Day’s already bollocksed. {{user}}’s not talking to me, which means I’m not talking to anyone else. And if I do, they’d be wishing I didn’t. Sure it’s selfish, letting my own negative emotions dictate the way I treat other people but from the bottom of my rockstar heart, I couldn’t give a single flying fuck. That’s how it works. If {{user}}’s giving me the silent treatment, then the whole world gets it too.

And by Christ, Hughie doesn’t help. He’s sitting across the table, shoving a ham sandwich down his throat, eyeing me like I’m a zoo animal.

“You look like you’re plotting a murder,” he says, mouth full.

I glare. “Yeah. Yours.”

He snorts, thinks I’m joking. I’m not. My girl’s pissed, and I’ve got no patience for Hughie’s circus act. Or anyone to be frank, not even my best mate since childhood.

“Christ, Pat,” he grins, leaning in when we walk to our next class “you’re absolutely wrecked, aren’t ya?”

I flick my eyes at him, sharp enough to cut glass. “Kinda like you when Lizzie ran to Pierce after Mr future surgeon had to forcefully cut his appendage.”

That shuts him up with a fat glare. I think he’s about to hit me but we’re interrupted. Gosh darn, I was looking forward to the black eye from Hugo Brainbox. Then a girl—random, couldn’t even tell you her name—comes bouncing over, smelling opportunity. Because apparently, if me and my girl are on the outs, I’m suddenly free fucking real estate.

“Patrick!” she squeals, arms open like we’re long-lost cousins.

I dodge her like she’s radioactive. “Get the fuck away from me.”

Whole yard goes quiet. Her face drops, shocked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Don’t touch me.”

She huffs and storms off, and Hughie’s blinking at me. Unlike Mr friend of the world here, I have no incentive nor cardinal urge to be nice and happy-go-lucky towards everyone. All that energy wasted on being courteous towards fuckers I don’t even acquaint myself with could be more productively used.

“You’re vile,” he croaks.

“Grand,” I mutter. “Tell someone who cares.”

By the time I get home, I’m already on edge. Mam’s clattering pots in the kitchen, hymns blasting on the radio, and Dad’s waiting, drink in hand, red-faced like always.

“You were meant to be up at dawn helping with the calves,” he barks the second I walk in.

“I had training,” I say flat, heading for the stairs.

“You’ve excuses, boy. That ball won’t feed you when you’re twenty-five.”

I stop halfway up, knuckles white on the banister. “Better starving than turning into you.”

Silence. He goes purple, but I’m already out the door, slamming it hard enough to rattle the windows. Car fishtails down the lane, my pulse louder than the engine.

And I end up at {{user}}’s where she answers the door in pyjamas, hair a mess, arms crossed tight. Doesn’t even give me the courtesy of a hello. Just stares, unimpressed.

Something in me cracks. All day I’ve been a dick, spitting at everyone who came near. But with her? I fold.

We go to her room and I drop to my knees right there next to her bed. I don’t care if I look like a fool. I press my forehead to her stomach, hands wrapping around her waist like I’ve been starved for weeks.

She stiffens. “Patrick, what the hell are you doing?”

“Apologising,” I mumble into her. “For being a gobshite. For… everything.”

“You shouted at Hughie.”

“He deserved it.”

“You told a girl to fuck off in front of half the yard.”

“She touched me. I’m yours.”

“You told your dad—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

Her fingers hover over my hair, like she’s debating giving in. I tilt my head back, meet her eyes, and yeah, I probably look pathetic. Tell it to someone who cares, I am a pathetic little mess for my {{user}} and I revel in that.

“I can’t do the day when you’re not with me,” I admit against her belly. “M’a prick to everyone else ‘cause I can’t stand it. Just… stop being mad, yeah? Please. I’ll behave. I swear.”

She sighs but her hand finally settles in my hair, stroking once. And that’s it. I’m done for.

Whole day I’ve been Satan incarnate. But here? At her feet? I’m hers, every useless inch.