I never knew a dressing room could be bigger than my bedroom. Or feel like a department store, only quieter. No clatter of hooves on concrete, no smell of silage—just this faint perfume in the air and racks upon racks of clothes lined up like soldiers on parade.

I lean against the doorframe, hands shoved deep in my jeans pockets, and watch her disappear into her dressing room. Her dressing room. A room dedicated to clothes. For clothes. She called it normal. I nearly choked.

Back home, I only have a room for myself because I am the only boy. All od my older sisters had to share their rooms.

Half the time I’m lucky if I can find a clean pair of socks. Here? She’s got thirty-eight handbags. I know because I counted. Twenty-nine pairs of shoes too, not including the ones tossed under the chaise like they don’t even matter. Jesus, I don’t think there are that many shoes in all of Ballylaggin.

{{user}} pops her head out, hair half done, dress in her hand. “Red or black?”

I blink at her, then at the dresses that look identical except for colour. “Eh…red?”

She nods seriously, like it’s a matter of life or death, and vanishes again. I can hear hangers scraping, drawers sliding. I sigh, drop into the armchair by the window, and start strumming invisible chords against my knee. It’s what I do when I’m waiting—whether for a calving cow or a girl deciding which dress will look best at the Omniplex.

The funny thing is, I don’t mind. Not really. She drives me half mad, yeah, with her London ways and that posh accent and all the bloody stuff she owns. But there’s something about her—something that makes me stay sitting here, stomach flipping like I’m back on the pitch about to take a penalty.

We’re not even properly together. Not officially. Not yet. It’s this weird in-between, where her friends raise eyebrows when they see me, and my lads crack jokes about me going soft. But when she laughs at something I’ve said, head thrown back like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard? Christ, I’d sit through ten dressing-room marathons just for that.

The door opens again and she steps out, tugging at the hem of her dress. The red one, thank God. She twirls, half shy, half daring. “Too much?”

I’m supposed to answer. But all I can think is that she looks like trouble wrapped in silk, and I’m already in too deep.

“Nah,” I manage, voice rougher than it should be. “Perfect.”

She smiles, small but smug, like she knew I’d say that. Grabs a bag from the shelf—number thirty-eight, if anyone’s keeping score—and slips her arm through mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Ready?” she asks.

Not even close.

But I nod anyway, because if this is what waiting for her feels like, then I reckon I’ll be waiting a long, long time.