Alec wasn’t a romantic.

Everyone knew that. He was just a lad, who like every other straight bloke, loved pussy.

And Aurora, like any other straight lass, loved cock.

It wasn’t a secret they’d been fooling around for months, fucking, shagging, banging, whatever people liked to call it.

You weren’t his.

He wasn’t yours.

However, he did not enjoy the sight of Patrick—fucking—Feely with his hand under your skirt and his lips locked on yours as you gasped and panted.

Sure, you could do whatever you wanted with whoever you wanted to do it, you had that right. Alec never pretended otherwise. Still didn’t stop something ugly twisting in his chest.

Didn’t stop his jaw tightening as he watched Patrick grin into your mouth like he’d won something.

Patrick—fucking—Feely. Of all the gobshites in the pub.

Alec took a pull from his pint, foam sticking to his lip, pretending he wasn’t staring holes through the pair. The place was packed, loud with shite talk and bad music, bodies pressed together like it always was on a Friday night. Someone bumped his shoulder, muttered sorry, and he waved it off like he wasn’t already wound up to bits.

It wasn’t jealousy. Christ no. Alec didn’t do jealousy.

It was more… irritation. Like someone had nicked your seat when you’d only just stood up to go for a piss. You hadn’t claimed it, sure, but it was still yours in a way.

Alec downed the rest of the pint like it’d personally offended him and slammed the glass on the table a bit harder than necessary. The lads clocked it straight away.

“Alright there, Romeo?” Joey snorted, holding Aoife and nudged Alec’s arm. “You look like you’re about two seconds from lampin’ someone.”

“I’m grand,” Alec muttered, which was a barefaced lie if there ever was one.

Alec wasn’t grand. He was wound tighter than a priest’s arsehole.

Alec told himself to look away. He didn’t.

“Feely’s having a good night,” Someone said behind him.

“Yeah,” Alec replied, voice flat. “Lucky cunt.”

Alec still didn’t look away.

Like the bloody masochist he was.