Ryan leaned back in his folding chair, the wood creaking under his weight. His finger traced a knot in the pine table. "It wasn't just a famine," he said, his voice carrying over the thump of the bodhrán. "It was a removal. A policy. You don't export food from an island where people are eating grass unless you've decided some people are worth more than others."

His sipped the shot of Redbreast, the whiskey a warm line down his throat. His eyes were fixed on some middle distance, past the dancers and the hanging lanterns.

Riley watched him. She’d stopped trying to follow the reel steps. She stood at the edge of the dance floor, her green dress damp at the small of her back from the heat and the movement, her breath still coming fast. She watched the way his jaw worked, the serious set of his mouth, the intensity in his eyes that had nothing to do with the alcohol.

"They were tenants," Ryan continued, turning the bottle in his hands. "The land wasn't theirs. So when the blight hit, the choice was rent or food. And if you couldn't pay the rent?" He looked at her then, finally. "You were out. Onto the road, or into the coffin ship. A million people. Gone. Not just starved. Erased."

He said it not with his old anger, but with a grim, settled certainty. It was history, in him. A lived thing.

Riley felt a flush that had nothing to do with the packed hall. It started low in her stomach, a slow, warm curl. It was the confidence. The quiet, unshakable knowledge. He wasn't reciting a textbook. He was testifying.

She walked back to the table, the noise of the céilí fading into a buzz around the space they occupied. She slid into the chair beside him, close enough that her knee brushed his under the table.

"Tell me," she said. Her voice was softer than she intended.

Ryan’s gaze dropped to her mouth, then back to her eyes. A faint, almost imperceptible shake of his head. "You don't want a history lesson tonight."

"I do," she said, and she meant it. She reached for the bottle, her fingers brushing his as she took it. She didn't drink. She just held its weight. "I want your history lesson."

He watched her hand on the glass. A long silence stretched between them, filled by the distant shout of the caller and the stomp of boots. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, closer. "They carried the language with them. And the music. That's what they couldn't take. You can put a people on a starving ship, but you can't stop them from remembering the tune."

He nodded toward the band, now launching into a raucous, driving version of "Drink and Fight." "It sounds like a party. It is a party.”

A smile touched his lips then, the first real one she'd seen all night. It was proud, and sad, and alive.

Riley's breath caught. The feeling in her chest was too big. It was admiration, and a fierce, protective love, and a pure, sharp desire to kiss that knowing right off his face. She leaned in. The scent of wool and whiskey and him filled her senses.

"Dance with me," she said. It wasn't a question.

He didn't hesitate. Ryan stood, the chair scraping back, and took her hand. His grip was sure, his palm warm and rough against hers. He led her back into the throng, not to the edge this time, but into the heart of it, where the floorboards shook.

The driving guitar and furious fiddle of "Drink and Fight" swallowed them whole. Ryan didn't just move to it; he answered it. His steps were heavy, deliberate stomps that matched the drumbeat, his shoulders rolling with a contained, powerful rhythm she'd never seen in him before. It wasn't the practiced step-dance of the others. It was something older, more primal. A release.

Riley watched him, her own dancing forgotten for a moment. The fire in his eyes from his history lesson was now in his blood, in his bones. The shy, reclusive boy was gone. In his place was this young man, solid and sure, moving with a confidence that stole the air from her lungs.

He caught her staring and grinned, a wild, free thing. He reached for her, pulling her into the circle of his movement. His hands found her hips, guiding her into the rhythm with him. "Like this," he said, his voice a rumble in her ear beneath the music.

She followed, letting the music and his hands steer her. They spun, they stomped, they laughed as they bumped into others who laughed right back. The green of her dress flashed, the black of his IRA shirt darkened with sweat. She could feel the heat coming off him in waves.

When the song crashed to its end, they were breathless, chests heaving, pressed together in the crowd. The noise around them was a roar. Ryan's forehead dropped against hers, damp and cool. His eyes were closed, his smile still there, softer now.

