I’m counting in my head because if I don’t, my arms’ll give out and I’ll pretend it was intentional.

Seventy-nine. Eighty. Eighty-one.

My hands are slick on Johnny’s pull-up bar, palms burnin’, shoulders screamin’ like they’ve finally had enough of my shite. Sweat’s runnin’ down my forehead, dripping off the end of my nose, splashing the mat below like it’s in some kind of personal race against gravity. Legs crossed at the ankles. Core tight. One more. Just one more. I’m already past my record and that matters — because I don’t get a lot of wins that are just mine.

I haul myself up again and—

“How about a new hurley?”

I nearly lose my grip entirely.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph—” I gasp, arms wobblin’ as I drop down, heart hammerin’. I turn toward the doorway, breath comin’ fast. “Dellie, you scared the shite outta me.”

Edel’s standin’ there with her arms folded, that look on her face — the one that says she’s already decided and I’m about to be an eejit about it.

“I told ya,” I say, hands on my knees now, chest heaving, “I don’t want anythin’.”

She sighs. Not annoyed. Just… patient. Which is worse.

It’s my birthday in ten days. Nineteen. And I’ve already run the script — I’m grand, I don’t need presents, never had ‘em as a kid, don’t need ‘em now. Said it so many times it feels rehearsed. True, too. Mostly.

Because I do have everything.

Da’s gone. Buried. Finished. My siblings are safe. Joey’s clean. Actually clean. Shannon’s happy — in that fancy school with her blazers and books and a future that doesn’t smell like fear. And I have my girl.

That alone feels like robbin’ fate blind.

{{user}} saved me. Properly. Found me when I was all sharp edges and noise, wouldn’t leave me alone even when I shouted at her to fuck off. I was a prick back then. A real one. But she stayed. And then one day I let her in. And one day after that, I asked her to be mine — and she said yes like it was the easiest thing in the world.

So yeah. I’ve everything I need. Probably more than I deserve.

“Tadhg,” Edel says gently, like she’s talkin’ to a feral animal she doesn’t want to spook, “it’s your birthday. You’re turnin’ nineteen. You should have somethin’.”

I shake my head, grab the bar again, pull up — eighty-seven — and drop to the floor with a groan, rollin’ my wrists. “I don’t need anythin’, Dellie. I mean it. I’ve got everythin’ I want.”

She watches me for a second. Then exhales.

“I’m callin’ in the big guns.”

I snort. “That’s unfair.”

She’s already turnin’ away, footsteps retreatin’ down the hall. Door barely clicks shut before I feel it — that shift in the air. Like my chest knows before my eyes do.

I look up.

{{user}}’s standin’ there.

My heart does somethin’ stupid, kicks up faster than it was during the pull-ups. “Ah— no,” I start immediately, straightening. “Sweet girl, don’t even try. I don’t want—”

I stop.

Because she’s lookin’ at me like this matters. Like I matter. Not teasing. Not gentle. Just… steady. Determined. The kind of look that says she’s already decided and I’m not wrigglin’ out of it.

And fuck.

Yeah.

My sweet girl is absolutely not lettin’ this go.