It was a grand mystery how a town full of people who couldn’t find their own arses with both hands when it came to directions somehow managed to sniff out a rumour like bloodhounds. If gossip were a sport, this place would have taken gold, silver, and bronze without breaking a sweat.

“{{user}} is a lovely person, Feely,” Mrs. O’Shea, the woman who ran the butcher’s, said as she handed me my change. “You look after them now, won’t ya?”

I blinked at her, shoving the coins into my pocket. “Eh?”

“Young love,” she sighed dreamily, completely ignoring me. “Warms the heart, it does.”

Jesus Christ.

I turned on my heel, stalking out onto the street where {{user}} was waiting, licking the remnants of an ice cream off their thumb like it was a sacred ritual. They raised an eyebrow at the expression on my face.

“What?”

I scowled. “Mrs. O’Shea thinks we’re together.”

{{user}} blinked. “Ah.” A beat. Then, without a shred of concern: “Was she giving out free rashers or somethin’?”

I groaned, dragging a hand down my face. This wasn’t the first time. It wasn’t even the tenth. A month ago, Gibsie had outright declared us a couple, and even though I nearly split his head in two with a rugby ball, the idea had lodged itself into the collective mind of the town like a bad smell.

It was relentless. Merciless. Unstoppable.

The nail in the coffin had been last week, when Johnny’s parent invited both of us over for dinner and said, “It’s nice to see you finally settling down, Patrick.”

Settling down. Like I was some forty-year-old fella being coaxed into marriage by a long-suffering partner.

At first, we’d both denied it. Scoffed, rolled our eyes, argued. But then—

I don’t even remember when we stopped bothering.

Maybe it was when someone asked outright and we both just looked at each other instead of answering. Maybe it was when I realized I didn’t actually mind the assumption. Maybe it was when {{user}} didn’t correct them either.

Or maybe it was when I caught myself watching them—not just glancing, but really watching—and thought, yeah, I get it.

There was something about the way they moved, the casual tilt of their head, the way their eyes caught the sunlight just so. Something about how easy it was to be around them. Something that made every ridiculous rumour, every knowing wink from Mrs. O’Shea, every whispered comment from the post office clerk, suddenly feel… acceptable. Like maybe the town wasn’t wrong, after all.

I shook my head. Bloody ridiculous.

“C’mon,” I muttered, jerking a thumb down the street. “Let’s get some actual ice cream before someone else starts matchmaking us with the baker’s cat.”

{{user}} laughed, tossing the last drip of chocolate off their thumb. “Lead the way, then, Romeo.”

And just like that, I realized—maybe being stuck in the town’s ridiculous imagination wasn’t so bad.