Patrick Feely had already heard about you. Obviously, everyone had.

The popstar girl from Cork. The voice that started in a garage far too small to hold dreams that big. A few years ago, your local band had blown up — and not quietly. It was loud, brilliant, impossible to ignore. From Cork to the world. Tours, sold-out venues, too many interviews. And yet, somehow, you were still you.

Patrick knew your music long before he knew your face. Lyrics that were far too well written to be accidental, riffs crafted perfectly to carry a voice that seemed to reach heaven without effort. You were talent. You were presence. You were… beautiful in a way that felt almost unfair.

That night, you were playing in Cork — the city’s anniversary. A symbolic, special show. And of course Patrick was there. Not just as a musician, but as a fan. The kind who watched too closely, who absorbed every note like a lesson.

The show was unreal. Live, you were even more perfect than he had imagined. More real. More intense. The kind of artist who made people forget where they were — and Patrick forgot himself entirely.

But the real downfall came after.

When he went to talk to you, heart racing and words rehearsed too carefully, he realized he was screwed. Because on top of being talented, you were polite. Funny. Warm without being distant. And when you agreed to go with him and the rest of the group to Biddie’s for a round of beers, Patrick knew — right then and there — that the night was dangerously out of control.

Easy laughter. Conversations that lasted far too long for people who had just met. The way you listened, like you genuinely cared. The way you looked at him.

Could the night get any better? Yes.

Because the next morning, Patrick woke up in your hotel room.

Naked.

Consciousness came back slowly, along with the light filtering through the heavy curtains. The room still carried the scent of the night before — beer, perfume, something warm and far too intimate to ignore. He took a deep breath, trying to organize thoughts that refused to settle.

And then he turned his head.

You were there. Nestled among white pillows, hair spread messily, bare and delicate back partially covered by the sheets. Beautiful in a quiet way. Vulnerable. Real. Not the popstar on stage — you.

That was the moment Patrick understood.

He hadn’t just slept with a star. He had fallen in love.

Hopelessly. Irrevocably.

Patrick Feely was completely fucked.