there are a million things about you that doesn’t make sense to patrick.

you’re the kind of girl who wears black to weddings. has a sharp eyeliner flick down to perfection that could probably slice through steel. got a tattoo at sixteen.

not exactly like claire. not a girl anyone would expect to be with patrick.

and yet, here we are — you’re in his passenger seat, legs crossed, navy top, black shorts, boots. your hair’s up in a messy twist, sunglasses perched on your head like a crown, and that don’t-fuck-with-me energy radiating off you like heat from tarmac.

“gibs, i swear to god, if you don’t shut up—“ you snap at gibsie, who’s hanging out the back window, screaming whatever bleeding shite is on the radio.

claire, beside him, is laughing with a smile like she’s half-expecting the two of you to get into it.

gibsie only laughs, louder. "she loves me really!”

you turn around. “try me, gerard. i’ve got nail scissors and rage, don’t think i won’t.”

and the mad thing is, patrick falls harder. every. single. time.

you aren’t like the others. you’re not soft-spoken or sweet for the sake of being liked. you don’t giggle or flutter your lashes. you tells lads to die like you’re offering directions to the shop. the only one you don’t bark at?

patrick.

he’s the lucky one.

you used to tell patrick he was mental for liking you. said he’d be better off with someone quieter. someone with french-tip nails and a natural hair colour. he told you straight:

i don’t want quiet. i want you.

patrick wants the sharp wit, the black eyeliner, the scowl that melts into a smile only for him. he wants the girl who came from money but never bragged. who never spoke about your dad unless you were drunk or dreaming — because he left when you were ten and never looked back. who still goes stiff when someone asks about your family.

you won’t admit it, but that broke you in ways the world hasn’t quite figured out yet. and still — you’re the strongest person patrick knows.

you lean your elbow on the window frame now, wind in your hair, knuckles resting against your mouth. eyes on the sea in the distance like you’re trying not to smile, but losing the battle anyway.

patrick watches you instead of the road for a second too long.

“what?” you mutter, not looking at patrick.

“you’re bleedin’ gorgeous, that’s all,” he says easily.

you rolls your eyes, but your cheeks go a little pink. “you’re such a sap, feely.”

“and you love it,” he grins.

“unfortunately,” you sigh.

we hit a bump and gibsie screams from the backseat, launching into another off-key chorus and the window’s rattling from his lung power. claire’s singing with him while gibsie hits the high note.

you groans, covering your ears. “patrick, i swear to god, do something before i push him out onto the N71.”

“love,” he says, biting back a smile, “don’t kill him. he’s my close friend.”

you flips him off — affectionately.

patrick reaches across and takes your hand anyway, lacing your fingers together. your rings are cool against his skin. your nails black, one chipped. patrick loves every inch of you.

the girl who hates crowds, but came anyway. who only likes lizzie young and no one else. who’s scowling now because the beach will be full of eejits and babies and tourists. and yet you came. for him.

“i’ll bring you somewhere quiet after,” he whispers, pulling your hand to his lips. “just you and me, alright?”