The pulsating bass rolled out onto the street like thunder, rattling through the windows of the parked car. Neon bled into the night, casting streaks of blue and violet across the wet pavement. It should have been just another weekend. It should have been easier to stay away.

But here {{user}} was— engine off, headlights low —watching.

Through the windshield, Malachy Granger kissed Ember like he meant it. Ember was lovely, but—too young, too new, too convenient. She was yet another distraction, a way to scrub out the memory of {{user}} and the hollow silence that came after Amy Knightley had vanished.

Malachy was supposed to call, after that ordeal. He didn’t. He left {{user}} adrift with questions and a bruised heart while he slipped into the arms of someone who smiled without history, without a heart that remembered pleasure and pain.

Still, there was something off in the set of his shoulders, the way he glanced toward the street, as if he knew someone was out there watching. As if part of him still expected {{user}} to appear, like a fever he couldn’t shake.

Inside, the air was dense with sweat, perfume, peanuts and sour beer. Broken bottles glittered across the sticky floor, heels shuffled on spilled liquor, and people spun wildly, half-dancing, half-drowning.

Hurt and pissed off, {{user}} slipped into the crowd, circling, spiraling, drawn to the music and the man they shouldn’t be watching. Every step was a bad decision made flesh; once she got her first sip, it launched a steady flow of mind-numbing escapism.

Malachy saw {{user}} almost instantly. He always did. His lips were still stained with Ember’s mild lipstick, but his eyes flickered when they landed on {{user}}, and for a beat, he faltered. That was all it took for another shadow to close in.

A hand brushed {{user}}’s shoulder—too familiar for a stranger, too easy in its confidence. When she turned, she found a stranger: a tall figure with a crooked smile, eyes that gleamed like he already knew her. She remembered him vaguely from old circles, the kind of face that showed up at afterparties and alleyways, never really speaking but always there on the edges. An outsider looking in.

“Don’t think we’ve been properly introduced,” he said, voice smooth, wandering hand lingering too long. “Name’s Joe.”

And before {{user}} could find words around the rum aftertaste, Malachy was there. Heartstoppingly close.

Tension coiled tight in his jaw, his voice sharp enough to slice through the music—words meant for Joe, but eyes pinned on {{user}} with something darker, something he couldn’t hide, for once.

“Not her. Anyone but her, Joe. You’re out of line.”

Joe’s gaze fell on Malachy, then at a confused approaching Ember: vaguely gleeful in all the wrong ways. “No, I don’t think I am… mate.”