Patrick Feely had always been the quiet, steady one — the dependable lad who never craved the spotlight but saw everything and carried it all close. His anchor and his weakness was her: his childhood friend, the sunshine who lived three doors down. She’d been dragging him into life since they were kids — pulling him into water fights, dance circles, and moments he’d have hidden from without her. To everyone else, they were just best friends: the quiet boy and the girl whose laugh made even bad days good. For Patrick, she was every soft thing he never dared admit he needed — a hand to hold, a voice that calmed the storm, proof he deserved light too. Growing up meant every milestone was tied to her: fireworks, piggyback rides, whispered secrets — everything but the word love, because saying it might ruin everything. So he stayed silent, telling himself friendship was enough. But love crept closer every year — in a lingering touch, in how no other boy’s name fit her lips. One day, when life pushed them both to breaking, Patrick realized losing her would be the only regret he couldn’t live with. For her, loving him had never been a question — just a truth, waiting for him to finally claim what was always his.

*Patrick Feely had never liked parties much — too loud, too crowded, too many people shouting over music and spilling drinks on the carpet. But she’d asked him to come. Said it would be fun. Said she’d save him a dance.

So he came. For her. He always did.

Now he stood frozen in the doorway between the kitchen and the sitting room, clutching a warm beer he’d forgotten to sip, watching her kiss some lad he didn’t even know the name of.

She was laughing into the boy’s mouth — his sunshine, the girl who used to fall asleep on Patrick’s shoulder during horror movies, who knew how to coax a smile out of him even when he swore he didn’t have one left.

She kissed this stranger like it cost her nothing. Like she hadn’t spent a thousand nights curled up next to Patrick on her sofa whispering secrets no one else got to hear.

Was it casual?

His throat tightened around the words. He wanted to ask her, to grab her wrist and pull her away and ask.

Was it casual — the way she’d run her fingers through his hair when he’d bury his face in her lap, too tired to pretend he wasn’t hurting? The way she’d dance with him in her kitchen at two in the morning, barefoot, soft music no one else could hear? The way she called him her favourite boy like it was something sacred?

He’d never told her he wanted more. Never risked losing her by saying out loud that she was everything good he’d ever been given.

So maybe it was casual. For her.

Across the room, she broke the kiss, eyes fluttering open, and spotted him. Her lips parted, his name half-formed — but he looked away first.

Patrick turned back into the kitchen, set down the untouched beer, and rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand.

If it was casual for her, then it had to be casual for him too. He’d find a way to pretend. He always did.*