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Maisie lets out a chirpy laugh then redirects their conversation back to their quest objectives. But her expression flickers—just for a beat—and there’s something behind her eyes, something shuttered and uneasy that anyone less attuned to Maisie’s every microexpression would miss altogether.

She doesn’t like this. Not at all.

It twists something sharp and hot inside me—the idea of her playing with this guy for views or clicks or whatever else, and having to put up with his nonsense. Before I know what I’m doing, I slam my phone facedown on the bar, hard enough to rattle a few glasses. Then I pour myself another dram and down it in one.

The burn hits harder this time—sharp and unapologetic—and golden streaks crawl around my vision like fireflies trapped in my skull. Of course, this is when Lewis shows up and ruins my pity party entirely by crossing his arms and glaring at me

“Jesus Christ, Jamie. How much have you had?”

“Not enough,” I mumble, but even I can hear how pathetic I sound. The words come out of my mouth half-slurred and barely human. Still, I try adding, “I’m fine.”

Naturally, Lewis doesn’t buy it for a second. “Go to your room!” he snaps, like I’m a misbehaving teenager and he’s my father—even though he’s only actually three years older than me. “Lie down before you keel over or start ranting about feelings where customers might hear you. I swear, Jamie . . .” He exhales sharply through his nose and drags a hand down his face like I’m the bane of his existence. Then he steps closer, still looking at me like I’m a particularly stubborn stain on his favourite jumper, and clamps a hand on my shoulder. His grip is firm.

But when he speaks again, his voice is gentler—just a notch at first. “Look, I spent years pining after Iona. Years. So trust me, I know what it’s like. If it’s meant to be, it’ll happen, okay? But right now, you need to sleep this off.”

I want to tell him he’s wrong—that sometimes things don’t work out, no matter how much you want them to. But the words get stuck in my throat, and maybe that’s for the best.

I stumble upstairs to my room, fumbling with the key until it finally slots home. But, once inside, my chest of drawers beckons like an old conspirator, and I pull out the bottle I keep hidden there. A quick twist of the cap, then the burn of the first sip lights up my throat—hot and unforgiving. By the third swig, those golden streaks from earlier have scattered into shapeless smears, blurring everything into one hazy mess. Like my head has been dunked underwater.

And yet the video keeps playing over and over in my mind: Maisie’s laugh, that tosser with the ridiculous purple hair hitting on her, her smile wobbling for just half a second. Before I know what I’m doing, my phone is in my hand and I’m watching it again, torturing myself with every moment. My jaw clenches tight enough to give me a headache.

Fuck this.

My legs move before my brain catches up with them. Downstairs again—staggering slightly, walls tilting and swaying as if they’re alive—and then out into the drizzle. The cool air hits my face, but it doesn’t clear my head like I’d hoped. Instead my feet carry me down the street towards the warm glow of the Pheasant’s windows.

And there she is.

Maisie is behind the bar, her flame-bright hair catching the light as she laughs at something a customer has said. She’s so at ease, so bloody perfect, and for a second or two, I just stand outside like an idiot watching her through glass panes streaked with rain.

She looks happy. Properly happy. Like she hasn’t once thought about me all day—or maybe even longer than that. Like all those hours we spent gaming together meant nothing to her. Like those times we got tangled up in each other’s arms were just . . . meaningless.

I want to go in, to march right up to the bar and . . . and what? Lay myself bare in front of everyone in the pub? Tell her how much this hurts?

No. She already knows.

And she doesn’t care—not really. Not enough.

My feet move again, slow and aimless, carrying me along Bannock’s rain-slicked Main Street. The world around me blurs—buildings fading into shadows, streetlamps smearing gold across the wet pavement. The old stone bridge looms ahead through the gloom, and I find myself drawn to it, to the rushing water below.

The rain is heavier now, pouring in relentless sheets that drum against the stones. My clothes cling to me, water running down my neck, but I barely feel it. All I can hear is the roar of the river, and just like that, I’m eighteen again. The rain pounding on the car roof as tyres screech, the world spinning sideways—the crunch of metal and glass⁠—

The roar of a motorcycle engine cuts through the memory. Tyres hiss as they glide to a stop, pulling me back into the present. Footsteps splash closer behind me.

“Oi, mate, are you all right?” A pause, then sharper: “Christ, Jamie—is that you? What the hell are you playing at? You’re soaking wet.”

I turn my head sluggishly towards the voice. Robbie MacDonald stands a few feet away, rain dripping off his battered leather jacket and pooling around his riding boots. His motorcycle helmet is tucked under one arm; his other hand rakes back damp black hair from piercing blue eyes that seem to cut through the rainy haze.

“I’m fine,” I mutter, though the words slur together, barely audible even to me. My legs wobble beneath me, and I teeter closer to the low stone wall separating me from the river’s rushing waters below.

Robbie grabs a hold of my arm with startling speed and strength. “Like hell you are.” His voice is low but firm, punching through the hammering rain with startling clarity. “Come on, out of this bloody rain before you end up hurting yourself.”

I try shaking him off, but his grip is steady as stone. He’s not letting go.

“Why d’you care?” The words spill out of me like whisky from an upturned bottle—messy and bitter.

For a split second, something flickers across Robbie’s face—something raw and unguarded. Pain? Regret? Whatever it is, it doesn’t belong on the face of Bannock’s resident “bad boy”, yet there it is. But then it’s gone as fast as it appeared, replaced by a furrowed brow and a flicker of frustration.

“Look,” he says after a beat, his voice quieter now but no less resolute, “that night . . . when I came across the crash . . . ” He trails off as if waiting to see if I’ll interrupt him. I don’t.