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Disclaimer! the way Grace is portrayed in this story is completely fictional, this is nothing more than plot to the story and not a representation of her or how i view her! i adore grace and don't want this taken out of context
Ophelia had barely stepped off the plane before she was dragging two jet-lagged Americans down Camden Street in the fading Dublin light, her boots clicking against the pavement like punctuation marks to her bubbling excitement.
She was home. Sort of. At least for a while.
Nine months away had given Dublin a dreamy sort of shimmer in her memory—rose-tinted and wrapped in the golden haze of youth. Now that she was back, the chill in the air stung her cheeks, the smell of chip grease drifted from a nearby takeaway, and a seagull overhead squawked with zero regard for anyone's inner peace. It was perfect.
Behind her, Will and Lennon were attempting to keep up, both wheeling small suitcases behind them like lost tourists.
"I swear to God, Ophelia," Lennon called, her breath fogging in the air, "if this pub doesn't have nachos, I'm walking straight into the River Liffey."
"No one comes to Ireland for nachos," Ophelia called over her shoulder, grinning. "You're here for pints and passive aggression."
Will laughed. "That should be on the airport welcome sign."
The Long Hall was already alive when they reached it—red façade glowing under the yellow light of streetlamps, windows fogged with heat and the ghosts of a hundred past conversations. Ophelia paused with one hand on the door, her nerves kicking in. Her breath caught.
"Alright?" Will asked, stepping beside her.
She nodded, a little too quickly. "Just... it's been a while."
Will didn't press. He never did. He just took her hand, fingers warm and steady.
Inside, the heat hit like a hug. The place hadn't changed—ornate ceilings, mirrored walls, stained glass behind the bar, and that familiar low roar of conversation that sounded like home.
She spotted them instantly—Elijah's bandmates were impossible to miss. Josh's ridiculous laugh carried even over the hum of conversation, Lou was perched at the edge of the booth with a pint already in hand, Robert's arms flailed wildly mid-story, and Ryan was doing a dramatic impression of something she didn't quite catch.
And Elijah.
He was leaning back in his seat like he owned the place, arm resting behind a woman with long, glossy hair and the kind of bone structure you only inherited when your parents had Oscar nominations. Grace.
