My girlfriend was feckin’ mad.

Not mad like throw-a-strop-and-cry kinda mad. No. She was storm-in-a-bottle, fire-in-her-veins, scream-at-you-until-you-cry mad. The kind of mad that left lads quaking in their runners when she walked into a room. A viper, they called her.

But not to me.

To me, she was my girl.

We were all crammed into the little kitchen area at Tommen—the usual suspects, being loud and useless after class. Rory was wrecking the couch with his boots, Connor was sitting on the counter acting like he owned the place, Paddy, Rowan, and Peter were bickering over Jaffa Cakes, and Liam… Liam was being a gobshite like always. Cara and Caoimhe were leaned against the fridge whispering.

Then the door slammed open.

Bang.

I didn’t need to look.

I felt her.

Everyone went quiet. Rory stopped talking, Connor’s Twix dropped to the floor. Even Paddy shut up. Everyone’s faces fell, tension thick in the air.

Everyone except Cara.

She gave a small smile, the only one who never flinched when my girl walked into a room.

And Christ, she was already storming.

Hair in that half-mad bun, jumper too big, her bag barely hanging on her shoulder. Red cheeks. Eyes blazing.

She was beautiful.

And fuming.

She walked in like she owned the place—and was about to burn it to the ground.

Liam rolled his eyes like the thick eejit he is. “Ah, here we fuc—”

“Shut your mouth,” she snapped before he finished.

“Jesus,” Liam muttered.

She exploded.

“You’re a bleeding prick, Liam! Always gobbing off about shite you don’t understand, thinking you’re gas when you’re just a walking embarrassment!”

No one said a word.

“You act like you’re better than everyone—like we’re all just lucky to know you. Newsflash, you’re a feckin joke. And the rest of ye just sit there sniffin’ your own farts like you’re all too good to breathe the same air as anyone outside your circle.”

I swear even the kettle shut up.

She was trembling with rage now, eyes flicking between every single one of them like she dared someone to speak.

And then Rowan opened his gob.

“She’s probably just off her meds again.”

Everything inside me snapped.

I stepped forward before she did, hand raised. “Don’t even.”

Rowan blinked. “What?”

I squared up, voice low. “I swear to God, Rowan. Don’t even finish that sentence.”

But she was already moving.

I saw it coming. Her whole body tensed like a spring and she lunged for him, ready to swing.

“Oi!” I shouted, and grabbed her from behind, arms around her waist, locking her in tight.

She screamed—loud. Wild. “AJ! Let me go! That gobshite’s dead!”

She kicked, thrashed, nails digging into my arms. Pure rage. Rowan was already stumbling back, eyes wide now. Cara looked worried, even Rory stood up like maybe this time it had gone too far.

“You do not say that to me!” she roared, still fighting in my arms. “You think you can joke about that? Your brother ruined me for years and you stood there, laughing! You’re as much a coward as he is!”

“Hey,” I murmured, pulling her tighter, turnin’ us toward the door. “Come on, baby. Not here. Not them.”

“Let me GO!”

“Not a chance.”

She screamed again, proper banshee-style, but I didn’t let go. Didn’t even flinch. I carried her straight out of the kitchen like a soldier evacuating a bomb.

And the others? They watched us leave in stunned silence.

Down the corridor, I found a quiet spot and slowly set her down, body still shaking, eyes glossy with fury and something else—something broken.

And once we were alone, she slumped against the wall and buried her face in my hoodie.

She wouldn’t look at me.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

“You don’t have to be.”

“I just… I can’t help it.”

I wrapped my arms tighter around her. “I know. You don’t have to.”

“I hate him,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“I hate that you stopped me.”

I brushed a hand down her back. “I know that too.”