The music at the party was loud enough to make the walls shake, bass rattling through the floorboards while bodies moved shoulder to shoulder in the cramped living room.
Connor Kavanagh leaned against the kitchen counter across the room, laughing at something one of his teammates said. Even from a distance, you could pick him out instantly.
Your boyfriend.
At least, you thought so.
“Are you okay?” your friend shouted over the music.
You nodded absently, weaving through people toward the kitchen. Some blonde girl stood beside him now, talking too close, touching his arm every time she laughed. You felt irritation spark low in your stomach, but you told yourself not to overreact.
Then the girl grabbed the front of his hoodie and kissed him.
Not quick. Not mistaken.
A real kiss.
Your stomach dropped so hard it felt physical.
Connor jerked back almost immediately, eyes widening as he spotted you standing only a few feet away.
“Wait—“
You turned before he could finish.
He caught your wrist outside on the front porch, cold air hitting your face like a slap after the suffocating heat inside.
“It’s not what it looked like.”
You laughed once, sharp and disbelieving. “You cannot seriously say that to me right now.”
“She kissed me—”
“And you kissed her back.”
“I didn’t—”
“I saw you, Connor.”
His face twisted with frustration, hands dragging through his hair. “Jesus Christ, would you just listen to me for two seconds?”
“No.” Your voice cracked embarrassingly. “I’m done listening.”
The words hit him like you’d physically shoved him.
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
“You’re upset.”
“I’m breaking up with you.”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Don’t do this.”
You stared at him for a second too long. Because part of you wanted him to say the exact right thing. Wanted him to somehow fix it. Undo it.
But he stayed silent.
So you nodded once, blinking back tears. “We’re over.”
Then you walked away while he called your name behind you.
Three days passed.
Three days of unanswered texts.
Three days of your friends telling you Connor looked miserable.
Three days of pretending you were fine while your chest felt hollowed out.
Rain hammered against your windows late Friday night when someone started pounding on your front door hard enough to startle you upright from the couch.
You frowned, glancing at the clock.
11:47 PM.
The knocking came again.
You opened the door halfway—and froze.
Connor stood there soaked through, breathing hard like he’d run the entire way to your house. There was a split cut across his cheekbone, bruising already blooming along his jaw. His knuckles were raw and red.
Your anger immediately tangled with alarm. “What the hell happened to you?”
“Can I come in?”
“No.”
He shut his eyes briefly like he expected that answer. “Please.”
Rain dripped from his hair onto your porch. He looked exhausted. Wrecked, honestly.
Against your better judgment, you stepped aside.
Connor walked in silently while you grabbed a towel from the bathroom. He took it without speaking, pressing it against his face.
“You were fighting?” you asked.
“Yeah.”
“With who?”
He shrugged.
“Connor.”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
His jaw tightened. “He wouldn’t stop talking about you.”
Your chest twisted painfully. Silence stretched between you.
“You shouldn’t be here,” you said quietly.
“I know.”
“Then why are you?”
Connor looked at you then—really looked at you—and every bit of anger in his expression cracked open into something raw.
“Because I can’t do this.”
Your throat tightened. “Do what?”
“This.” He gestured helplessly between you both. “Not talking to you. Going home and not hearing your voice.” He swallowed hard. “I can’t sleep.”
“That’s not my problem anymore.”
“I know.” His voice broke. “But I need you to know I swear to God I didn’t kiss her back.”
“Stop.”
“I love you. So ridiculously much. I would never, ever do that to you.” He continued.