Biddies was packed for a Thursday. Warm light buzzed over mismatched booths and half-wiped tables, the scent of grease and cologne hanging heavy in the air. Rugby practice had been brutal, but now Johnny Kavanagh was sunk into a booth with Gibsie, Hughie Biggs, and Patrick Feely, nursing a Coke and the beginnings of a headache.

And then he saw her.

Less than twenty feet away from me was her. My sunshine. With Damien Cleary. She was sitting in the booth near the jukebox, head tipped back in a laugh that hit Johnny like a gut punch. She’s laughing. What was she laughing about? How could she sit there and look so beautiful?

His jaw clenched.

Damien — smug, square-jawed Damien — leaned closer, whispering something in her ear. She nudged his shoulder with a smile that was supposed to belong to Johnny, only Johnny, not some second-string winger with a gel addiction.

Gibsie caught the shift in Johnny’s posture immediately. “Jesus,” he muttered, following Johnny’s gaze. “Is that Damien Cleary?”

“And your girl?” Hughie added, eyes wide.

“She’s not my girl,” Johnny said sharply. Too fast. Too defensive.

Patrick leaned back in his seat, eyes narrowing. “Right. And I’m the bloody Pope.”

“Are we interfering or what?” Gibsie asked, already straightening up with that familiar glint of chaos in his eye.

“We shouldn’t,” Johnny muttered. But his fists were tight around his cup, knuckles white.

“So that’s a yes,” Hughie translated.

Patrick cracked his neck. “Reckon it’s our civic duty.”

Within seconds, they were out of the booth, each one moving with the subtle grace of teenage boys on a mission: cause harmless havoc. Gibsie grabbed a handful of sugar packets. Hughie picked a booth dangerously close to hers. Patrick made a beeline for the jukebox.

Johnny hung back, watching the scene unfold.

Patrick punched in a selection.

“You're Beautiful” by James Blunt.

Gibsie “accidentally” spilled ketchup on Damien’s hoodie as he walked by. Hughie tripped on purpose and knocked the salt shaker into Damien’s lap. By the time the second verse started, Damien looked like he was rethinking every life decision, while she was blinking in surprise, trying not to laugh.

Johnny finally stood, walking past her table casually, like he didn’t know her laugh by heart. Like her perfume wasn’t stitched into his hoodie from last week.

He didn’t stop. Just said under his breath as he passed her:

“You deserve better than Damien bloody Cleary.”

And then he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him, the bell above it jingling like the final punchline.

She stared after him, blinking, smile fading.

Damien cleared his throat, clueless. “So, uh, want to split a milkshake?”

She didn’t answer.

She was still watching the door.