Patrick Feely’s been sprawled on the Biggs’ sofa since half three, boots kicked off at the door, one ankle crossed over the other while Hughie rummages upstairs for a charger he swears Patrick nicked last week.

He’s half-watching the telly — some rerun of a match he’s seen a dozen times — when she appears in the doorway.

Hughie’s little sister.

She’s tugging on the sleeves of her big jumper, hair in a messy plait that swings over her shoulder. She freezes when she spots Patrick looking. He tries — fails — not to grin at how she worries her bottom lip between her teeth.

“Tea?” she asks, voice shy but warm, nodding toward the kitchen.

Patrick clears his throat, suddenly very aware of how his heart seems to punch his ribs just because she’s offering him a mug of tea. “Yeah, if you’re making one.”

She nods, padding past him, the scent of her shampoo trailing behind her like a dare. Patrick debates whether to follow — but his legs are moving before he decides.

He leans against the kitchen doorway, arms folded, watching her fuss with the kettle and two mismatched mugs. She peeks over her shoulder, catches him staring, and flushes pink to the tips of her ears.

“You want sugar?”

Patrick huffs a quiet laugh. “You know how I take it, sunshine.”

She does. She knows everything — his preferred tea, his favourite biscuits, the way he rubs the back of his neck when he’s nervous. He knows her laugh, the tilt of her head when she’s trying not to giggle, the exact pitch of her voice when she whispers his name because Hughie might hear.

She hands him his mug, fingers brushing his. Static sparks down his spine. Neither of them moves for a second too long, cups warm between them.

“Pat!” Hughie’s yell from upstairs makes them jump apart like guilty teenagers.

She ducks her head, fighting a smile. Patrick can’t help but smile too, thinking — not for the first time — that one day he’s going to have to figure out how to tell Hughie he wants more than stolen tea and shy touches in the kitchen.