, he set the sandwich down beside her, unwrapped just enough so she couldn’t ignore it.

“You don’t have to be,” he murmured. “Fine, I mean.”