She was perched on the arm of the couch like she was afraid the cushions might stain her soul.

Her hair was still pinned. Her blouse still buttoned to the very top. But her heels were off, her eyes were glassy, and her fourth cup of whatever punch Johnny made was sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

Gibsie watched from the kitchen doorway, a Solo cup forgotten in his hand.

“What’s she even doing here?” Patrick muttered beside him.

“She came with me,” Gibsie replied, unable to tear his eyes away. “Said she wanted to see what normal teenagers did.”

Johnny snorted. “You mean chaos, poor decisions, and eventually vomiting in the bushes.”

“She’s a walking rulebook,” Hughie added. “She’ll be gone in twenty minutes.”

But she wasn’t.

In fact, twenty minutes later, she was laughing — actually laughing — at something Joey said while half-tumbling into Gibsie’s side.

“You’re warm,” she slurred, gripping the front of his hoodie like it was holding her up. “And stupidly handsome.”

Gibsie choked on his drink.

“Okay,” he said slowly, reaching out to steady her. “Time to get you some water, your majesty.”

“Nooo,” she dragged the ‘o’ out like it was a plea. “Don’t wanna go yet. I like parties. And you.” She looked up at him with a frown. “Especially you.”

Gibsie stared down at her, stunned into silence. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m brave,” she corrected, finger poking at his chest like she was trying to cast a spell. “You have the prettiest smile I’ve ever seen, and I think about it way too much. Especially when you’re not smiling at me.”

“I’m always smiling at you.”

“No,” she whispered. “You smile around me. But never for me.”

The room tilted then — or maybe that was just him — and Gibsie had no clue what to do with the sudden aching behind his ribs.

He’d been obsessed with her. Quietly. Pathetically. Since Year 2.

And now she was here, clinging to his hoodie, telling him things he never let himself hope for.