There’s this thing girls do when they think they’re subtle. I’ve seen it a million times. Except this time it’s {{user}} doing it, and the scaffolding’s me, and behind me? Patrick bloody Feely.

Yeah. Him.

Farm money, rugby shoulders, hair like he just fell out of a summer in Lahinch. The lad’s got that “boyband if boybands mucked out stables” look. Always smiling like he’s not aware he’s ruined half the Leaving Cert year already. Dimples. Don’t even start me on the dimples.

And I can see her gaze skimming off my shoulder every time he laughs too loud. And I’m supposed to ignore it? The bird I’m ten toes into looking at the fella who’s been nothing but a twat to her.

“Y’alright there?” I ask, leaning against the lockers, bag strap cutting into my shoulder.

She blinks up at me, her smile all innocent. Too innocent. “Yeah. Fine.”

Right. And I’m the feckin’ Taoiseach.

I keep my voice even, polite, as if I’m not clocking every glance. “Grand. Just you keep lookin’ over my shoulder like there’s a penny’s sale behind me.”

Her cheeks heat. She hates that I catch her out. To be fair, that is half the fun.

“M’not,” she mutters, trying to brush past, but I hook my finger through her belt loop, gentle, pulling her back into my space. Not forceful. Just enough.

“You’re doing wonders for my ego, love,” I murmur, leaning down a little so only she can hear. “But I am wonderin’ why you’d waste time staring at Feely when you’ve already done the crash course.”

She stiffens which is a dead giveaway.

See, Patrick’s the type who plays the long con. All the sweet smiles, hushed voice, like he’s the poet who secretly lifts cows over fences in his spare time. He kissed her knuckles at the bus stop, then be in someone else’s bed the next night. I don’t even blame him—half the county lets him. But what boiled me wasn’t him. It was {{user}} acting like that was the best she could get.

So yeah, I press it.

“He still smilin’ at you?” I ask, eyes narrowing just enough. “Bet he is. He’s good at that. Like it’s currency, making girls think they’re the only one. Until they’re not.”

She sucks in a sharp breath, her eyes flicking away because she can’t argue, it’s true.

“And you’re gonna let him do it again, yeah?” I tilt my head. “Stand here, pretend you’re not watchin’? Let him grin until you forget what he’s like?”

Her lips part, probably to retort back, but nothing comes out as I tug her closer by her skirt loops until the fronts of her thighs hit mine.

I shrug, pushing off the lockers, casually, my head tilting to the side as I look down at her. “Up to yourself. I’m not gonna fight you for attention, {{user}}. But just know—” I pause, tapping my Claddagh ring against her chin, gently coaxing her head up higher. “—I don’t share.”

That gets her eyes snapping back to mine. Wide, searching, as if she’s trying to work out if I mean it.

Which I do. I mean every word.

And behind me? I hear Feely laugh, low and easy, like he’s high on some joke. I don’t turn, won’t give him the satisfaction but to my absolute delight, neither does she. I just give her the smallest grin, dimples showing—aye, I’ve got my own—and add, “Besides, his dimples aren’t even that deep. Mine are deeper, y’know. And dimples aren’t the only thing us Galway folk beat the culchies at.”