The band shifted into a slower, mournful reel. The crowd sighed, partners drawing closer, the frenzy melting into a sway. Ryan's hands slid from her hips to the small of her back, holding her there. They didn't leave the floor. They just began to move together, a slow, turning orbit in the center of the room.

Riley rested her head against his shoulder. The wool of his shirt scratched her cheek. She could hear his heart, a steady, strong drumbeat against the fiddle's cry. His hand spread wide on her back, a point of absolute warmth.

"You're different tonight," she said into the fabric.

He was quiet for a full rotation. "I am always different on Saint Patricks Day" he blurted out. His voice was low, just for her. “I'm in a pub, with a beautiful wee las at my side. What more could in Irsh boy want."

“O’Connor,” he growled, his head reaching for the celing, his fist above his head. The name a low, proud rumble in his chest. Not anger. Possession. Heritage. A flag planted in the swirling, smoky air.

She lifted her head to look at him. The raw feeling in his voice was new. The fiddle wept, the drum kept a slow, patient march.

“What does this Irish boy want?” she asked, repeating his words back, her voice soft.

His eyes opened. They were clear, the earlier wildness banked to a steady glow. “This,” he said simply. His hand pressed a little firmer against her spine. “Just this. The music., and you, maybe another shot!”

He guided them in another slow turn. She saw the room over his shoulder—the blurred faces, the hanging lanterns, the condensation on the windows holding back the deep Alaskan dark. It was a world contained. A world he’d claimed.

“My dad.. haha, …He’d have a 7 and 7 in his hand right now. He’d be telling some ridiculous story about County Cork to anyone who’d listen. Which was everyone.”

Riley stayed quiet. She just listened, her body moving with his.

“…but Tonight isn't about Gordon O'connor. It's about you and me, and this kicking irsh rock.”

He looked down at her.

“Wanna get shots” Riley asks

“Desperetly” Ryan responded “… but you don't drink.”

“I don’t drink whiskey,”

Riley took both of Ryan’s hands and gave a playful tug toward the bar. Her smile was a dare, her fingers laced tight with his, pulling him through the crowd of stomping boots and swinging arms.

He followed, the warmth of her grip cutting through the pleasant fog in his head. The bartender, a burly man with a red beard, saw them coming and raised a thick eyebrow.

“Two shots,” Riley said to the bartender, her voice cutting through the din. “Whiskey for him. Patrón for me.”

The bartender nodded, pulling two glasses. Ryan watched Riley, the way she stood on her toes to lean over the polished wood, confident and sure. She paid with a crumpled ten from her jeans pocket.

He took the whiskey glass she handed him. The liquid was the color of old honey. She held the clear tequila, her green dress a bright spot in the smoky light.

“To not drinking whiskey,” she said, lifting her glass.

“Sláinte” Ryan responed, and they clinked glasses. He threw his back, the familiar burn a welcome anchor. Riley tipped her head back, the line of her throat pale and smooth, and downed the tequila in one clean swallow. She set the glass down with a decisive click, her eyes bright and clear.

“Where did you pick that poison up?” Ryan asked, leaning into the bar. The warmth from the shot was spreading through his chest, mixing with the warmth of her hand still in his.

“My cousin’s wedding in Tucson,” she said, wiping the corner of her mouth with her thumb. “It was a hundred and ten degrees, and the only thing cold was the tequila. I hated it the first time. The second time, it made sense.”

He watched her talk, the way her hands sketched the memory in the air. The heat, the desert, a life so far from this pub in the Alaskan cold. She contained multitudes, this girl in a green dress.

“Would you like another history lesson?” Ryan asked, his voice low and warm from the whiskey.

Riley leaned her hip against the bar, her shoulder pressing into his. “Always.”

He stared into his empty glass. “The whiskey. The tequila. There’s a battalion for that. The Saint Patrick’s Battalion. Los San Patricios.”

“Mexican and Irish,” she said, connecting the drinks.

“Yeah. During the Mexican-American War. Irish immigrants deserted the U.S. Army. They switched sides to fight for Mexico.”

