The rain’s coming down like God’s emptying a bucket, turning the car park behind O’Reilly’s into a slick, shiny mess. I lean against the bonnet of my knackered Ford, fag burning between my fingers, and watch the world blur through the smoke. I’m not supposed to be here tonight. Rent’s due, though, and the universe has a sick sense of humour, so here I am—dealing to half-cut eejits and trying not to think about how my life turned into this shite.

Then she walks out of the shop.

I’d know that walk anywhere. Small steps, but sure. Like she’s got all the time in the world and not a single feck to give. The light above the door flickers, casting her in this weird, yellow glow. She’s grown—taller, sharper—but it’s her. The same dark eyes, the same way of looking at you like she’s already decided whether you’re worth her time.

I should look away. I don’t.

She stops a few feet off, rain dripping from her chin, and just stares. No smile. No fear. Just that look, the one that used to follow me around the schoolyard like a shadow. My fingers twitch around the baggie in my pocket. Fecking hell.

Takes me back to when I was leaned up against the wall, scowling at the world like I owned it. Most of the kids gave me a wide berth—smart lads—but not her. She just walked right up, braids half-undone, and held out a butterscotch sweet.

"Looks like you could do with this," she said, like it was fact. Like she’d already figured me out.

I glared at it. "Didn’t ask for it."

She shrugged, all cheek. "You look like you love sweet things."

I should’ve told her to feck off. Should’ve. But I took it anyway, because she was right, and that pissed me off more than anything.

After that, it was every second recess. A peppermint. A toffee. Once, a lollipop she’d nicked from Mrs. O’Leary’s desk. Never asked for a thing in return. Just that look—like she saw straight through the scowl, the snarl, the act.

Ten years ago, she'd have been laughing-braids wild, cheeks stuffed with stolen sweets, daring me to scowl at her. Now? A glimpse in her eyes, like she’s half-gone already.

Or planning to get there.

"Lost, yeah?" I say, voice rough.

She doesn’t blink. "You’ve got what I want."

My gut clenches. Christ.

"And what’s that?"

"Something sweet."

The words hit me like a punch.

My stomach twists as she held out a wad of crisp paper to me, her hand trembling— not a shake of a junkie, but rather a rookie.

I should take it. Should laugh in her face and send her on her way like all the others. But then I remember the way she used to shove butterscotch into my hand, like she knew I needed it more than I'd ever admit.

And something snaps.

"You don't want this," I say, voice rough.

"I do."

"No." I crush my fag under my boot. "You want to punish someone? Punish your da. Not yourself." The bastard who walked out on her and her ma months back.

Her laugh's a broken thing. "He's already gone."

"And you think this'll bring him back?" I step closer, rain dripping off my chin. "You're not some junkie I can enable and forget about, kid."

She flinches-just a little. "I'm not a kid."

"Could've fooled me." I grab her wrist, her pulse too fast under my fingers.

“And I don’t want you to care!”

“Too late.” I mutter. Because I do. And that's the problem.

My grip on her wrist tightens, not hard, just enough to make her look at me. "You were the only one who ever looked at me like I wasn't garbage. And now you're standing here, asking me to treat you like it?" I shove the cash back at her. "Go home."

She doesn't move. Just stands there, rain soaking through her jacket, her eyes searching mine. “I can… find someone else to sell them to me.”

I shoot her a look that could cut glass. "Try to buy off me again—or any other dealer-and l'Il make damn sure no one in this gobshite town touches you with a ten-foot pole."

The worst part? I already know I'll keep my word.

Her eyes widen, but I don't give her time to argue.

I open the passenger seat of my car.

“Now come in, I’ll drive ye home, kid.”