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She laughs, delighted with herself. “Oh, don’t pretend ya didn’t see it. The poor man didn’t know what hit him.”

“I ken not of what ye speak,” I snap, which only makes her laugh harder. Worse, a small huff of laughter escapes me before I can swallow it.

Róisín lights up at that, delighted. “Aye? If you didn’t see it, then I’m Saint Brigid herself.” She leans in, voice dropping to a stage whisper. “And if looks could scorch, that wee Sutherland lass would be ash on the wind.”

“Oh, piss off, Róisín,” I mutter, though my mouth is already twitching again.

She bumps her hip lightly against mine, affectionate as a shove. “Jealousy’s kind of a fittin’ colour on ya, love.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“Mmm,” she hums, smug as anything, and hooks her arm through mine.

A roar rises from the far side of the green, cutting off any more of her teasing. The crowd shifts again, hungry for the next display of strength.

Stone-lifting follows, and I despise it for the reverence people grant it. Men strip off coats and loosen collars, chalk dust rising pale against skin. The stones themselves sit in the grass like ancient beasts, smoothed and shaped by generations of pride.

James, Robert, and Alex shrug out of their shirts without ceremony, tossing them aside as if this were nothing more than another chore. A ripple moves through the women nearest the front.

Róisín exhales slowly beside me. “Well,” she murmurs, not even pretending at innocence, “whatever they’re puttin’ in the food over in Dublin, we ought to ship a barrel of it here.”

I roll my eyes, though I don’t look away.

All three of them are built handsome in their own way. Robert is lean and wiry, muscle cut sharply along his arms and ribs like he was carved that way on purpose. Alex stands tall and broad-shouldered, sun catching the clean lines of him, every movement easy and sure.

Then there’s James.

He is thicker than the other two. And… more. More through the chest, more through the shoulders, more muscle layered deep instead of drawn thin. He carries strength the way the hills do—solid, unshowy, built to endure rather than impress. Even standing still, he’s grounded in a way others aren’t.

The crowd presses close. I keep myself at the edge, because I’m not foolish enough to stand where bodies are packed tight.

When James steps forward, he doesn’t boast or draw attention. He tests the stone with his fingers first, then sets his feet and lowers his weight. His grip is careful, his breathing slow, every part of him measured.

When he lifts, it isn’t violent.

It’s precise.

Muscle stands out in his forearms and shoulders, his body locking into itself with quiet power as the stone rises, inexorable. The cheer that erupts is sharp and hungry, and something in me answers to it.

The memory from earlier rises to greet me—his voice in the birches, soft and suggestive, spoken as if sin were nothing more than another kind of truth. His scent returns with it, absurdly clear: clean sweat, morning air, wood smoke warmed by skin. The thought of that scent tangled with primrose steals my focus.

I force myself to breathe.

It’s a stone. It’s a man lifting a stone. That’s all.

When he sets it down, he straightens and wipes his hands on his kilt. His gaze finds me again. There’s no smirk this time. No arrogance. Only a quiet, searching look, full of unspoken question.

Did you see? Are you impressed? Did this reach you?

I stare right back, giving him nothing.

If he wants something from me, he can speak it aloud in front of everyone. Then I can enjoy the look on his face when I tell him no.

The thought pleases me more than it should. I can almost see it—the flicker of surprise, the quick swallow, the pride forced to mend itself in public.

A small smile tugs at my mouth before I think better of it.

Across the green, James sees it⁠—