Joey Lynch doesn’t usually do sleepovers — not since he was a kid, anyway — but Alec had begged him to come round after training, claiming the new FIFA game needed “proper competition.” So now he’s slouched on the carpet of Alec’s bedroom, controller in hand, pretending he cares about beating his best mate while half his brain stays stubbornly focused on the girl sitting cross-legged on Alec’s bed behind him.

Alec’s little sister. Off-limits. Not his problem. Except she is.

She’s pretending to read a magazine, earbuds in, but every few minutes Joey feels her eyes on him — curious, amused, too damn knowing for her own good. He tries to ignore her, cursing when Alec scores another cheap goal.

“Oi, Joey, you’re shite tonight. Who’s got you distracted, eh?” Alec teases, elbowing him hard enough to make him drop the controller.

“Piss off, Dempsey,” Joey mutters, shoving him back, but Alec’s already laughing.

From the bed, she pulls out one earbud, eyebrow raised. “Are you two ever not annoying?” Her voice is soft, the kind that makes Joey’s chest squeeze tight in ways he’d never admit out loud.

He glances back at her, and she’s smiling just a little — only at him. He forgets Alec’s even in the room for a second.

“Tell your brother he’s shite at this game,” Joey says, tongue caught between playful and earnest.

She giggles — giggles — and throws a pillow at Alec’s head. “You heard him. Quit bragging.”

Alec rolls his eyes, muttering about traitors in his own house, but Joey’s only half-listening. Because when he looks at her again, she’s still watching him, all warm eyes and secret smiles.

Joey Lynch, tough lad, fists always up, suddenly feels like he might be the most reckless idiot alive — for wanting something that’s never supposed to be his.