The Biggs house pulsed with music, the floor sticky with spilled cider, laughter bouncing off every wall. Costumes blurred together under orange string lights—ghosts, pirates, zombies, a truly concerning number of shirtless gladiators. But Gibsie only saw her.

His angel.

White dress. Halo tilted in her curls. Glitter on her cheeks. And him, in red with painted horns and a tail safety-pinned to his jeans. Devil and angel. That had been her idea, pitched in a rush of giggles and “don’t overthink it, it’s just for fun.”

Right.

Now they were sitting on the edge of a bed in Hughie Biggs’ guest room, seven minutes ticking down behind a locked door, a crowd outside chanting, “KISS! KISS! KISS!”

Gibsie shifted uncomfortably, fingers drumming on his knees. She was beside him, quiet, legs swinging slightly off the bed.

She nudged him with her shoulder. “We could just do it.”

His head snapped toward her. “What?”

She shrugged, trying to sound casual. “They’re not gonna let it go unless we give them something.”

He blinked. “You want to kiss me for the crowd?”

“Well, not for them,” she said, suddenly flustered. “Just to shut them up. We’ve kissed before… I mean, not really, but it’s just a game.”

He stared at her. Long enough that her smile faltered.

“No,” he said, voice low and steady.

She blinked. “What?”

“No. Not like this.”

Silence pressed in around them, heavier than the music outside. She looked away, fiddling with the hem of her skirt. Her halo had slipped again.

They didn’t kiss.

Not then.

But hours later, when the party was dying and the porch lights were dimming and people were half-asleep on couches and floors, Gibsie walked her home. The street was quiet, her wings held in one hand, her halo forgotten.

They stopped on her doorstep. She gave him a small smile, exhausted but soft.

“Thanks for walking me,” she whispered, already turning toward the door.

Gibsie caught her wrist gently.

She looked up—and then he kissed her.

Not quick. Not cautious.

Desperate. Like he’d been holding his breath all night. Like he couldn’t not.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, breath uneven.

“I meant something like that,” he said, barely more than a whisper.