𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝟐 of 𝐓𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 (𝐑𝐨𝐫𝐲 & 𝐕𝐢𝐯) Rory Kavanagh. 𝐓𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞. He's the total cliché of a popular jock with dimples of total sin-captain of the rugby team, ruthless on the pitch, and a total nepo baby. Yet he's in a book club! Doesn't exactly reek of your classic stereotype, does he? But how would I know? I've only just got here. Mr. Beau Gosse isn't what I expected from someone born with a silver spoon jammed down his throat. Catching his attention wasn't on my radar, but the eejit bulldozed right into my safe space anyway. At least I have my letters. Call me an old soul, but aside from my paintings, they're my only real escape. Craziest part? My penpal and him happen to share the exact same name. Like some sick, twisted joke. I just hope the similarities end there. I've got enough on my plate without inviting trouble from school royalty. ⌯⌲ Vivienne Wilkinson. 𝐓𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐓𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞. And my bet. Fucking hell, what'd I get myself into? I didn't ask for this-least of all getting tangled up with a girl with a lethal tongue and the face of a Bambi. Jaysus, she's something. I shouldn't be hooked this hard, especially knowing her Ma's reputation. But I have to keep my end of the deal and make her fall in love with me. I mean, who even comes up with that shite? Anaïs would understand. She's my pen pal, the girl I've been pining over for two years ever since we clicked. Her letters always arrive on old-timey parchment, cursive too. She's the only one who keeps me grounded, talks me down, and accepts every flawed piece of me. Except she hasn't written back in two months. Something's wrong. I'll figure out what it is-preferably before I go and fall for a girl I know I shouldn't touch.

ᴘᴀᴛʀɪᴄᴋ ғᴇᴇʟʏ x ғᴇᴍᴀʟᴇ ᴏᴄ "Sweets?" "Yes, Patty?" Sienna Quinn was alienated by her peers. Having never experienced a friend, romance or a stable home life, she must try to keep herself from falling off the edge, even when more and more piles on top of her, all while navigating her self-worth and descent into toxic means of coping... Or punishment. Patrick Feely was the dependable Number 12 of Tommen College. Masked behind a stoic, unbothered exterior, he spends his life starved for affection in a home defined by freezing, clinical silence. Running on a robotic loop of grueling manual labor and locker-room expectations, he uses empty, mechanical friction to turn down the roaring volume in his own head. But when a nameless, bruised second-year stray forces her way into his quiet sanctuary, his carefully built walls begin to crack-and the rugged player who learned to listen to hallway cruelty in silence realizes he is entirely sick of watching her bleed.

𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝟏 of 𝐓𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 (𝐀𝐉 & 𝐈𝐳𝐳𝐲) AJ fucking Lynch. 𝐓𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐊𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭. And the pain in my hole that hasn't left me the fuck alone since I joined this school filled with other-equally narcissistic-entitled, arrogant pricks. How was I supposed to know those tires were his? But honestly, he's like a rock in my shoe, small enough to ignore, yet always biting you in the ass until you ultimately go insane. He's a Lynch. The golden boy, the charmer, and the kind of guy every parent dreams of for their kid. Fairytale perfect, right? Wrong. Because here's the thing: AJ fucking Lynch is no knight. And I'm no princess. What I did to his car? Yeah, he asked for it. How dare he make my life a living fucking hell; the one place where I thought I was safe. What's the saying again? Ah yes, payback's a bitch, Lynch. And luckily for you, we do things differently on my side of the river. ō͡≡o˞̶ Izzy fucking Holland. 𝐓𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐕𝐢𝐱𝐞𝐧. And the girl who caused my ultimate fall from grace. Call me exaggerated, I don't give a flying fuck. I want revenge, and she's my one way ticket to satisfying my insatiable hunger for it. I had a life, man. A fucking perfect one-that is, until the accident. Perfect captaincy, perfect grades, and a bloody perfect girlfriend. Now, I have nothing but headaches and a thirst for vengeance. All because of her. She's a Holland. That's what they do, right? Catch you off guard and tear the rug from under your feet so you fall into a bloody fucking death trap. But two can play that game. Let's get one thing straight: I don't want Izzy fucking Holland, or anything to do with her. I just wanna steal from her, you know? A little karma for how she ruined my life. And she'll fall. Because I always get what I want.

