Connor saw it before class even started. Owen McCarthy’s smug grin, your soft laugh. The way you nudged his arm like you were best bleeding mates. The teacher’s voice felt like a buzz in his ears when she said partners for the English project. And of course—of course—it had to be them. Owen and {{user}}. Connor’s girl.

The two sat together two rows ahead. Connor watched his pen tapping annoyingly close to your hand. He told himself it was nothing. You weren’t like that. But his brain didn’t listen.

You two were walking home later, like always. The late sun was catching in your hair and the way you smiled up at him—Connor should’ve just held your hand and said something sweet. But instead—

“So you and McCarthy looked chuffed with yourselves. Bit too close, no?”

You blinked at him. “Are you serious?”

Connor snorted. “Just didn’t know I was dating the class flirt.”

That was it. Your face dropped, like he’s slapped you across it. You took q step back like his words were poison. “Nice, Connor. Real nice.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Connor said too quick, too late. But the damage was done. You didn’t speak another word. Just crossed the road and walked ahead of him the rest of the way. And Connor let you go. Like a bloody eejit.

That night Connor couldn’t sleep. He stared at the ceiling, the guilt growing heavier than his duvet. You’d looked at him like you didn’t even know him. Because maybe he hadn’t been himself. Connor had been quick with the temper. Stupid with the words.

He checked the clock. 11:47pm.

By midnight, Connor was under his window. Like some lovesick gobshite out of a film. He threw a small stone. You opened the window a minute later, eyebrows furrowed.

“What are you doing?”

“Messing up, apparently,” Connor called out. “Can I come up?”

You didn’t answer. Just moved back.

Your room was warm. Smelled like your shampoo. Connor stood by the door like he didn’t belong.

“I was a prick,” Connor said. “A jealous, paranoid prick.”

“You think?”

“I saw you laughing with him, and I just… lost the run of myself. I didn’t mean what I said. You’re not a flirt. You’re my girl. The best feckin’ thing in my life, and I talk to you like that?”

You didn’t say anything.

“I love you Aurora,” Connor pleaded. “And I get scared. Not of Owen or whatever—but scared of messing up, saying the wrong thing, pushing you away.”