Biddies was buzzing. Laughter crackled through the booths, plates clinked behind the bar, and the lads—Hughie, Johnny, Gibsie, and Joey—were mid-argument over who was footing the bill for the next round.

Patrick Feely wasn’t laughing.

He was sitting too still, eyes flicking to the door every few seconds.

He knew she’d come.

And like always, she was a storm in silk when she did. Calm on the surface, but brewing underneath. She walked in with her chin high, that controlled, elegant way of hers masking everything she was feeling.

Until she got to him.

“Patrick,” she said, tone razor-sharp but quiet, “you told me you’d have an answer by Friday.”

The table stilled. Hughie raised a brow. Gibsie glanced between them. Johnny muttered, “Oh, shit.”

Patrick stood, but too slow.

“I know you’ve got options,” she said, voice growing. “And I know I made it complicated by not saying anything for so long, but I’m saying it now. I like you. I always have.”

Her eyes burned into his. “So do you want me or do you want her?”

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

The air in Biddies changed.