The kitchen of the Dublin student flat was a chaotic symphony of clinking beer bottles, raucous laughter, and the sticky scent of spilled lager. Fairy lights draped haphazardly over cabinets cast a warm, hazy glow over the crowd of university students, their voices a drunken hum that pulsed through the cramped space. Caoimhe, a 22-year-old with wide, curious eyes and a cascade of chestnut hair, squeezed through the throng, clutching a half-empty bottle of Bulmers. It was her first class night out since starting at Trinity, and the buzz of nerves and excitement danced in her chest. Hailing from Tyrone, she was eager to shed the small-town label and carve out a place among her new peers.
She spotted a cluster of girls near the sink, their laughter sharp and infectious, and mustered the courage to approach. “Hiya, I’m Caoimhe,” she said, her Northern lilt cutting through the din. “Just started on the English Lit course. I’m from Tyrone, bit of a trek to get down here.”
The group turned, appraising her with quick, friendly smiles—except for one. Niamh, a striking woman with cropped black hair and a smirk that could cut glass, leaned against the counter, her leather jacket slung over one shoulder. Her piercing green eyes locked onto Caoimhe with an intensity that made the air crackle. “Tyrone, eh?” Niamh drawled, her Dublin accent thick and teasing. “Well, aren’t you a rare breed in these parts. I’m Niamh, by the way. And I’ve got a bit of a… project, you might say, that involves every county in Ireland.”
Caoimhe tilted her head, curious despite the predatory glint in Niamh’s gaze. “Oh? And what’s that, then?”
Niamh’s smirk widened into something downright devilish as she straightened up, closing the distance between them with a casual swagger. “Let’s just say I’ve made it my mission to, ah, get acquainted with a woman from every county on this fine island. Got a near-full set, too. All except one.” Her eyes roamed over Caoimhe, lingering on the curve of her hips with unabashed appreciation. “Care to guess which one I’m missing?”
Caoimhe’s cheeks flushed, her grip tightening on her bottle as she caught the implication. She let out a nervous laugh, trying to brush it off. “You’re having me on. That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Oh, I’m deadly serious, darlin’,” Niamh purred, whipping out her phone with a flourish. She tapped the screen, pulling up a map of Ireland dotted with tiny, suggestive thumbnails—risqué photos of women, each pinned to a different county. She held it up for Caoimhe to see, her voice dripping with mischief. “See? I don’t mess about. Got my Leitrim lass, my Galway girl, even a feisty one from Wicklow. But Tyrone? That’s a blank space just begging to be filled.”
Caoimhe’s jaw dropped, her eyes darting between the phone and Niamh’s smug expression. The other girls in the group snickered, clearly in on the game, but Caoimhe wasn’t about to let herself be rattled so easily. She squared her shoulders, her Tyrone grit kicking in, and shot back, “Well, you’ll have to keep looking, won’t you? I’m not some trophy to be ticked off your little map. You’re barking up the wrong tree, love.”
Niamh’s laugh was low and throaty, her gaze never wavering. “Oh, I like a challenge. And you’ve got fire, Caoimhe. Makes it all the more tempting.” She leaned in just a fraction, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t worry, I’m a patient hunter. Tyrone’s worth the wait.”
Caoimhe felt a shiver skitter down her spine, equal parts irritation and something she couldn’t quite name. She stepped back, folding her arms across her chest as if to shield herself from Niamh’s unrelenting charm. “You’re a chancer, Niamh. Keep your map and your games. I’m here to make mates, not be your next conquest.”
“Fair enough,” Niamh said, raising her hands in mock surrender, though the playful wink she tossed Caoimhe’s way suggested she wasn’t done by a long shot. “Stick around, though. Night’s young, and I’m not the only one who bites.” She turned to the group, seamlessly rejoining their banter, but Caoimhe felt the weight of her stare lingering like a touch.
Unsettled but determined not to let Niamh get under her skin, Caoimhe forced a smile and stayed put, joining in the laughter as someone cranked up the music—some godawful Eurodance track that had everyone shouting the lyrics. She downed the rest of her Bulmers, the sharp cider doing little to cool the heat prickling at the back of her neck. Niamh’s words echoed in her mind, a challenge wrapped in velvet, and though Caoimhe told herself she wasn’t interested, a tiny part of her wondered just how far this game might go.
As the night spiraled into a blur of spilled drinks, terrible dance moves, and slurred conversations, Caoimhe found herself loosening up, her earlier unease buried beneath layers of liquor and newfound camaraderie. But every so often, she’d catch Niamh’s eye across the room—that wicked, knowing glint promising trouble. And deep down, Caoimhe knew this was only the beginning of something she couldn’t quite predict.
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