It was a grand mystery how a town full of people who couldn’t find their arses with both hands when it came to directions somehow managed to sniff out a rumour like bloodhounds.

“{{user}}’s a lovely girl, Feely,” Mrs. O’Shea, the woman who ran the butcher’s, said as she handed me my change. “You look after her now, won’t ya?”

I blinked at her, shoving the coins into my pocket. “Eh?”

“Young love,” she sighed dreamily, completely ignoring me. “Warms the heart, it does.”

Jesus Christ.

I turned on my heel, stalking out onto the street where {{user}} was waiting, licking the remnants of an ice cream off her thumb. She raised an eyebrow at the look on my face.

“What?”

I scowled. “Mrs. O’Shea thinks we’re together.”

{{user}} blinked. “Ah.” A beat. Then, without a shred of concern: “Was she giving out free rashers or somethin’?”

I groaned, dragging a hand down my face. This wasn’t the first time. It wasn’t even the tenth. A month ago, Gibsie had outright declared us a couple, and even though I nearly split his head in two with a rugby ball, the idea had lodged itself into the collective mind of the town like a bad smell.

It was fuckin’ relentless.

The nail in the coffin had been last week, when Johnny’s mam invited both of us over for dinner and said, “It’s nice to see you finally settling down, Patrick.”

Settling down. Like I was a forty-year-old fella getting coaxed into marriage by a long-suffering girlfriend.

At first, we’d both denied it. Scoffed, rolled our eyes, argued. But then—

I don’t know when we stopped bothering.

Maybe it was when someone asked outright and we both just looked at each other instead of answering. Maybe it was when I realised I didn’t actually mind the assumption. Maybe it was when {{user}} didn’t correct them either.

Or maybe it was when I caught myself looking at her, really looking, and thought—yeah, I get it.