“Why?”

“The U.S. treated them like garbage. Catholic, poor, seen as less than human. Mexico offered them land, citizenship. A chance to be something more than cannon fodder.” His thumb traced the rim of his glass. “They fought under a green flag with the Mexican eagle and a harp. They were the last unit to fall at the Battle of Chapultepec.”

Riley was quiet, listening to the space between his words. The fiddle music from the other room felt distant now.

“What happened to them?”

“The ones who were captured were branded on the cheek with a ‘D’ for deserter. Then they were hanged.” Ryan looked at her. “They chose a side. Even when it was the losing side. They chose to be men, not property.”

She reached out and touched his cheek, her fingers cool against his warm skin. Not where a brand would be. Just a touch. “You see yourself in every lost cause, Ryan O’Connor.”

He leaned into her touch, his eyes holding hers in the smoky light. “I’m a hopeless romantic, Riley. For times past. The old west. ‘The Troubles’ in ’70s Ireland. The pioneers who froze building this state. I read about them and I… I long for it.”

“Long for what?” Her voice was soft, her thumb still on his cheek.

“For something to believe in that hard. For a fight that means something. For a love you’d freeze for. Not this… plastic world.”

Riley’s hand slid from his cheek to the back of his neck. Her eyes were dark, her breath a visible cloud between them in the cold air of the entryway. “Call a cab,” she said, her voice low.

He didn’t ask why. He pulled out his phone, his fingers clumsy, and ordered the ride. The wait was five minutes. They stood in silence, the thump of the music from the main room a distant heartbeat. She kept her hand on his neck, her thumb moving in slow circles against his hairline.

The cab was an old sedan that smelled of pine air freshener and cold vinyl. They sat in the back. Riley didn’t let go of his hand. She laced her fingers through his and looked out the window at the passing darkness, Fairbanks swallowed by the long night. Her grip was tight, purposeful.

Inside their apartment, the quiet was a physical thing after the pub crawl. The heater clicked on. Riley kicked off her boots, the sound loud in the stillness. She shrugged out of her green coat and let it drop to the floor.

Ryan fumbled with his phone, the screen too bright in the dark apartment. He tapped it, and the raw, driving chords of Flogging Molly’s “Drunken Lullabies” crashed into the quiet. He looked up.

Riley stood in the middle of the living room, completely naked. The green dress was a puddle at her feet. The light from the kitchen caught the curve of her shoulder, the dip of her waist, the pale skin of her thighs. Her eyes weren’t playful. They held a fire, a direct, unwavering challenge.

The music swelled. Ryan’s breath stopped. He was still half-drunk, the world soft at the edges, but this was a blade cutting through the haze.

She didn’t move toward him. She just stood there, letting him look. Her chest rose and fell with a steady rhythm. The heat from the vent brushed her skin, making the fine hairs on her arms stand briefly before settling.

“You want a fight that means something?” Her voice was clear over the music. “A love you’d freeze for?”

He couldn’t speak. He nodded, a slow, dumb movement.

“Then come here.”

He stood, his legs unsteady. He crossed the room, the worn carpet under his socks. He stopped a foot from her. He could feel the warmth coming off her body. She smelled like woodsmoke and cold night air and something uniquely her.

Her hand came up. Not to touch his face this time. Her fingers found the hem of his I.R.A. t-shirt. She gripped it. “This is a symbol,” she said. “Take it off.”

He obeyed, pulling it over his head, his arms tangling for a second before he tossed it aside. The air was cool on his skin.

Her gaze traveled over his chest, his stomach. It wasn’t a look of assessment. It was acceptance. Her fingers traced the pale, healing scar near his temple, the one from the surgery. Then her palm flattened over his heart. She could feel it hammering.

“You are not a lost cause,” she said, each word deliberate. “You are not a story in a book. You’re here. With me.”

His hands found her hips. The skin was impossibly soft. He’d never touched her like this, without barrier. His thumbs brushed the sharp points of her hip bones. She shivered, but her eyes never left his.

