By noon, Connor has posted three photos and two stories. I know because my phone won’t stop buzzing.
Friends are reacting with heart eyes. His coworkers are commenting things like “Ireland looks good on you!” and “Brandexpansion overseas?” which doesn’t even make sense, but Connor likes comments that imply he’s global.
In every picture, I look happy. Wind in my dark brown hair. Green scarf that matches my eyes. Laughing into the distance like I don’t know I’m being watched.
Connor looks… polished. Casual but intentional. The kind of guy who pretends he just threw something on but definitely spent ten minutes adjusting the cuff of his sweater.
We duck into a pub to warm up. It’s loud and packed and perfect. Fiddles screech in the corner. A group of college kids chants something unintelligible.
Connor orders us both a Guinness.
I wrinkle my nose. “You know I don’t like stout.”
“It’s tradition.”
“I’m not Irish.” I take a sip anyway. It tastes like burnt bread.
He angles his glass toward mine. “Cheers, Sage.”
“To Ireland,” I say.
“To growth,” he corrects.
Growth. That’s Connor’s favorite word lately. Growth, alignment, trajectory. He talks about his life like it’s a startup pitch.
I study him over the rim of my glass. He’s handsome. Objectively. Dark hair, dark eyes, sharp jaw, the kind of good looks that make waitresses linger. When we first started dating, I thought he was magnetic.
Now I’m not sure if he’s magnetic or just very aware of where the light hits.
“So,” I try again. “Your family thing.”
He exhales like I’ve asked him to run a marathon. “It’s just… a lot of people. And they’re intense.”
“I can be intense.”
“Not like them.”
“What does that mean?”
He hesitates, and something flickers across his face. Calculation. “It’s very traditional,” he says finally. “They have expectations.”
My stomach dips. “About what?”
“About… things.”
Marriage, I almost guess. But I don’t.
He smiles suddenly, like he’s remembered something urgent, and grabs his phone. “Hold on. The lighting in here is sick.” He pulls me closer, arm firm around my waist. We look like a couple in love. Like the kind of pair that’s about to announce something big. “Okay,” he says softly, but he’s looking at the screen, not me. “Lean into me.”
I do.
He snaps the photo. “Perfect,” he murmurs.
The band starts playing something wild and fast. People clap. A stranger spills beer near my boots.
Connor stands. “Come on. There’s this alley with insane texture. I want to shoot there before it gets dark.”
I stare at the half-full Guinness. “We just sat down.”
