Maeve: Call me. Now.
Lucas swallowed hard.
Lucas: I’m fine.
Maeve: Bullshit
Maeve: Call me right now or I’m getting in my car and driving to your building, and I will scream in the lobby until someone calls the Gardaí.
He stared at that for half a beat—because even now, some part of him wanted to laugh.
Then his thumb hit call.
She picked up on the first ring.
“Luke, what the fuck were you thinking,” Maeve said, skipping hello entirely.
Lucas closed his eyes. “Maeve—”
“No,” she cut in, sharp, worry riding just under it. “I’m serious. I open my phone and my timeline’s in bits about you and Evelyn Cross like you’ve just volunteered as Ireland’s Official Straight Man, and then I text Eli because Ilikehim and he’s gone completely radio silent.”
Lucas swallowed. “He’s not— he’s just—”
“Hurt,” Maeve finished flatly. “He’shurt, Luke.”
The nickname landed heavy, familiar, unignorable.
Maeve didn’t let him wriggle.
“And don’t even try telling me this just happened,” she went on. “Because I know that face you’re pulling in those photos. That’s your ‘I’ve been talked into something I don’t want’ face. Same one you had when you were fourteen and agreed to sing at Mass.”
Lucas exhaled slowly. “Declan said it’d calm things down…”
Maeve laughed once — short, incredulous, properly angry.
“Oh, fuckDeclan.”
“Maeve—”
“No,” she said again. “I mean it. Fuck him sideways with a sponsorship deal. I’ve loathed that gobshite since the day he toldyou as a goddamn teenager that your image mattered more than your actual life.”
Lucas rubbed a hand over his face. “It was just dinner.”
“And the kiss?” Maeve shot back. “The hug? Don’t insult me. That wasn’t an accident. That was optics.”
Lucas went quiet.
Maeve’s voice shifted then — not softer, exactly, but steadier. Like she was hauling him back by the scruff before he did something even stupider.
“Did you tell Eli this was coming?”
Lucas’s throat tightened. “Not… properly.”
“Jesus, Luke.”
“I didn’t think—”
“No,” Maeve said. “You didn’twantto think. There’s a difference.”