Biddies is loud and golden and stinks of vinegar and fryer oil. Laughter crackles from every table. The lot’s packed in their usual corner, chips shared between arms slung over shoulders, ketchup on someone’s cuff.

Gibsie leans back in the booth, long legs sprawled, pint half-drunk, smile lopsided. He’s laughing at something Joey’s said, probably something idiotic, when it happens.

Across the table, she shifts in her seat.

His childhood best friend.

She’s got that clean, glossy posh look about her — hair tied back, expensive nails, the kind of coat that never gets muddy no matter how many times she wears it to the pitch.

And she’s nestled next to Damien Cleary.

Gibsie’s laughter slows.

She whispers something to Damien, and he shrugs, indulgent. She reaches into her tote and pulls out a tangle of white earbuds.

He knows those earbuds. She never upgraded. Said these ones still sounded the way they used to when they were thirteen, lying on her floor sharing a bag of Taytos and talking about how neither of them would ever be loved properly.

She puts one bud in Damien’s ear.

Presses play.

Gibsie knows the sound before it even leaks through the hum of the pub. That opening melody—soft, aching, too goddamn familiar.

Some Protector.

He straightens in his seat like someone lit a match beneath him.

“You’re kidding me.” His voice cuts through the chatter. A few heads turn. The laughter dies around the table.

“What?” she says, not looking at him.

“That song?” Gibsie’s voice is tight now. “That song?”

She finally meets his eyes.

Damien frowns. “What’s the problem, mate?”

Gibsie ignores him. Staring at her.

“We said that song was just ours. You remember that, don’t you?”

She hesitates. “Gerard—”

“No. Don’t ‘Gerard’ me. We weren’t just listening to that in silence when our lives were falling apart for nothing. We weren’t just... friends on a loop for all those years for nothing.”

She shifts in her seat. Everyone’s gone quiet now — Patrick’s brow furrowed, Johnny tense, Shannon chewing her lip.

“You told me you couldn’t date me because it’d ruin us,” Gibsie says, louder now. His chest rises and falls fast. “You told me we were too important.”

He gestures to Damien. “But this is fine? This is safe?”

She opens her mouth, but he cuts her off.

“You told me I wasn’t your protector, but I was, wasn’t I? I was the one there. Every time. And now you’re playing our song for him like it’s just another bloody playlist?”

Her face twists. She looks down.

Gibsie laughs — harsh and bitter.

“You were never just my friend,” he says. “And I was never just yours.”

He stands, eyes bright and wounded, tossing his coat over one arm.

“Tell Damien he’s got good taste. That one’s a banger.”

And with that, Gibsie storms out into the night.