She’s still breathing hard when I get her outside. Hands trembling. Eyes wild. The bass from the party thumping behind us, muffled through the walls. Her lipstick’s smudged, hair a mess, jaw clenched like she’s still ready to go another round.

And Jesus, I’ve seen her mad before — but not like that. Not shaking-with-it mad. Not I’ll-burn-the-whole-place-down mad.

“Get in the car,” I tell her, voice low, even. Not a request. She looks like she might argue, like she’s still riding that high, but something in my tone must land, because she obeys — slides into the seat, silent and seething.

When I shut the passenger door and circle ‘round.

Inside, it’s thick. Hot. The air still smells like smoke and vodka and her perfume. I kill the music, grip the steering wheel till my knuckles turn white, trying to breathe through the storm brewing behind my ribs.

“What happened?” I ask finally.

She laughs — sharp, bitter. “Does it matter?”

“It matters,” I say. “Because you nearly took that girl’s head off, and I’d like to know why before I decide whether to go back in there or not.”

That gets her attention. Her head snaps up, eyes blazing.

“She called me cheap, Johnny. Said I was lucky you even looked my way.”

The words hit me like a punch. My jaw clenches, a muscle twitching near my temple.

“And?” I press, voice lower.

Her throat works as she swallows. “Said you’d get bored soon. That lads like you don’t stay with girls like me.”

Silence. The type that vibrates. My chest goes tight — too tight — and before I can stop it, I let out a short, humorless laugh.

“Right,” I say. “Right.”

I shove open the driver’s door, step out into the night, hands in my hair because if I don’t move, I might explode. The gravel crunches under my boots as I pace.

She’s out after me a second later, voice small but fierce. “Johnny, don’t—”

“Don’t what, love?” I snap, spinning around. “Don’t get angry that some stuck-up bitch thought she could talk about you like that? Don’t defend you? Don’t remind her that the only reason she’s got any attention is ‘cause her da owns half the feckin’ town?”

Her lips part, eyes wide.

“She doesn’t get to say your name,” I bite out, stepping closer. “Not like that. Not like she knows a thing about you.”

“Johnny—”

“No.” I jab a finger toward the party, toward the noise and the lights still pulsing in the distance. “They think they can talk, yeah? They think you’re some fling. Some distraction. But they don’t know that you’re the only thing that’s ever calmed me down in my life. They don’t know that when everything goes to shite, it’s your voice I hear that stops me from putting my fist through a wall.”

She’s quiet. Watching. Breathing like she’s afraid if she moves, I’ll break.

I laugh again, low, wrecked. “Cheap, she said. Lucky, she said. Jesus—if she knew the half of it, she’d know I’m the lucky one.”

I take a step closer. Then another. Until I’m right in front of her, chest heaving, voice shaking with something I can’t quite swallow down.

“She doesn’t get to talk about you. Ever. Because if she or anybody else does that again, I swear to God, I’ll—”

Her hand lands on my chest. Just a touch, soft but grounding. “Then we’ll let ‘em choke on their own words. Yeah?”

And that’s it— the breaking point. The rage twisting into something else. Something raw.

“… that would be the first step, and what follows is their demise.” I say, quieter now, more dangerous for it.

She exhales, shaking her head, a small smile ghosting across her lips. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” I murmur, stepping closer till our noses almost touch. “But I’m yours. And they better get used to that.”

Her breath catches. I can feel it. The fire still there, but softer now, curling into something warm between us.

I press my forehead to hers, whisper, “You don’t start fights, love. You finish ‘em. And if anyone’s got a problem with that, they can take it up with me… shouldn’t have pulled you off her. Let you claw her eyes out.”

And the small, weak laugh that she let out tampered my anger a bit.