Ma nearly clocked me over the head with the tea towel last night for going on about {{user}} too much.

“For the love of God, Rory, will you give it a rest?” she snapped, flicking the towel through the air like a warning shot.

Connor cackled from the table. “He’s obsessed.”

Ma whirled on him. “You’re next.”

Connor yelped and ducked, nearly knocking his chair over. “Worth it,” he muttered, grinning.

“It’s not my fault,” I said, entirely reasonably. “I just have a lot to say about them.”

“A lot,” Connor echoed. “You’ve said their name more times than Da’s said ‘Jesus Christ’ at the telly.”

I ignored him. I could talk a lot about {{user}}. I wanted to talk a lot about {{user}}. They were extremely talk‑about‑able.

You communicated with them for two hours in your entire life. During detention, Rory.

Shut up, brain. That isn’t relevant. What’s relevant is—

I launched straight back in. About how {{user}} was nothing like their Ma. About how they rambled when nervous, words tumbling over each other like they couldn’t get out fast enough. About how they twisted the hem of their jumper between their fingers, all fidgety-like, like they didn’t even notice they were doing it. About how they looked at me like they expected me to spit in their face instead of asking what they thought about whether time was real or just a thing we all collectively agreed not to question.

Da mostly grunted through it, spooning sugar into his tea. “Mm.”

“That’s it?” Ma demanded. “That’s all you’ve got to say?”

Da shrugged. “Kid sounds… alright.”

When I got to the part about why I’d landed detention in the first place—flattening Tommy O’Shea’s nose for talking shite about Coamhie—Da finally looked up.

“Good hit?” he asked.

“Clean,” I said proudly.

He gave me a single, solemn nod of approval.

“Don’t encourage him,” Ma warned, pointing the tea towel like a weapon.

It didn’t stop me. I carried on about {{user}} over breakfast, in the car—

“They laughed,” I said, gripping the seatbelt. “Like, actually laughed. Snorted a bit.”

Ma sighed loudly. “Fascinating.”

—before training—

“Oi, Rory,” Declan called from the pitch. “You listening?”

“Sorry,” I said. “Was thinking.”

“About them?” he guessed.

“Yes.”

—and all through the locker room until Declan finally snapped and shoved me toward the showers.

“Another word and I swear to God I’ll drown you,” he said.

It worked. Temporarily.

The only reason it really worked was because I had to deal with a few of the lads on the team first.

“Listen up, you daft pricks,” I announced after training, arms crossed, sweat clinging to my back. “If I so much as hear one of you giving {{user}} grief, I’ll personally ensure you’re eating through a straw.”

A couple of them laughed, until they realised I wasn’t.

“You serious?” one of them asked.

Deadly. “Try me.”

I don’t hurt women. Some of these bitches are lucky I don’t hurt women. Why? Because they’ve been terrorising {{user}} for far-too-fucking-long. So I gave them a fair warning to keep their lasses away from my lass.

Sweet baby Jesus, your lass?

Yes. Mine. All mine. My pretty, pretty princess.

So now here I was, dandy as ever, spotting {{user}} by the lockers during break. They were bent slightly forward, rifling through their bag, brow furrowed like the world had personally offended them.

I strode over and leaned against the locker beside them, casual as anything. “Hi.”