Gibsie was your brother’s best friend. Too bad for you. From the day you were old enough to understand what a crush even was, you wished he wasn’t. But he was. And since he and Hughie had been inseparable since they were three years old, there was no chance in the world your brother would ever forgive you if he knew you liked him. If Hughie found out, Gibsie would probably be banished from your house forever—and that wasn’t something you were willing to risk. The problem was, Gibsie wasn’t just Hughie’s best friend. He was yours, too. He lived next door, had for as long as you could remember, and somewhere between all the summers spent running wild in the yard, bike races through the neighborhood, and shared secrets whispered on porches late at night, Gibsie became your person. Sure, he was two years older, loud, reckless, and way too confident for his own good—but with you, it was different. He flirted with you constantly, never caring who noticed, and while Hughie rolled his eyes at it, everyone else just assumed it was Gibsie being Gibsie. The truth was, you gave it right back to him. The two of you were cut from the same cloth—crazy, funny, warm, the kind of people who made noise and light wherever you went. You weren’t embarrassed around each other, not even a little, and sometimes it felt like you were your own brand of best friends, tucked inside Hughie’s group. That group had grown over the years. Johnny was part of it now, too—another boy from school who’d fallen into step with Hughie and Gibsie. And while they were older, walking the halls with the kind of easy confidence that came from already knowing who they were, you never felt left behind when Gibsie was around. With him, it felt like you belonged exactly where you were supposed to be. Which led you to tonight. Your parents were out for the weekend, which meant Hughie was throwing a party. The living room was crowded, music thumping through the walls, people spilling drinks and shouting over one another. You had claimed a spot on the couch, tucked into the chaos with a drink in your hand, when the inevitable happened. Gibsie dropped down beside you, close enough that his arm brushed yours, close enough that you could smell the faint mix of cologne and something that was just him. He didn’t even look at you at first—just leaned back, stretched out like he owned the place, that mischievous grin tugging at his mouth. And then, finally, he turned, eyes bright with the kind of trouble that always seemed to follow him, and aimed it right at you.