The kitchen in the student house on Dublin’s south side was a sweaty, pulsing beast of a room. The air was thick with the scent of cheap vodka, spilled lager, and the lingering tang of burnt toast. Bodies crammed into every corner, laughter and shouts ricocheting off the chipped tiles. Caoimhe, a wide-eyed 22-year-old fresh from the rolling hills of Tyrone, stood near the sink, clutching a plastic cup of something suspiciously neon. She’d come to university to “find herself,” whatever that meant, but right now, she felt like a lamb in a den of wolves. Her breakup back home had left her raw, and this chaotic class night out was her first real stab at mingling with her peers. She tugged at the hem of her borrowed denim skirt, feeling every bit the country girl out of her depth.
Taking a deep breath, she sidled up to a cluster of girls near the fridge, their chatter sharp and fast like machine-gun fire. “Hiya, I’m Caoimhe,” she said, her Northern accent cutting through the Dublin drawl. “Just started here. I’m from Tyrone, up North.”
The tallest of the group, a striking woman with a razor-sharp bob and a leather jacket that screamed trouble, turned with a grin that could’ve melted steel. Her name was Niamh, and she carried herself like she owned the damn room. “Tyrone, eh?” she drawled, her voice low and teasing as her green eyes flicked over Caoimhe from head to toe, taking inventory. “Well, aren’t you a fresh little thing. I’m Niamh, and I’ve got a bit of a... personal mission you might find interesting.”
Caoimhe blinked, caught off guard by the intensity of Niamh’s gaze. “Oh? And what’s that?” she asked, sipping her drink to mask the nervous flutter in her chest.
Niamh leaned in, her smirk widening as the other girls around them snickered, clearly in on whatever was coming. “I’ve made it my goal to sleep with a woman from every county in Ireland. Got the whole map nearly filled out. All except one.” She paused for effect, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Tyrone.”
The words hit Caoimhe like a slap, and she nearly choked on her drink. “You’re... you’re joking,” she sputtered, her cheeks flaming as she tried to laugh it off. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
Niamh didn’t flinch. Instead, she pulled out her phone with a flourish, her long fingers swiping across the screen. “Not a joke, love. Have a gander.” She tilted the phone toward Caoimhe, revealing a digital map of Ireland, each county marked with a tiny pin—and attached to most pins were photos. Risqué, suggestive photos of women in various states of undress, some winking at the camera, others caught mid-laugh with a lover’s arm slung around them. Caoimhe’s jaw dropped, a mix of horror and morbid fascination twisting in her gut.
“Jesus Christ on a bike,” Caoimhe muttered, stepping back as if the phone might bite. “You’ve got a whole... bloody scrapbook of shags? That’s unhinged.”
Niamh threw her head back and laughed, a rich, throaty sound that turned heads across the kitchen. “Unhinged? Nah, just dedicated. I like a challenge. And you, Tyrone, are looking like my final frontier.” Her gaze lingered on Caoimhe’s flushed face, then dipped lower, tracing the curve of her hips with shameless intent. “What d’you say? Fancy helping me complete the set?”
Caoimhe’s mouth opened, then snapped shut as she scrambled for a comeback. She wasn’t used to this—back home, flirtation was a shy glance across the pub, not a full-frontal assault. But she wasn’t about to let this brazen Dublin devil get the upper hand. Straightening her spine, she crossed her arms and shot Niamh a glare. “Sorry, love, but I’m not a trophy for your weird little game. You’ll have to keep hunting for your Tyrone tick. Try Tinder, maybe?”
The other girls burst into laughter, and Niamh’s grin only widened, unfazed. “Oh, I like you. Got a bit of bite, don’t ya? Fair enough, I’ll play the long game if I have to.” She winked, slow and deliberate, before tucking her phone away. “But mark my words, Caoimhe from Tyrone, I don’t give up easy.”
Caoimhe rolled her eyes, trying to ignore the way her pulse had kicked up a notch. “Good luck with that,” she muttered, turning to grab another drink from the counter. Her hands shook slightly as she poured, Niamh’s words—and that damn wink—looping in her head. Part of her wanted to bolt for the door, to escape this madhouse of a party and the unsettling heat of Niamh’s stare. But another part, smaller and more reckless, urged her to stay. She wasn’t about to let one cocky woman scare her off on her first big night out. Besides, she needed friends, didn’t she? Or at least the illusion of them.
“Oi, Tyrone!” Niamh’s voice cut through her thoughts, playful but edged with challenge. She was leaning against the fridge now, a fresh beer in hand, watching Caoimhe like a cat eyeing a particularly skittish mouse. “You’re not running off already, are ya? Night’s just getting started. Stick around—I promise I don’t bite... unless you ask nicely.”
Caoimhe shot her a withering look over her shoulder, but the corners of her mouth twitched despite herself. “Dream on, Niamh. I’m staying, but not for your daft map. I’m here for the craic, not to be your next pin-up.”
Niamh raised her beer in a mock toast, her smirk never faltering. “We’ll see about that, love. We’ll see.”
The night spiraled from there, a blur of laughter, shouted conversations, and far too many drinks. Caoimhe let herself get swept up in the chaos, trading jabs with Niamh and the other girls, her unease drowned in neon liquor and the thrum of bad house music. But beneath the surface, a current of tension simmered. Every time Niamh’s gaze caught hers across the crowded kitchen, it carried a promise—or a threat. Caoimhe couldn’t decide which. And as the hours bled into a hazy dawn, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d just stumbled into something she wasn’t quite ready for. Something that might just unravel her carefully patched-up heart.
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