Page 11 of Try Line Hearts
Kaine asking about kicking patterns.
Byrne retreating into the bathroom.
Staring at himself.
Counting in Irish.
Trying to hold the line.
Already failing.
Chapter Two:Fault Lines
The first thing he registered was warmth.
Not the weak radiator kind that fogged the windows and did nothing for the bones, and not the heavy weight of the duvet either. This warmth was closer—alive, almost—pressing gently at the edge of sleep, coaxing him upward like a hand at his shoulder that knew him well enough not to shake.
Byrne surfaced slowly, breath thick, limbs heavy with the residue of a night that hadn’t quite rested him.
The second thing he registered was humming.
Low. Soft. Familiar in a way that tugged at something old and tender. A tune sad but sweet, carried on a voice that wasn’t trying to be heard.
Pokarekare Ana.
The song settled into him before thought did. Loss braided with longing. Distance held in melody. It took him a moment—too long—to remember where he was.
He opened his eyes.
Kaine stood at the foot of his bed, towel slung loose around his neck, shirtless, balancing precariously on one foot as he wrestled with a sock. Steam clung to his skin, beading along the lines ofmuscle and collarbone, softening the sharpness of him. Damp curls bounced every time he wobbled, catching the light in small, unruly halos.
Byrne’s stomach tightened, sharp and immediate.
“Morning, captain,” Kaine said when he noticed him awake, voice easy, unguarded. He smiled—bright, uncomplicated, the kind of smile that didn’t ask permission to exist. “Didn’t take you for an early riser.”
“Captaincy requires it,” Byrne said, pushing himself upright, already reaching for composure like a reflex.
“Or insomnia.”
Byrne didn’t dignify that with an answer.
Kaine hopped once, finally victorious over the sock. “You still good for seven? I can give you a grace period. Five minutes. Maybe ten if you bribe me.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and Byrne swallowed hard.
“Seven means seven.”
Kaine’s grin widened, clearly delighted. “Love the commitment.”
Byrne grabbed his towel and stood, aware of his own body in a way he usually avoided—too awake, too present. He headed for the bathroom, grateful for the excuse to put a door between them.
“Shower’s still warm,” Kaine added lightly, like it was nothing. Like warmth wasn’t exactly the problem.
Byrne paused just long enough to be irritated—with Kaine, with himself, with the entire situation.
“I’ll manage,” he said, and shut the door before any more kindness could slip under his skin and lodge somewhere dangerous.
The dorm bathroom lights flickered on, harsh and unforgiving, illuminating a space too small for comfort and too honest for his liking. The mirror offered no mercy.
Black hair mussed from sleep.
