“I’m not asking you to be someone else, Shane,” she says, voice trembling, barely above a whisper now. “I’m asking you to stop selling. I’m asking you to try. Just once.”

Her room feels like a cage, all soft light and framed childhood photos, ballet shoes on the floor, everything too neat, too clean to hold a mess like me.

{{user}} Maeve Kavanagh.

Cork’s golden girl. The Barrister’s daughter. Her brother being Cork’s best rugby player. The one who gets roses after recitals and straight As on exams. The girl with everything and for some stupid, messed up reason, she still wants me.

But she wants me different.

“You want me to stop?” I say, my voice cold now. “You want me to be good for you?”

Her eyes search mine, wide and shining. “Yes,” she breathes.

I step closer. Close enough that she has to tilt her chin to meet my gaze.

“Sweetheart,” I whisper, voice dripping venom, “you’re not in love with me. You’re in love with the idea of saving me.”

Her mouth parts like I slapped her.

“Truth is, you just like slumming it with the town’s favourite fuck-up. Makes your little princess life feel edgy, doesn’t it?”

“Shane,” she says, but it’s broken. Like she can’t believe I just said that.

I can’t either.

But I’m on autopilot now - cruel, defensive, wrecked. It’s easier to burn her than let her hold me.

She flinches, arms wrapping around herself. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t cry. Not this time. She just shuts down - like I flipped a switch.

I turn toward the door, fist clenched like I might punch straight through the wood. My whole chest feels like it’s caving in.

But I don’t walk.

I just stand there, staring at the handle like it might give me an answer.

And behind me, she whispers the one thing I wasn’t ready to hear.