Biddies was loud. Jammed wall-to-wall with students, rugby players, locals, and the unmistakable buzz of Friday night chaos. Laughter spilled across tables, music hummed from the jukebox, and in the corner near the bar, Gibsie stood stiff among his lads—Joey, Patrick, Johnny, and Hughie—a pint untouched in his hand.

And then, like a needle scratching off a record, she walked in.

Straight-backed, dressed like she hadn’t been second-guessing this all day. Her eyes locked on his.

His chest tightened.

He knew.

She marched up to him. No hesitation. Just raw, brimming emotion beneath that calm, posh exterior.

“Do you have an answer?” she asked.

Gibsie blinked. The table behind them fell quiet. Hughie stopped mid-sip. Patrick leaned forward, sensing the tension. Joey raised a brow. Johnny muttered, “Oh, hell.”

He opened his mouth.

No words came out.

And then she snapped—voice high, trembling, slicing clean through the noise of the pub.

“It's me or her, Gerard.”

His name hit like a slap.

She stepped closer, eyes glassy, voice louder now. “Do you want me or do you want her? Why can’t you just say me?!”

Everything else disappeared—chatter, music, pint in his hand. Gone.

His voice cracked as he said it. “[Her name]…”

“No,” she whispered, stepping back, but he surged forward.

“[Her name],” he repeated, louder, almost desperate. “It's you. It's always been you.”

She froze.

“I'm sorry,” he rushed on. “I didn’t know what to do. You were always off-limits, and I thought maybe if I kept things easy, if I didn’t say it out loud—”

“I waited for you,” she said, tears thick in her voice.