Liam Lynch. Everyone says his name like it explains him. The town's golden boy. Lizzie likes him. Teachers like him. Old women in the shop like him. He remembers birthdays and asks about your granny and carries bags without being asked. He is always there. That's the part I can't get my head around. He stands too close sometimes. Not in a scary way. Just... close. Like he's afraid if he steps back, I'll disappear. He says he loves me. I nod when he says it because that's what you do. I don't know what love is meant to feel like in the body. People say it's warm or fizzy or like fireworks, but my chest just feels the same as always-tight, flat, like someone's pressed pause. Sometimes my stomach hurts around him, but I don't know if that means something good or something bad. Hunger and nerves feel the same to me. Fear and excitement too. Everything is all mixed up, like colours bleeding together. He doesn't leave me alone. Ever. If I walk home, he walks with me. If I sit somewhere quiet, he appears like he's been summoned. People say I'm lucky. They say he's protective. I don't know the difference between protection and being trapped. Sometimes he smiles at me and my chest tightens sharper than usual. Sometimes I want him to stop talking. Sometimes I want him to stay. I don't know which feeling is which. I don't know if what he calls love is what I feel, or if what I feel is nothing at all. *** Maeve O'Neill ruined me the second I saw her. Not in a loud way. Quiet. Permanent. She doesn't say much, but I don't need words from her. I'll read the silences. I'll fill the gaps. I'll love her enough for both of us if I have to. Even when she looks at me like she's trying to solve a puzzle and can't find the edges, I don't get angry. I get patient. I can wait. I don't care if it costs me. I don't care if it hurts. I'll protect her. I'll help her. I'll stay beside her until she understands what love is-or until I disappear trying.

Caden Holland. Honest to God - if trouble had a face, it'd be his. Always arguing. Always correcting. Like he's convinced he's the smartest lad in the room, even when he's talking pure shite. He's got those eyes - dark, quiet, watching everything but never giving anything back. You'd swear he's judging you for breathing wrong. And people talk, don't they? Junkie. Dealer. Bad news. All whispered, but loud enough so you know exactly who they're on about. So I've promised myself one thing: stay away. No smiles. No chats. No pity. Because lads like him drag storms behind them - and you don't even realise you're drowning until you're already under. He's dangerous. Not the loud, show-off kind. The quiet kind. The kind that makes you feel seen and threatened all at once. And I swear on my life - I'm not getting pulled into whatever darkness follows Caden Holland around. *** Mallory Lynch. The name alone sits wrong in my mouth, like something sour. Daughter of the man who put my da behind bars - that's what I was raised on. Fact, not feeling. She doesn't look like danger. That's the trick. She laughs too easily, tilts her head when she listens, pretends she doesn't see the way rooms shift when she walks in. There's a crack in her somewhere. You can hear it if you listen past the cool-girl act. A quiet panic. Secrets rattling around behind her ribs. My plan? Simple. Keep my head. Stay patient. People like her eventually show you who they really are. And when she does - when the truth cracks wide open - I'll be there to watch the Lynch name drop lower than ours ever did. Not out of anger. Out of balance. Because Mallory Lynch smiles like she has nothing to hide - and I know for a fact she's hiding everything.

