I didn’t see her walk in.

Swear on my life, if I’d known {{user}} was standing there, I never would’ve let Lizzie feckin’ Young anywhere near me. But Lizzie was already screaming in my face, red cheeked and furious, fingers knotted in my shirt like she was trying to drag me back into the past with her.

“Hughie, I swear to God, you said you still loved me,” she hissed, voice trembling with alcohol and spite.

“I didn’t—”

“You did!” She shoved me, fist tight in the fabric of my tee, mascara smudged under her eyes. “You looked me in the eyes last week and said—”

“I didn’t mean it, Lizzie,” I snapped, but even as the words left my mouth, I knew it looked bad. I sounded like a liar. Like the gobshite I promised {{user}} I’d never be.

I didn’t pull Lizzie’s hand off my chest fast enough. I didn’t move away like I should’ve. I let the whole thing play out like I was stuck in a daze. A sick part of me still tried to fix it—out of guilt or habit, I don’t know.

And then I looked up.

And saw her.

{{user}}.

She was standing there just inside the door, party lights blinking around her like the whole house was mocking her. She didn’t say a word. Didn’t scream or call me a bastard. She just watched.

Eyes wide. Heart breaking.

Again.

I felt it hit me like a sucker punch. A kind of shame that clung to your bones.

She turned, just like that, and walked away.

Straight through the crowd and over to Patrick, who was lounging against the kitchen counter, beer in hand. She looked wrecked. Like the weight of every single time I’d made her feel second had finally crushed her.

And Patrick, that eejit, he pulled her in—not like he was trying to pull a move or anything—but in that lad way, arms round her shoulders, whisperin’ something low.

And she let him.

I didn’t even realise I was moving until Lizzie tugged my shirt again. “Hughie—”

“Let go,” I muttered, peeling her hand off me.

“You’re still mine—”

“I’m not,” I said coldly, eyes on {{user}}, who was nodding to whatever Patrick was saying, though she wasn’t hearing a word.

I could see the tears in her eyes, even from across the room.

I’d done that.

Again.

And the worst part? She didn’t look surprised. Just tired. Like she’d known. Like she always knew.

I moved through the bodies, heart thumping, beer spilling as I shoved past someone.

Patrick saw me coming and stepped back without a word.

“{{user}},” I said, but she didn’t look at me.

I said it again. Softer. “{{user}}… please.”

And this time she met my eyes.

Fuck.

She looked so hurt. And so goddamn beautiful I wanted to rip my own heart out.

“I didn’t mean to—” I started, but the words caught.

She just shook her head, laughing that awful little laugh that sounded more like crying.