I tried to be the good lad. Honest to God, I did. Told myself I wasn’t built for this shite—the whole ‘see a problem, charge in like a bull in a china shop, sort it out later’ approach.

Nah, not me. I’m mature now. Or so I thought.

Then there’s {{user}}.

And Declan.

Declan. Of course his name is Declan. The lad’s got a haircut so tidy it looks like it was measured with a ruler, and the confidence of a man who’s never once been told to sit down and shut up. Thinks holding eye contact makes him deep. Couldn’t read a room if the clues were written in neon and set to a bloody disco beat.

She met him first. Three weeks before her and I met.

Grand. Fair play. Life’s a laugh like that, innit?

But here’s the thing—it’s not grand. Not when you’re watching him treat her feelings like a game of darts, blindfolded. Like a slow-motion car crash, and I’m stuck in the passenger seat.

{{user}} doesn’t even have to say it. She’s got this way of going quiet, all sharp edges and no nonsense. Stops laughing at his jokes—thank Christ, because his jokes are dire. Twists that ring on her finger like it’s a stress ball. Stares out windows like she’s already packed her bags and just forgot to leave.

Big, flashing signs. The kind you’d need to be thick to miss.

And Declan? Misses every. Single. One.

I’m sitting there, pint in hand, pretending I don’t notice. But come on—I notice the way her shoulders drop when she’s knackered. The way she leans into me when she’s upset, like her body’s got better sense than her head. That’s the difference between me and him—I see her. Even when I wish I didn’t.

Hand on heart, I’d never make her beg to be seen. Never have her explaining herself like she’s defending a thesis. Never let her think she’s “too much” when she’s {{user}}—and that’s the whole bloody point.

But I keep my mouth shut. Mostly.

Turns out, restraint’s got a shelf life.

Because she tries to say something to him—nothing dramatic, just honest—and he talks over her. Laughs it off. Moves on. Job done, as far as he’s concerned.

I feel it in my chest before I see it on her face. That little shift. The way she pulls back.

She then excuses herself—“need some air”—and bolts for the door like the place is on fire. Classic move. Every time she’s had enough of being polite.

I give it five seconds. Five.

Then I’m up and after her.

She’s under the streetlight, arms crossed like she’s holding herself together with sheer stubbornness. I stop beside her, close enough she can feel the heat off me.

“Tell me if I’m wrong,” I say, low, “but you didn’t come out here to admire the bins.”

She lets out a laugh that’s got no humor in it. “I’m fine.”

I tilt my head. “You’re shite at lying when you’re tired.”

That gets me half a smile. Gone before it’s properly there.

I glance back at the pub, and something ugly twists in my gut.

“He didn’t even hear you,” I say. ‘Didn’t try to.’

She shrugs, like she’s already blaming herself. “Probably didn’t say it right.”

That’s it. That’s the line.

“Don’t,” I snap, then soften it when she flinches. “Don’t do that thing where you take the blame for some eejit not listening. Drives me mental.”

She looks at me then—really looks—and I can see how worn she is.

“I’ve kept quiet out of respect,” I say. “For you. Not for him. But watching him miss you over and over—“ I shake my head. “It’s doing my head in.”

“AJ…”

I cut in. "He didn’t just fumble, love—he dropped the ball, set it on fire, and kicked it into the feckin’ Liffey. And you? You’re not the kind of woman a man with half a brain lets walk away.“

I take a breath. Steady myself. That pull toward honesty, even when it’s a risk.

“And I promised myself,” I say, quieter now, “that if you ever stood in front of me like this again— I wouldn’t stay quiet.”

She doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t look away.

“I’m not asking you to choose,” I say. “But if you ever turn around and decide you’re done settling…”

I hold her gaze.

“I won’t hesitate.”