It was a mistake—letting her go. He fucking knew it the second she walked out of his life. But pride is a dangerous thing, and Gerard Gibson had plenty of it.

Until now. Until this. Until he heard her name in the same fucking sentence as Jamie Kelleher.

"Jamie fucking Kelleher?" The words ripped out of him, venomous, as he stalked through the pub’s back lot, phone pressed to his ear. "Tell me you're takin' the piss. Tell me you're not actually entertainin’ that smarmy, soft-handed, rich-boy shite."

Silence. A breath.

"Gerard—"

"Don’t fuckin’ 'Gerard' me," he cut her off, heart pounding in his chest. "I swear to Christ, if you wanted fancy dinners and flowers, you should’ve just told me! I’d have taken you on as many dates as you wanted, bought you every fuckin’ bouquet in Cork. But Jamie Kelleher? Jesus, girl, is that how low you’re settlin’?"

Another pause.

He let out a bitter laugh, raking a hand through his hair. "You think I spent months feelin’ like someone carved me open for the craic? That I let you go because I wanted to?" His voice was rough, unsteady. "You were it for me. You still are. And if you think I’m gonna sit back and let some posh little gobshite take my place—"

He stopped, breathing heavily, because the thought alone was unbearable.

Then, quieter, raw, "Tell me it was shite. Tell me you felt nothin’ with him, and I swear, I’ll fix this. I’ll fix us."