Chapter Four Fracture Point #3
Beside him, Kaine shifted slightly, settling back into stillness, as if nothing extraordinary had just happened at all.
But the word stayed.
We.
Quiet. Dangerous.
Waiting.
Kaine shifted, hands in his pockets again. “One more thing.”
Byrne’s stomach tightened. “What.”
Kaine dug into his jacket. “This is gonna sound ridiculous, but—” He held out a small chocolate bar, wrapper purple even in the grey light, the corners softened like it had lived in a pocket. “Sugar can help after adrenaline. My nan swore by it.”
Byrne stared at it, stunned by the tenderness of the gesture.
“I don’t—”
“You don’t have to eat it,” Kaine said, voice gentle. “Just… have it.”
Byrne’s fingers closed around it before he could stop himself.
It was warm from Kaine’s body.
That warmth went straight through him.
They didn’t go back inside the café.
Kaine led them through back streets, away from windows and people and the possibility of eyes.
The rain eased into a mist that clung to coats and eyelashes rather than falling.
Dublin blurred into slick pavement and smeared shopfront lights, turning the city into something half-reflection, half-dream.
They ended up near a small square—benches, bare winter trees, a statue of some long-dead man receiving relentless pigeon disrespect.
Kaine sat on a low wall, elbows on his knees. Byrne stood for a moment, then sat beside him, leaving a careful span of space between them.
The chocolate sat heavy in Byrne’s pocket.
“You all right?” Kaine asked after a while.
“No,” Byrne said. Then, quieter: “But I will be.”
“Progress,” Kaine murmured.
Byrne exhaled, slow.
He wanted to say thank you.
He wanted to say please don’t leave.
He said none of those.
Instead: “You handled the reporter the other day. And the group chat. You shouldn’t have to clean up after me.”
Kaine shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe I’m just good with mess.”
“You shouldn’t have to be. Because of me.”
Kaine looked at him for a long time.
“Do you remember,” he said, “when we first paired up in training?”
“As if I could forget.”
“You were terrifying,” Kaine said. “Still are, sometimes.”
“Good.”
“But you also made it clear you’d never let anyone take a cheap shot at me.” Kaine’s voice softened. “On or off ball.”
“That’s my job,” Byrne said.
“Right.” Kaine nodded once. “And this is mine.”
Byrne frowned. “Your job is to run fast and not drop the ball.”
“And apparently,” Kaine said, “to drag the captain into bin yards when the world gets too loud and tell the lads the ‘date’ was crap so they shut up.”
Byrne’s mouth twitched despite himself.
“This doesn’t scare you?” Byrne asked before he could stop the question. “The… implications.”
Kaine leaned back, shoulders brushing cold stone. “I grew up in a world where people assumed a lot of things about me. Some true. Some not.” He glanced at Byrne. “If I spent my whole life terrified of what other people thought they saw, I’d never leave the house.”
“That must be nice,” Byrne muttered.
“It’s not easy,” Kaine said quietly. “It’s just… different.”
Rain hissed on pavement. Somewhere, a bus groaned past.
Kaine’s gaze dipped to Byrne’s pocket—subtle, a flicker. “You still got it?”
Byrne blinked. “What.”
“The chocolate.”
Byrne’s fingers pressed unconsciously against the warm shape. “Yes.”
Kaine nodded like that mattered. Like it meant something.
“Coach’ll have a stroke if we miss dinner,” Byrne said, voice rough.
Kaine’s mouth curved. “Wouldn’t want that on my conscience.”
They stood and headed for the tram. When their shoulders brushed in the crowd, Kaine didn’t flinch away.
Neither did Byrne.
That night, Byrne lay in the dark of their shared room, listening to Kaine settle under his duvet. No pub. No lads. No performance. Just two men breathing in the same four walls.
His phone buzzed on the bedside table.
Maeve: Saw Twitter. You okay?
Of course she had. Maeve always knew when his life trembled.
He stared at the screen, then typed:
Bit of a wobble. Sorted now.
A beat.
Maeve: You’re not alone in your own life, Luke. Call tomorrow if you need to breathe at someone who isn’t him.
Byrne swallowed hard.
His hand drifted to his coat on the chair. He fished the chocolate from the pocket and held it in the dark. Purple wrapper. Warmth long gone. Still—his palm remembered where it had been.
“Kaine,” Byrne said into the quiet before he could stop himself.
A beat. Then Kaine’s voice, low and sleepy: “Yeah, captain?”
“Thank you.” The words scraped out of him. “For today.”
Sheets shifted. He could almost picture Kaine staring at the ceiling.
“You’re welcome,” Kaine said quietly. “Any time.”
Byrne swallowed.
He almost added more. Almost cracked the shell. Almost said something that would change the shape of everything.
Instead, he rolled onto his side, facing the wall, heart loud in his ears.
Behind him, Kaine exhaled—a thread of relief in it Byrne couldn’t quite parse.
Neither of them said another word.
But the space between their beds felt different now.
Less like a chasm.
More like a bridge that had been tested in bad weather—and hadn’t broken.