The crowd’s packed into the long booth by the window. Everyone’s shoulder-to-shoulder, laughing too loud, chips and curry sauce passed like communion.

Tadhg sits at the end, quiet, nursing a pint. His foot taps under the table. His friends are talking—Gerard’s teasing Patrick, Hughie’s arguing about a missed penalty—but Tadhg hears none of it.

Because she’s sitting across from him.

His best friend. The one he’s known since they were six and she brought fairy cakes to his da’s wake because she thought that’s what posh people do at funerals.

She’s in one of her tidy jumpers, collar perfectly folded, her legs crossed as if she’s somewhere better than Biddies. But he knows her. Knows she’s been glancing at him since they walked in.

She’s curled up close to him. Damien Cleary. Rugby boy. All teeth and trust funds.

Tadhg’s stomach’s already tight when it happens.

She leans in, murmurs something in Damien’s ear, and then reaches into her coat pocket.

Pulls out a single white earbud.

Puts it in Damien’s ear.

Then hits play.

Tadhg doesn’t even need to hear it to know.

He sees the flicker of recognition on Damien’s face. That little grin. And the guilt—just a flicker—on hers.

But it’s too late.

The song's drifting up faint through the noise.

Some Protector.

Tadhg’s hand clenches around his pint.

“What’re you doing?” he says, low.

She blinks, looks up. “What?”

Tadhg leans forward, heat rising up his neck.

“That song. Don’t pretend you forgot.”

The table goes quiet. Patrick looks between them. Claire slowly puts her drink down.

“Tadhg,” she says carefully. “It’s just a song—”

“No, it’s not,” he snaps. “It’s our song.”

She freezes. Damien shifts uncomfortably.

“You used to text me that song when I couldn’t sleep,” Tadhg says, voice breaking against the silence. “You used to say, ‘You don’t have to hold it all on your own, I’ve got you.’”

Her face twists.

“We spent years pretending we weren’t in love. You did that. You chose that. I waited—” He stops, swallows hard. “And now you’re here playing our song for him?”

Her eyes glass over.

“Don’t do this here,” she whispers.

But he’s already standing.

“Then where? When? When you send him the song you used to send me before every exam? Before your mum’s surgeries? On the anniversary of my da?” He shakes his head. “We were never just friends and you know it.”

Everyone is staring.