Page 21 of Try Line Hearts
Kaine blinked, surprised, then shrugged and drank his like it didn’t matter. Like nothing ever did.
The night unraveled the way it always did—voices rising, arms slung over shoulders, insults turning affectionate, affectionate turning feral. Nothing was more homoerotic than a group of drunk straight men, and the table proved it with enthusiasm: thighs pressed together, exaggerated winks, mock kisses blown across the table, hands lingering just long enough to mean nothing.
Byrne sat rigid, spine straight, fingers tight around his glass. He pretended the smell of beer wasn’t freedom he wasn’t allowed.
Pretended he didn’t miss the warmth of it, the dangerous ease. That he didn’t know exactly who he would become after three pints.
At one point, Kaine leaned close, voice pitched low against the noise. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You look like you’re being slowly murdered.”
“I’m. Fine.”
Kaine studied him for a second longer, like he might push, like he might ask the real question. Then he nodded. Didn’t argue. Didn’t offer another pint.
Byrne exhaled and took another careful sip of water, grateful and resentful all at once.
Control was a lonely virtue, but it was the only thing he trusted.
Later, after Byrne snapped at a teammate and the table laughed it off, Kaine stood. “Anyone want crisps?”
He came back with packets—and something else.
He paused by Byrne and held it out quietly.
A small bar of Cadbury Dairy Milk.
“Peace offering,” Kaine murmured. “I always keep one on me. Helps.”
Byrne stared at it, absurdly stunned.
“I don’t—”
“Don’t have to eat it,” Kaine said. “Just… have it.”
The chocolate was warm from Kaine’s pocket.
Byrne took it.
The weight of it felt disproportionate. Dangerous.
The dorm room was narrow and overheated, the kind of institutional beige that pretended neutrality while draining all personality from the walls. Two single beds, pushed close enough to be polite, far enough to deny intent.
Kaine lay on his back with a paperback propped against his chest, reading light clipped to the headboard, one arm tucked behind hishead. Byrne was on his side, phone glowing softly against the dark, thumb scrolling without seeing any of it.
The room had settled into that late-night quiet—not silence, but the shared understanding of it. Breath. Fabric shifting. The faint rustle of pages turning.
Byrne’s phone rang.
He froze for half a beat, then checked the screen.
Maeve.
He answered immediately, rolling slightly more toward the wall, voice low and quick.
“Dia dhuit,” he said in Irish—hello—soft but urgent. “Tá duine eile sa seomra,”there’s someone else in the room.
