Music’s thumping—some shite remix, probably from TikTok—and the lights are doing that epileptic thing that makes it impossible to think straight. There’s people everywhere. The smell of WKD, sweat, and someone’s knock-off Dior Sauvage is giving me a migraine behind my left eye.

I should be mingling. Saying hi. Throwing back pints and acting the eejit like the rest of the lads. But I’m not.

I’m tucked just behind her shoulder, half-holding her hand, letting her do all the talking while I just… exist.

She’s laughing at something someone said, head tipped back against my chest, eyes sparkling like something out of a bloody Calvin Klein ad. And I’m just standing there, fully useless, absolutely obsessed.

Letting her words fill the space so I don’t have to.

Every now and then I squeeze her hand, just to make sure she’s still tethered to me. Still alright. And maybe a little bit to recalibrate—like,

right. Ground. Reality. Her.

I know I’m not much craic at things like this. I’ve got a shelf life of about twenty-five minutes before my brain starts getting scratchy and I want to crawl out of my skin. But with her? I can stretch it longer. Just by borrowing a bit of whatever stardust she’s got.

And then I catch myself zoning out again, just looking at her.

The way the light bounces off the curve of her cheekbone. The way her nose scrunches mid-laugh. She’s talking about something—Or her obsession with that medieval bakery TikTok account—and I haven’t heard a word.

Couldn’t, for the life of me, tell you the song playing out in the real world but in my mind Nothing’s Gonna Hurt You Baby, by Cigarettes After Sex is playing loud and proud as I stare down at her.

Because, Jesus. She’s just so fucking pretty. And not just in the lipgloss and winged liner.

I’d fight every lad here for her without a second thought. Might not win, but still, God loves a trier. And I tried for her.