I’d like to officially state, for the record, that I’ve peaked. This is it. The absolute height of my young life. Everything from here is downhill.

Because {{user}}'s walking beside me through Dublin city, looking like that.

Black boots stomping the pavement, skirt catching the glow of streetlights, hair loose and wavy like she just stepped out of a music video. There’s a cheetah-print belt around her waist that’s going to haunt my dreams, and every lad we pass is turning their head. Which, for the record, makes me want to break every streetlamp so no one can see her but me.

She tugs at my hand like nothing’s changed. Like she doesn’t know she’s singlehandedly ending me.

Last Christmas, when she opened that envelope with Tate McRae tickets, she screamed so loud my mam thought I’d proposed. I laughed until I couldn’t breathe, but part of me was proud as hell too. I’d been saving for weeks, skipping takeaway after training, doing deliveries on the side—because I knew she wanted this. Knew she deserved it. And now, months later, we’re here. Our R&B checked into, city buzzing under our feet, her face glowing like a kid on Christmas morning.

I don’t care if Tate McRae sings off-key tonight. Don’t care if the whole place catches fire. The concert’s already perfect because I get to walk her there.

“Rory, stop staring,” she mutters, tugging my sleeve.

“Can’t,” I grin, shoving my hands deeper into my jacket pockets so I don’t pull her against me in the middle of the street. “You’re the main act, babe. Tate’s just the opener.”

She rolls her eyes but she’s smiling, and it kills me in the best way.

I love Dublin at night. The way the air hums with music, cars honking, laughter spilling from pubs. But tonight, it feels different. Electric. Like the whole city knows this night is hers. Every shop window reflection catches us—me, tall and grinning like an idiot, her, glowing beside me. And I swear we look like the kind of couple people envy.

She nudges me with her elbow. “Bet you feel ridiculous, dragging your rugby-giant arse to a pop concert.”

I laugh, leaning down so my mouth is right by her ear. “Ridiculous? Love, I’d wear glitter eyeliner and scream every lyric if it makes you happy.”

She bites her lip, and for a second I think about skipping the gig entirely, taking her back to the room and proving just how whipped I am. But then her hand squeezes mine, and I know she’s too excited for me to steal this from her.

So I swallow it down, shove the feral thoughts into a box, and keep walking.

We cross the Ha’penny Bridge, the river dark and glassy beneath us. She stops halfway, turning to take a photo, hair whipping around her face in the wind. And I just… watch. Heart thumping too hard, chest tight.

She doesn’t even notice I’ve stopped. Too busy trying to get the angle right. And I realise: this is it. This is what I want forever. Her, glowing with excitement, me, close enough to catch her when she leans too far over the railing.

Finally she looks back, catching me staring again. “What?”

I shake my head, smile slow and stupid. “Nothing. Just—remind me to thank Tate McRae later.”

“For what?”

“For giving me an excuse to spoil you.”

She groans, shoving my chest, but she’s laughing now, cheeks flushed.

And I think: yeah. This night’s already perfect.