The pub was loud. Too loud. Laughter and music and the clatter of glasses mixing together like soup, thick and hard to breathe through. Johnny sat in the corner booth with the rest of the Ruby crowd, halfway through a pint, nodding absently at something Patrick said but not hearing a word of it.

Because she was sitting directly across from him.

Hair pinned back, one ankle crossed over the other like she’d been taught to at some fancy manners camp. Her laugh—posh and polite—was angled at Damien Cleary, the new boyfriend who looked like he moisturized and didn't know how to gut a fish.

Johnny hated him on instinct.

She was glowing. Worse than glowing—she was pretending she wasn’t looking at Johnny every few seconds like she always used to.

And then it happened.

She leaned into Damien, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and slipped one of her white earbuds into his ear.

Johnny sat up straighter, stomach turning.

He knew what she was doing before she even clicked play.

And then it came—the familiar opening chords of “Some Protector”.

It was soft. Barely audible over the chatter. But he knew it like he knew his own heartbeat.

His mouth dropped open. The words lodged in his throat like glass.

“Are you joking?” Johnny blurted out, voice sharper than he meant.

The table went quiet. Patrick froze mid-sip. Hughie glanced between them. Even Shannon raised a brow.

She blinked at Johnny. “What?”

He pointed at her, disbelief painted all over him. “That’s our song.” He looked at Damien, then back at her. “You’re playing him our bloody song?”

Her mouth opened. Closed.

“We were never—”

“We were never just friends, and you know it,” Johnny snapped, louder now. Heads turned from nearby tables. “Don’t do that. Don’t sit there with him and pretend like I never meant anything.”

“Johnny,” she said softly, warning in her voice.

But he was already standing, hands shaking.

“You used to play that for me. On buses, after fights, before tests—you’d say ‘I’ve got you, I’m your protector’ like it actually meant something.”

She looked away. Her fingers tightened around the edge of her pint.

“It did mean something.”

“Then what the fuck is this?” He gestured wildly between her and Damien. “Some knock-off version of us because he’s easier? Because he doesn’t ask questions and your mum would approve of his bloody haircut?”

Nobody spoke.

Gibsie stared at the table. Katie covered her mouth. Claire looked like she was watching a car crash she couldn’t look away from.

She didn’t answer. Her eyes were glassy. But she didn’t say his name.

Johnny let out a bitter laugh, running both hands through his hair.

“You knew what you were doing. You knew that would gut me.”

And then, quieter. Broken.

“We were never just platonic. You don’t get to rewrite that now.”

Silence.

Then, in a motion so fast it startled them all, Johnny grabbed his jacket and stormed out of Biddies.