You and Patrick have always been close — same friend group, shared classes, and a similar sense of humor. He’s the kind of boy who slings an arm over your shoulder without thinking, calls you “Feelys favourite” as a joke, and always shares his crisp at lunch even when he claims he’s starving.

He’s sweet — in that easy, effortless way. Constantly joking, constantly messing, but when it comes down to it, he notices things. Like when you’re having a rough day and he plops beside you on the bench without saying a word, just sitting in companionable silence until you speak first.

He’s always teasing you. Flicking pens at you in class. Whispering nonsense when the teachers back is turned. One day, you catch him staring — not in a weird way, just… watching you laugh at one of his awful jokes. When he realizes you’ve noticed, he quickly tosses a look at you and says, “Feckin’ hell, stop lookin’ so impressed. It was a shite joke.”

But there’s something new in his eyes. Warmer. Unspoken. You’ve started to notice it more lately — the little things Patrick does that never quite feel just friendly anymore.

Like how he always waits for you after class, even when the lads are yelling for him to hurry up for practice. He lingers by your locker, shoulder pressed to the wall, talking about absolutely nothing while watching you pack your bag like it’s the most important part of his day.

“I should go,” you say one afternoon, already knowing you won’t.

“But then who’ll walk me to the pitch?” he says with a pout, nudging your arm like he’s trying to buy time.

So you go — walking slow, hands occasionally brushing. It’s comfortable, but it’s charged, too. Like something is always just about to be said.

There’s this one afternoon — raining, of course, because it’s Cork — when everyone’s cooped up in the study hall waiting out a cancelled PE class.

The lads are playing cards at the back table. Someone’s dared Gibsie to eat three sachets of mustard straight. And Feely? He’s sitting beside you, hoodie pulled halfway over his face, yawning every five minutes.

“I’m so bored I could eat a desk,” he mumbles.

“Go ahead,” you say, not looking up from your worksheet.

He hums. “Not tasty enough. You’d probably taste better.”