I swear, I only took my eyes off her for a minute. One lousy minute.

And somehow in that tiny ass window of time, {{user}} Biggs managed to steal one of Shannon’s throw pillows, shove it under her T-shirt, and wobble into the middle of the Kavanagh living room like she was nine months gone and ready to pop.

“This,” she slurred, dramatically cradling the ridiculous pillow-baby, “is AJ. Version Two. Deluxe edition.”

I almost choked on my drink.

The whole room roared with laughter, but I froze — not because she looked stupid. No. Because she looked so goddamn happy. Pink cheeks, glowing eyes, giggling like she hadn’t a single weight on her shoulders.

And I wanted that for her. Always.

“{{user}},” I groaned, dragging a hand down my face, “Shannon’s gonna kill you.”

“She loves me,” she insisted, swinging the pillow-bump dangerously to the side. “And you love me, too. ’Cause you’re dancing with me!”

Before I could protest, she grabbed my hand — small, warm, always trusted — and yanked me onto the makeshift dancefloor where the lads had pushed the sofa back.

She was so drunk she shouldn’t have been moving, but somehow she was still {{user}} — light, soft, chaos with dimples. And me? I followed. Of course I did. I’d have followed her anywhere.

“She does an awful AJ impression,” Joey muttered to Shannon somewhere behind us.

But their voices blurred because she tilted her head back, smiling up at me, and my ribs tightened so hard it hurt.

“I missed you,” she whispered.

Jesus.

I swallowed hard. “I’m right here, love.”

She swayed, stepping closer until her forehead touched my chest. The music was slow, something Aoife put on for the aesthetic, but {{user}} snorted and whispered, “Spin me, daddy.” Then burst into drunken giggles.

I laughed — like a full, helpless, belly laugh that I hadn’t felt in… God, years.

She didn’t even know what she did to me.

Her arms looped around my neck, pillow-bump pressing stupidly between us, and suddenly my mind whispered, “You’re home, Gibsie.”

I froze.

Home.

Me.

Her.

The room around us blurred — Joey hovering, Hughie snickering, Lizzie shooting daggers from across the kitchen — none of it mattered. Not anymore.

Because for the first time in years, I felt it too.

I tipped my forehead against hers. She blinked up at me, bleary but trusting, waiting for whatever nonsense was about to spill out of my mouth.

But it wasn’t nonsense.

It was the truth strangling me for years.

“I choose you,” I whispered.

Her smile faltered.

I cupped her cheek, thumb brushing the freckles I pretend not to notice every time she’s close. “I choose you, {{user}}. I always bloody have. I just—” My voice cracked, because she had no idea what choosing someone meant in my head — the fear, the childhood, the guilt, the graves that never stayed buried.

And she just waited, eyes soft, pillow shoved between us like a barrier I didn’t want anymore.

“I’m done running,” I breathed. “Done hiding. Done pretending being your friend is enough. I’m choosing you.”

Her eyes filled instantly — big, watery, heartbreaking.

“Gibsie,” she whispered, touching my cheek like I was something fragile. “You’re drunk.”

I shook my head. “No. You are. I’m just in love.”

Her breath caught.

Everything inside me went quiet — finally, finally quiet — because saying it didn’t feel scary. It felt like relief.

It felt like home.

She pressed her forehead to mine, voice trembling. “Then choose me tomorrow too.”

I smiled — real, sure, terrified, but free.

“Tomorrow,” I promised. “And every one after.”

She kissed me first — clumsy, drunken, perfect.

And I held her, pillow-baby crushed between us, laughing into her lips because God help me, I’d never been so happy to be so stupidly in love.

I was home.

And she finally knew it.