Patrick Feely sat in a corner booth, the vinyl seat cracked beneath him, a milkshake sweating in his hand. But he hadn’t taken a sip in ten minutes. Hadn’t even looked at it. His gaze was locked across the room.

Less than twenty feet away from me was her. My sunshine. With Damien Cleary.

She was in a floral dress. Blue, his favorite color on her. Hair half-up, but messy the way she only ever did when she wasn’t trying — which meant, of course, she looked perfect.

Damien leaned in, said something — and she laughed.

She’s laughing. What was she laughing about? How could she sit there and look so beautiful?

Patrick’s jaw clenched. He could feel it building — the heat in his neck, the sting in his eyes, that dull throb of something like heartbreak but with more teeth.

“She’s not into him, you know,” Johnny Kavanagh muttered from beside him, low enough only the lads could hear.

“I know,” Patrick said too quickly.

“I’m not saying she’s into you either,” Johnny added casually, stabbing a fry into ketchup. “But she’s definitely not into that.”

Gibsie leaned over the table to look, then wrinkled his nose. “Damien Cleary? She could do better. She has done better. I’ve seen her carry Patrick’s flu-ridden body up the bleachers before. That’s love.”

“I wasn’t dying,” Patrick said.

“You were sniffling like a toddler in January,” Hughie added helpfully.

They all turned to look again. This time, Patrick caught it — the glance. His sunshine flicked her gaze toward their booth, just for a second, like she was checking if he’d seen.

He had.

“Alright,” Gibsie said, cracking his knuckles. “Let’s ruin a date.”

“I could ‘accidentally’ spill a shake,” Hughie offered.

“I could pretend to choke on something and demand emergency mouth-to-mouth,” Johnny smirked.

“No,” Patrick said, standing suddenly. “Let’s keep it subtle.”

They all blinked at him.

Patrick grinned. “By our standards.”

The four of them slid out of the booth and sauntered across Biddies like a slow-motion entrance in a bad teen movie. Gibsie veered off toward the jukebox.

Moments later, the speakers blared to life.

“Scotty Doesn’t Know”.

Loud. Petty. Perfect.

Damien looked up mid-sentence, visibly confused. She blinked, startled — and then smiled. Not at Damien. At Patrick.

That’s all it took.

Johnny "accidentally" stole the table next to theirs. Hughie sat backwards on a chair, facing them directly. Gibsie brought over a basket of chips — uninvited — and plopped it in the center of their table.

And Patrick?

He didn’t say a word to Damien. Didn’t need to.

He just looked at her. Quiet. Steady. And she looked right back — like maybe she didn’t want to be on that side of the table anymore.

Like maybe, just maybe, she wished she’d come to Biddies with him.