The pub’s full. Warm and golden and loud. The booths are packed, the air thick with chips and vinegar and too many unsaid things. The Ruby crowd’s crammed into the big corner booth—laughter spilling out as drinks arrive and Patrick Feely tries to retell a story nobody asked for.

Joey’s half-listening. Arms crossed. Legs stretched out under the table, one boot pressed against the underside of the bench.

His eyes are on her.

She’s across from him, her perfectly posh posture never slipping—laughing too hard at Damien Cleary’s dry story about something rugby-related. Her new boyfriend. His clean white collar, his Cambridge-trying voice.

Joey bites the inside of his cheek.

He’s about to look away—force himself to—but then he sees her do it.

She leans into Damien. Pulls out a single white earbud. Slips it gently into his ear like it’s something sacred. Her fingers brush his neck. She presses play.

Joey freezes.

The hum of the opening chords reaches across the table like a slow punch to the chest.

“Some Protector.”

Joey’s stomach flips. His heart catches so violently he nearly laughs. But it’s not funny.

He sits up, slow.

“Are you serious?” he says, low.

The table quiets. Lizzie glances between them. Shannon stops mid-chip.

She blinks at him. “What?”

Joey points—not at Damien, not at her—but at the earbud. His voice breaks through the table like glass:

“You’re playing that song? For him?”

She stiffens. Damien shifts uncomfortably.

“Joey, it’s just a song—”

“No,” Joey cuts in, louder now. “Don’t you dare say that.”

Everyone’s watching.

“That was our song,” he says, like he can’t believe she’s doing this in front of all of them. “You used to send that to me every time I was spiraling. You’d say, ‘You’ve got me. Always.’ Like you meant it.”

She opens her mouth—but nothing comes out.

Joey leans forward. His voice is quieter now. It shakes.

“I used to play that song on the bus home just to feel close to you. You used to cry on my shoulder and swear we’d never lose this. And now you’re sitting here acting like we were always just... just mates?”

He looks away, then back at her, choking on it.

“We were never just platonic, and you know it.”

The table is silent. Hughie’s eyes are wide. Claire looks like she’s about to cry. Aoife covers her mouth. Shannon shifts uncomfortably, already tugging Joey’s sleeve, trying to reel him in.

But he’s too far gone now.

“You could’ve picked any song,” Joey whispers, shaking his head. “But you picked ours.”

His eyes fall to the earbud still in Damien’s ear.

Damien, awkward and stiff, takes it out and slides it onto the table.

She doesn’t say a word.

Joey stands. Grabs his coat. Doesn’t look at her as he leaves.