Brian O'Neill. The coldest fella Tommen's has ever seen-or so they say. And I get it. He walks down the halls like he owns the place, never says much unless he has to, face like it's carved out of marble, always unreadable. He's like a winter prince-untouchable, a bit terrifying, and way too beautiful to be real. But he's mine. He's my boyfriend. He makes my heart beat like a bloody war drum every time he so much as looks at me with that stormy gaze of his. Protective to a fault. He'd burn the whole world down if it meant keeping his siblings safe. They're everything to him-his whole bleeding heart, even if he acts like he hasn't got one. And he fights. Not schoolyard scuffles. Not rugby scraps. I'm talking about underground, illegal fights. The kind you don't talk about. The kind you pray he walks away from. *** Daisy Biggs. If sunshine had a body and a runway walk, it'd be her. She's Ireland's it girl-covers of magazines, Vogue campaigns, CHANEL deals before she was even out of third year. Everyone knows her name. Every girl wants to be her, and every lad stares a bit too long when she walks past. But she's mine. She's my girlfriend. Yeah-me. The cold bastard with blood on his knuckles and bruises under his hoodie. I don't know how I pulled her, honest to God. Maybe 'cause she sees something in me no one else bothers to look for. But we keep it quiet. No one at Tommen's knows. Can't risk the papers finding out, or the other students. She's soft with me. Gentle in a way that makes me forget I've got cuts across my ribs or a busted lip. When I show up to her place, bleeding or shaking or just not right in the head after a fight, she never freaks. She just pulls me in, cleans me up, and wraps her arms around me like I'm something worth saving. I know she hates the fights. Hates what they do to me. Hates what I have to do to win. But what am I supposed to do? When you've got a da who treats you like a weapon, you learn real quick that choices are a luxury.

Brendan Clearly. He was the lad I liked since I was barely out of pigtails, the one who never slagged me off when the rest of the boys thought it was gas. He was different. Always smiling, always asking me if I'd eaten, like some little mammy trapped in a seventeen-year-old fella's body. It sounds stupid, but those tiny things kept me going. And then I went and wrecked it. Not just with him-no, I managed to shatter it with all of them. My friends, the ones who made the halls feel less lonely, the ones who kept me tethered here when the world felt too heavy. Gone. Because of me. Just a mistake, that's all it was, but a mistake that cost me everything. And now when I see him across the yard, laughing with the others, it's like a knife. He doesn't even look my way. And I deserve that, don't I? *** Caoimhe Kavanagh. Once upon a time she was my best mate. The kind of girl you'd sit on a wall with for hours, talking about nothing and everything. She was soft, kind, never the type to go looking for trouble. But now? I hardly recognise her. She's gone cold, sharp, always hanging 'round with that crowd-the type of people you know are only bad news. Ciggies tucked in their sleeves, mouths full of poison. And she's right there in the middle of it, like she belongs to them now. Part of me wants to write her off, tell myself she's not the Caoimhe I knew. That girl's dead and gone. But... I can't. I remember too much. The way she used to laugh, the way she'd defend you even when you were being a gobshite, the way she cared more than she ever let on. That's still inside her, I swear it is. I don't care how hard she tries to hide behind the mask she's wearing now-I know my friend is in there somewhere. And I'll drag her back if I have to. Because she's worth it.

Finn Gibson. Number seven on the rugby team. A gentleman, proper like. Always opening doors and saying things like "after you" and "you alright there?" in this soft voice that somehow makes you feel seen. He's funny too - not the show-off type of funny, more the kind where you're halfway through laughing before you realise it was even a joke. Real clever wit, quiet like. It's not fair, honestly. And he drums, like actually properly drums, not just tapping out rhythms on the school desk like every other lad in Tommen. He's in a band and all. Do I like him? Yeah. I like him loads. More than I should. But this isn't that kind of story. I come from a house where everything's heavy. Where things crack and break and no one says sorry. Where nice things don't last, and if you want something - really want something - it gets used against you. You don't let your heart out in a place like mine. You learn to nod and keep quiet and do what Da says, even when you hate it, even when it's wrong. That's just how it is. So when Finn looks at me like I matter - really, properly matter - I want to believe it. I want to tell him I think about him when I fall asleep. So yeah. I like Finn Gibson. But liking someone like him... it feels like trying to hold light in your hand. Beautiful. Impossible. *** Mina O'Neill. Jesus, I don't even know where to start with her. She's the most beautiful human being I've ever seen in my life, and I mean that with my whole chest. She moves like she doesn't even touch the ground. A ballerina, and not the stuck-up kind either. She's always working, always rehearsing, and when she talks about dance, it's like watching someone light up from the inside. And me? I'm just... me. Watching her from the side of things. Hoping. I think she knows. I know she knows. She's not daft. But there's something holding her back. I don't know what. Maybe it's me. Maybe it's something in her life I don't see. But I'm not giving up.

