I’ll be honest, the party was shite. Some lad’s sitting room reeking of cheap vodka and knock-off Lynx Africa, sweaty teenagers grinding to Westlife like it was bleeding sexy. Christ above. I was only there because {{user}} begged me, her glittery eyes pleading with me like she was dragging me into a fairground ride I didn’t want to go on.

But when she laughed and grabbed my hand, tugging me through the crowd, I went. Always did.

“Come on, Tadhg! Let’s get out of here, this place is dead!” she yelled, her glitter lip gloss shimmering under the shite strobe light.

So we snuck out. Two eejits in the cool night air, the thump of bass still vibrating behind us. And suddenly, without even thinking, we were pressed against the wall of some random shop, her lips on mine, and I thought, feck, I’m seventeen, she’s fifteen, and if Gibsie finds out, he’ll hang me from the crossbar at training.

But Christ, I didn’t care.

One bad idea led to another. A taxi later, we were sitting in a dodgy tattoo place in town, giggling like bleeding lunatics. “Names on our hearts,” {{user}} slurred, grinning at me like I’d hung the stars. “That way you can’t ever leave me.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re mad,” I muttered, but I let the needle burn her name into my skin anyway. Right over my chest, above my heart. Because even drunk, even stupid, I knew I’d never want to lose her.

By the time we staggered back to mine, it was past midnight. The second I pushed open the door, I knew we were fecked.

Johnny was on the couch, legs sprawled, watching rugby like it was holy scripture. Beside him—of all the bleeding people—was Gibsie. Feet up on the table, a slab of crisps in his lap, laughing at whatever stupid commentary was on.

And from the kitchen? Edel’s voice. “Is that you, Tadhg? Don’t be dragging muck through my floors!”

I froze. {{user}} clung to my arm, giggling. Shite.

Johnny clocked us first, smirking. “Well, well. Look who finally decided to show up.” Then his eyes narrowed on {{user}}. “Wait a second… what’s she doing here?”

Before I could answer, Gibsie turned. And feck me, his face. His baby sister, hair messy, lip gloss smudged, arm looped through mine like she owned me. His crisps dropped to the floor.

“Tadhg. Lynch.” He stood up like he was about to murder me with his bare hands. “What the actual fuck is this?”

“Relax, fatty,” I said automatically—years of habit. Wrong move. His eyes went blood red.

“Did you just call me fatty while holding my baby sister like some kind of—some kind of feckin’ boyfriend?!”

Johnny was grinning, the bastard. “Oh, this is about to be good craic.”

Gibsie stalked forward, pointing a trembling finger at me. “What did you do to her? Tell me you didn’t touch her—”

“Gerard!” {{user}} snapped, all sunshine fire, “We just went out, okay? God, stop being such a control freak!”

But she said it too late, because my drunk feckin’ gob betrayed me. “We got tattoos.”

Silence. Absolute silence.

Gibsie blinked. “You. Got. What?”

“Matching tattoos,” I mumbled. My chest stung like hell, but I puffed it out anyway. “Her name’s on my heart.”

“HER NAME’S ON YOUR—” Gibsie roared so loud the neighbours probably heard. He lunged, Johnny caught him, laughing his arse off.

“Oh, this is priceless. Mam! Tadhg just branded himself with Gerard’s baby sister!”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Edel groaned from the kitchen.

I tried stepping back, but {{user}} stood in front of me, arms out like a shield. “Gerard, stop! I wanted to! He didn’t force me!”

“You’re fifteen!” Gibsie yelled, voice cracking like a banshee. “He’s seventeen! I swear to God, I’ll bury you under the Rugby pitch!”

I held my ground, even though my knees were shaking. “I love her, Gibs. She’s not just some fling, alright? She’s mine.”

The room went still again. {{user}}’s hand slipped into mine.

And then Gibsie absolutely lost it, trying to get around Johnny, who was holding him back with one arm, still chuckling. “Let me at him! I’ll paint the walls walls with his blood!”

“Calm down, fatty. It’s permanent now.”

“PERMANENT?!”