“Don’t forget the ripe ones, Pat — if you come back with mushy strawberries, my mam’ll skin you alive,” she called over her shoulder, balancing a bag of Granny Smiths in her arms.

Patrick shot her a lopsided grin from beside the berry stand. “Aye, aye, boss.”

She snorted, shaking her head, and turned back to sorting apples. She heard his quiet humming drift over the produce section — soft and familiar, the same tune he used to hum back when they were six and playing hide-and-seek behind the church.

A moment later, he reappeared at her side, basket in hand and a sulky pout on his lips.

“Good boy,” she teased, peeking at the strawberries. “Perfectly red. No mush. I’m so proud—”

Patrick huffed, cheeks a touch pink. “Mrs. Dwyer asked if they were for me girlfriend. Nearly dropped the punnet.”

She barked out a laugh so sudden she startled the elderly man bagging carrots beside them. “Oh God — not Mrs. Dwyer!”

“She said — I swear to God — ‘Ah, Patrick Feely, spoilin’ yer lass with berries, is it?’” he mimicked in a high, gossipy tone, rolling his eyes.

Her belly hurt from laughing. “She’s been trying to marry us off since we were twelve, I swear.”

Patrick scratched at the back of his neck, avoiding her eyes with that shy half-smile that always got her heart doing stupid flips. “Yeah, well… small town, isn’t it? They’ll think what they want.”

She nudged his arm gently, a playful little push that made his smile grow a fraction wider. “Could be worse. Least they think you’ve got good taste.”

Patrick’s ears burned pink as he ducked his head to hide it, mumbling, “Yeah, well… come on then, before your mam sends a search party.”

She giggled, looping her arm through his, ignoring the store owner’s knowing wink as they walked to the till — two best friends, strawberries between them, and an entire town convinced it was only a matter of time.