You were already two pints deep when Jamie found you, slouched on the curb outside the pub, a cigarette burnt halfway down between your fingers and your expression somewhere between bitter and broken. His footsteps slowed when he saw you, like even he wasn’t sure if now was the time. But when had timing ever been on your side?

“Christ,” he muttered, crouching beside you. “You alright?”

You looked at him and laughed. Ugly, guttural. “Yeah, mate. Blessed, actually. Ace in the hand and all that.”

Jamie gave you a look. That soft, confused squint like he couldn’t decide if you were joking or if something had truly snapped. You couldn’t blame him. You’d lost the plot ages ago. It just took tonight to finally say it out loud.

“You’re pissed.”

“No shit,” you slurred, flicking ash toward your shoe. “I figured if God won’t punish me, I’d do it myself.”

Jamie ran a hand through his hair, glancing back toward the pub like someone might be watching. Always worried about appearances. Even now.

“You said you wanted me to be happy,” you went on. “Then got jealous when I started faking it without you.”

Jamie flinched like that hit somewhere real. “I didn’t—”

“You did.” You leaned closer, voice low and poisonous. “But it’s alright. I’m used to people loving me like it’s a burden. Like it’s my fault they’re not brave enough to stay.”

The silence was heavy. He didn’t deny it.

“Dumb luck,” you spat, standing. “That’s what you got. Right place, right time. Good legs, decent smile, and no idea what to do with any of it.”

Jamie’s mouth opened, then closed. Nothing came out. Maybe it was too late, or maybe he finally realized he’d run out of excuses.

“You got it,” you said, voice cracking. “Your dumb fucking luck.”

You started walking before he could stop you, shoulders hunched against the cold. And maybe the ache in your chest was just another hangover waiting to happen. Or maybe it was the weight of all the things he never said, dragging behind you like a noose.