“I chose a side, Ryan,” she whispered. Her hands came up to frame his face. “I’m choosing it right now. This. You.”

He bent his head and kissed her. It wasn’t like the kiss in the lake house. That had been a question. This was an answer. Her mouth opened under his, warm and sure. Her fingers slid into his hair, holding him to her.

The music played on, a frantic, joyful noise. He walked her backward, slowly, until her knees hit the edge of the couch. She sank down, pulling him with her. He followed, bracing himself above her, his weight on his forearms.

He kissed her throat, the hollow at its base. He kissed the slope of her breast, and she arched into his mouth with a sharp intake of breath. Her skin was salty. Real. This was not a dream of pioneers or rebels. This was a girl, breathing hard beneath him, her heart a wild drum against his lips.

“Look at me,” she breathed.

He lifted his head. Her fire had softened into something deeper, a vast and tender certainty. In her eyes, he didn’t see a hopeless romantic. He saw a man. Hers.

He lowered himself, fitting his body to hers. Skin to skin. The length of her was warm and solid against him. She wrapped her legs around his waist, anchoring him there. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, breathing her in. The fight was gone. The longing was gone. There was only this quiet, perfect weight, and the two of them, finally home.

The moan started low in her chest, a deep, resonant sound that vibrated against his lips where they pressed to her throat. It wasn’t sharp or surprised. It was a long, surrendering exhale, a release of everything held tight. It filled the space between the frantic guitar chords from the speakers, a private music just for them.

He stilled, listening to the end of it, feeling it fade into a sigh against his ear.

“Ryan.”

His name. Just his name. It was a question, a statement, a plea, all at once.

He shifted, just enough to look at her. Her eyes were dark, pupils wide, reflecting the flicker of the distant stove light. Her cheeks were flushed. She bit her lower lip, then let it go. A silent invitation.

He kissed her again, slower now. His hand slid from her hip, up the curve of her waist, his palm learning the landscape of her. Her ribs. The soft swell of her breast. Her skin was so warm. He cupped her, his thumb brushing over her nipple, and she gasped into his mouth, her back arching off the couch cushions.

“Okay?” he whispered against her lips.

Her answer was to guide his hand, to show him. Her touch was sure, teaching him the pressure she liked. Her eyes stayed open, watching his face as he watched his own hand on her body. The intimacy of it was staggering. More than the kiss. More than the skin.

He lowered his head and took her nipple into his mouth. Her hands fisted in his hair, not pushing, just holding on. Her breath came in short, sharp pants. He could feel the frantic beat of her heart under his tongue.

“I want you,” she said, the words rushed, almost desperate. “I want all of you.”

He froze for a second, the reality of it crashing over him. The whiskey had long ago drowned any of Ryans apprehensions.

She felt the tension lock his muscles. Her hands gentled, sliding from his hair to cradle his jaw. She made him look at her.

He drove into her, hard and fast. The world narrowed to the slick, hot clench of her body, the sharp cry that tore from her throat, the way her legs locked around his hips. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, breathing in the scent of her sweat and the faint, clean smell of her shampoo.

“Ryan.”

His name again. A prayer this time.

He stilled, trembling, buried deep inside her. The frantic pace faltered, shattered by the sheer reality of where he was. He was inside Riley. The thought was a lightning strike, blinding and absolute.

Her hands smoothed over his back, over the old cotton of his t-shirt. Her touch was slow, deliberate, bringing him back from the edge of panic. She pressed a kiss to his temple, her lips soft and lingering.

“Look at me,” she whispered.

He lifted his head. Her eyes were clear, focused entirely on his. There was no fear in them. Only a steady, unwavering certainty. She shifted her hips, a subtle, intimate adjustment, and he gasped.

“It’s just us,” she said. Her voice was low, a thread of sound in the quiet cabin. “Okay? It’s just you and me.”

