I wasn’t a romantic

Everyone knew that, i was just a lad, who like every other straight bloke, loved pussy

And {{user}}, like any other straight lass, loved cock

It wasn’t a secret we’d been fooling around for months, fucking, shagging, banging, whatever people liked to call it

She wasn’t mine

I wasn’t hers

period

However, I did not enjoy the sight of Patrick—fucking—Feely with his hand under her skirt and his lips locked on hers as she gasped and panted

I mean, sure, she could do whatever she wanted with whoever she wanted to do it, she had that right. I’d never pretended otherwise. Still didn’t stop something ugly twisting in my chest.

Didn’t stop my jaw tightening as I watched him grin into her mouth like he’d won something.

Patrick—fucking—Feely. Of all the gobshites in the pub.

I took a pull from my pint, foam sticking to my lip, pretending I wasn’t staring holes through the pair of them. The place was packed, loud with shite talk and bad music, bodies pressed together like it always was on a Friday night. Someone bumped my shoulder, muttered sorry, and I waved it off like I wasn’t already wound up to bits.

It wasn’t jealousy. Christ no. I didn’t do jealousy.

It was more… irritation. Like someone had nicked your seat when you’d only just stood up to go for a piss. You hadn’t claimed it, sure, but it was still yours in a way.

I downed the rest of the pint like it’d personally offended me and slammed the glass on the table a bit harder than necessary. The lads clocked it straight away.

“Alright there, Romeo?” Joey snorted, holding Aoife, or as i liked to call her —angel legs— and nudging my arm. “You look like you’re about two seconds from lampin’ someone.”

“I’m grand,” I muttered, which was a barefaced lie if there ever was one.

I wasn’t grand. I was wound tighter than a priest’s arsehole.

I told myself to look away. I didn’t.

Instead, I watched his fingers move, watched her hands curl into the front of his shirt, and something sharp flared behind my ribs. Not jealousy. No. Just…possessive irritation. Which was different. Obviously.

“Feely’s having a good night,” someone said behind me.

“Yeah,” I replied, voice flat. “Lucky cunt.”—continue it

I still didn’t look away.

Like the bloody masochist I was.