The diner lights flickered slightly as the door swung open, the bell overhead chiming like a warning. Patrick Feely stepped in, flanked by Hughie Biggs, Johnny Kavanagh, and Gerard “Gibsie” Gibson.

His eyes found her immediately.

Less than twenty feet away, there she was—his sunshine—seated in a booth with Damien Cleary, grinning at something the gobshite said. Damien’s arm rested along the back of the booth, too close, too casual.

Patrick's stomach twisted.

“She’s laughing,” Hughie said carefully beside him, hands tucked in his pockets.

“At what?” Patrick muttered. “He’s not funny.”

“Should we trash it?” Gibsie asked with a slow grin.

Johnny cracked his knuckles. “Absolutely.”

They didn’t need a plan. This was muscle memory.

Patrick and Hughie marched straight to the booth. Without a word, they slid in on either side of her, sandwiching her gently, casually, like they belonged there—which, to Patrick, they always had.

She blinked. “Patrick…?”

“Heya, sunshine,” he said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Hope we’re not interrupting.”

“Feely, what the hell is this?” Damien snapped, already pissed off. “We’re on a date.”

“And I’m just saying hi,” Patrick replied coolly, stealing one of her fries and popping it into his mouth.

Gibsie and Johnny, grinning like hyenas, dropped onto Damien’s side of the booth. It was suddenly very crowded.

“You’re not subtle, Feely,” Damien growled. “But you’re wasting your time. She chose me.”

Silence. For a beat.

Patrick leaned forward, elbows on the table, expression calm but eyes hard.

“Did she?” he asked softly.