He nodded, unable to speak. The whiskey haze was gone, burned away by a sharper, cleaner fire. He began to move again, not with the frantic hunger of before, but with a slow, deep rhythm. He watched her face. Every shift of her expression was a map he was learning by heart.

Her breath hitched. Her eyelids fluttered. A soft moan escaped her as he angled his hips, finding a place that made her fingers dig into his shoulders. He did it again. And again.

The only sounds were their breathing, the soft, wet slide of their bodies, the occasional creak of the old couch. The distant music from the céilí was a ghost now, a memory of another world. This was the only world. Her skin under his hands. The heat between them. The way she looked at him, like he was the answer to a question she’d been asking her whole life.

Her climax built quietly. A tension in her thighs. A catch in her throat that became a broken sigh. She tightened around him, a slow, pulsing wave, and her eyes never left his. He saw the exact moment she let go, the surrender that was also a victory.

It undid him.

The wave of his release hit him like a physical blow, a white-hot current that ripped the air from his lungs and the strength from his limbs. His vision tunneled, the world narrowing to the feel of her, the sound of his own ragged gasp against her neck. He collapsed onto her, a dead weight, his body shuddering through the aftershocks.

“Whoa,” Riley breathed beneath him, her hands coming up to cradle his head. “Easy. I’ve got you.”

He couldn’t speak. Could barely think. The room tilted, then righted itself. The scent of her skin and songs of his heritage

Slowly, carefully, he rolled to the side, pulling her with him so they lay tangled on the narrow couch. The cold air hit the damp skin of his back, a sharp contrast to the furnace heat between them. He kept his arms around her, his face buried in her hair.

Her fingers traced idle patterns on his shoulder, over the stretched fabric of his t-shirt. They lay in silence for a long time, listening to the settling cabin, to the slowing rhythm of their hearts.

“Ryan?” Her voice was a whisper against his chest.

“Hmm?”

“You okay?”

He took a deep, shaky breath. “I think I died.”

She laughed, a soft, warm puff of air. “You didn’t die.”

“Felt like it.” He finally lifted his head to look at her. Her hair a wild, beautiful mess against the worn cushion. Her cheeks were flushed. She looked utterly real. “In a good way.”

She smiled, reaching up to brush a stray curl from his forehead. Her touch was so tender it made his throat tight. “Good.”

The distant thump of the céilí music was completely gone now. The only celebration was here, in this quiet. He became aware of the sticky dampness cooling on his stomach, the unfamiliar weight of his own spent body. He’d never been so physically exposed to another person. He’d never felt so safe.

“I’m a mess,” he murmured, stating a fact.

“We’re a mess,” she corrected, her nose wrinkling. She shifted, wincing slightly as he slipped out of her. The loss of contact felt monumental. She sat up, pulling her sweater down, and looked around the dim cabin.

He watched her stand, her movements a little unsteady, and pad across the cold floorboards. A door creaked open. A light flickered on, casting a yellow rectangle into the main room.

He lay there, staring at the rough-hewn ceiling beams. His brain, usually a whirl of analysis and doubt, was quiet. Not the terrifying quiet of the hospital, the quiet of being erased. This was a full quiet. A peaceful quiet. The kind that comes after a long, hard truth has finally been spoken.

She returned with a damp washcloth, warm from the tap. She didn’t hand it to him. She sat on the edge of the couch and, with a focused gentleness, cleaned him. The act was so intimate, so shockingly caring, that he had to close his eyes.

When she was done, she tossed the cloth toward the fireplace and curled back into him, her head on his shoulder. He pulled the wool blanket from the back of the couch over them both.

Outside, the deep Alaskan cold pressed against the windows. Inside, they were warm. “Just you and me,” he whispered into her hair, echoing her words, making them a promise.

He dreamed of her in a haze of warmth and whiskey. Riley, in the green dress, moving slow to the twang of Toby Keith. Not dancing, but peeling. A strip tease just for him, her smile soft, her eyes holding his as each piece fell. It wasn’t frantic. It was a gift. He fell asleep inside that dream, blissfully.