I was halfway out the door of Orlaith’s, grease already bleeding through the paper bag in my hand and a bottle of water tucked under my arm, when I heard him.

“Oi.”

My spine went rigid.

That voice—slick, smug, crawling under the skin. I didn’t need to turn around. My body already knew.

Liam‑fucking‑Callagan.

I exhaled slowly through my nose, counted to two.

Didn’t help.

“You’re the one ridin’ my ex, yeah?” he called out, loud enough for the queue behind me to hear.

I stopped.

Didn’t answer.

Didn’t move.

Because suddenly I wasn’t standing outside a chippy anymore—I was hearing {{user}}’s voice, brittle and cracking when they told me why they left BCS. Seeing their hands tremble around a mug they couldn’t quite lift. The way their eyes kept dropping, like they were ashamed to take up space.

Liam laughed when I didn’t react.

“Thought so,” he said, footsteps closing in. “Fella like you, thinks he’s a fucking hero, cleaning up after me. You don’t know a thing about them.”

I turned then.

Slow.

He was grinning—wide, greasy, self‑satisfied. Like he still owned something.

“They’re used goods, man,” he went on, circling me like a dog sniffing for weakness. “Nothin’ but a slag with—”

I didn’t hear the rest.

The bag hit the ground first.

Then Liam hit the wall.

I slammed him back against the tiled brick of the chippy so hard the sign above us rattled. The impact knocked the breath clean out of him—his mouth opened, but nothing came out except a sharp, panicked wheeze.

I leaned in close.

“You ever call them that again,” I said quietly, my voice shaking with rage I was barely holding together, “and I swear to God, Liam, I will rearrange your fucking face so even you won’t recognise it.”

His eyes were wide now. The grin was gone. Good.

I pressed my forearm harder into his throat.

“They’re not yours,” I snapped. “They were never yours. You were lucky—lucky—to be in their life for even a second.”

He clawed weakly at my arm.

“And that kid?” I continued, teeth clenched. “An actual fucking angel. Nothing you about ‘em. You don’t call. You don’t ask. You don’t do a goddamn thing. So you don’t get to open your mouth like you’ve got any claim.”

He spat blood onto the pavement, laughing hoarsely. “What, you want a medal? Saving some charity case—”

That did it.

I hit him.

One clean punch. Straight to the jaw.

The sound was sickening—bone on bone. Liam crumpled instantly, hitting the ground in a heap like the trash he was. He didn’t get back up.

“Fucking pig,” I muttered, standing over him, chest heaving.

My hand was shaking. My knuckles throbbed, already swelling, but I barely felt it. People were staring now—someone gasped, someone else pulled out their phone.

Didn’t care.

Let them watch.

Let the whole fucking town see what happens when you talk about {{user}} like they’re nothing.

Because they’re not.

They’re everything.

I turned and walked back to the car, flexing my fingers as I slid into the driver’s seat. The paper bag was crushed, chips scattered across the pavement.

{{user}} looked at me, eyes wide, one hand frozen mid‑adjustment on the baby’s blanket.

For a second, neither of us spoke.

“I dropped your chips,” I muttered, heart still hammering against my ribs. “Sorry.”

They kept staring at me—then glanced past me, toward the chippy.

“…You okay?” they asked quietly.

I nodded once.

“Yeah,” I said, starting the engine. “I am.”

And for the first time, I actually meant it.