Aidan Feely. One of the most mysterious lads I've ever come across. He's got this quiet, brooding energy, like he's always a step removed from the chaos around him. Tall and lean, with that messy, dark hair that always seems perfectly tousled, as if he's just rolled out of bed and still somehow looks better than half the school. His green eyes - God, those eyes - sharp and intense, like he can see straight through you. I know boys are meant to be handsome, rugged, all that, but Aidan is just... beautiful. Long, dark lashes that half the girls in school would kill for, and a jawline that looks like it was carved from marble. He never says more than he has to, rarely smiles, and when he does, it's this rare, fleeting thing that makes my heart skip a beat. And I'm falling. Hard. But there's a problem. A massive one. I have a boyfriend. And he's nothing like Aidan. *** Sophie Quinn. The girl I've been losing my mind over for the past year. She's this whirlwind of chaos and laughter, the type of girl who lights up a room just by walking into it. She's got that wild, curly hair that never quite does what it's told, a laugh that echoes around the halls, and these eyes - bright and full of life - that catch the light in the best possible way. But here's the kicker - she has a boyfriend. Some tosser who doesn't deserve her. I see him around, loud and arrogant, one of those lads who thinks the world owes him something just because he can kick a ball straight. And it grates at me. I catch him throwing his arm around her, whispering in her ear, and it takes everything in me not to pull him off and tell him to keep his hands to himself. Not that I'd ever say it out loud, but I want her. More than I should. And I know she's starting to notice. The way I lean in a bit closer when she talks, the way my gaze lingers when she brushes past me. She's catching on, I can feel it. And I don't care about her boyfriend, not even a little. Because in the end, I'm going to have her.

Rory Kavanagh. The best rugby player Tommen has ever seen-well, besides his da, obviously. Johnny Kavanagh. The Johnny Kavanagh. Our parents are basically joint at the hip, best mates since they were kids. And naturally, me and Rory just... became mates too. That's the deal. That's what we said we'd be. Friends. Right? Friends. But like-come on. Have you seen him? His abs? That man has a six-pack like he's sculpted from marble. His hair? Brown and silky, like-like a shampoo ad or somethin'. And those eyes? The kind of blue that makes you forget your own name. I swear to God, I'm not even being dramatic. So yeah... maybe I've a teeny, tiny, miniscule crush on him. Can you blame me? No. No, you can't. I won't hear it. But I'm not saying a thing. No way. What if he just laughs? That'd kill me. So for now, I'll just pretend I don't stare at him for longer than is normal when he talks. For now, it's just friendship. Grand. ...But what if he does feel the same? *** Bethany Gibson. Jaysus. She's been my best friend since we were in playschool, like actually since nappies. She's pure chaos-loud, mad, always in trouble for something-but I wouldn't change a thing about her. Not one thing. She's class. Gorgeous too. Not just like "oh she's grand," no-proper gorgeous. Her blonde curls bounce when she laughs, and I swear it's like the sun's just following her around. Her eyes? Silver. Like not even grey-silver, like a flipping fairy or something. Every time she looks at me, I forget what I was saying. Which is not ideal when you're trying to seem normal, right? I've fancied her since I was about seven. Maybe six. But what am I supposed to do? Tell her? What if she just laughs and goes, "Ah you're gas," and then pats me on the head like I'm some lost puppy? I'd actually evaporate from shame. But then again... what if she does like me back? What if all this time I was too scared to see it?