Biddies was packed, music pounding, laughter echoing off the walls, but Hughie only saw her.

She was leaning on the bar in that red top he hated—because it made it too easy for other lads to look at her. And one was, right now. Laughing with her. Touching her elbow like he had the right.

Hughie’s jaw clenched.

He hadn’t meant to come tonight. Swore he wouldn’t. But Claire had mentioned she’d be out and—like clockwork—here he was, with a half-drunk pint and something burning behind his ribs.

He saw her glance over.

He looked away.

Then she laughed at something that lad said, and Hughie’s vision went red.

He moved.

A hand on her arm. A muttered, “We’re talkin’,” before she could protest. He ignored the guy’s raised brows and dragged her out the door, down the steps, and around the corner where the music thudded faintly behind them.

“What the hell, Hughie?” she snapped, jerking her arm free. “You can’t just grab people like that—what is wrong with you?”

He didn’t answer.

“You don’t own me, y’know,” she kept going, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Just because we bicker in chem and flirt in the halls doesn’t mean you get to act like some jealous boyfriend when I talk to someone else—”

“Shut up,” he muttered, voice low.

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Shut up,” Hughie said again—then cupped her face and kissed her.

It wasn’t soft.

It was every bottled-up feeling he’d ever tried to laugh off. Every smart remark, every look he gave her when he thought she wasn’t looking. His fingers curled in her hair as she gasped into his mouth, then kissed him back like she’d been waiting for this too.

When they finally pulled apart, her chest was heaving.

“That’s not how you win an argument,” she whispered.

“Wasn’t tryin’ to win,” Hughie said, forehead pressed to hers. “Was tryin’ to get you to shut up before I said something stupid like how much I like you.”

She smirked. “Too late.”

But she didn’t pull away.