I didn’t plan to knock on her door. I was halfway through a takeaway curry when guilt started gnawin’ at me. The next thing I knew, I was standing on her porch with a bottle of wine and my stupid mouth rehearsin’ an apology.

Her parents were gone for the weekend—bad timing for her, brilliant timing for me—and when she opened the door, I nearly legged it back to the car.

“Ah,” she said, arms folded. “You here to start another fight or finish one?”

“Neither,” I muttered, holding up the bottle like a peace treaty. “Just thought I’d come ruin your night quietly this time.” She rolled her eyes but stepped aside. That was as good as forgiveness in her language.

We’d been mates since first year. Grew up side by side, same bus, same jokes, same teachers threatenin’ to separate us. Then came him—some lad from her art class who thought ripped jeans made him mysterious—and I’d run my gob at school, callin’ him every name I could invent.

Now she’s perched on the arm of the sofa, watching me pour the wine like she’s waiting for me to spill it.

“So?” she says. “You gonna explain why you nearly started World War Three at lunch?”

I grimace. “Aye. I was an eejit. Proper one.”

She raises an eyebrow. “And?”

“And… I didn’t like hearin’ him talk about you like that. Like you’re an achievement or somethin’. Didn’t sit right with me.”

“That’s not your problem to fix.”

“Maybe not. But it still wound me up.”

We drink. The silence stretches. Then she snorts. “You’re jealous.”

I choke. “I’m what?”

“Jealous. Admit it.”

“Of that clown? Hardly.” I’m grinning now, half defensive, half undone. “I’ve seen him wear flip-flops to school. I can’t be jealous of a man who shows his toes.”

She laughs, wine nearly spilling, and suddenly it’s easy again—like before all the mess. We’re sitting too close, talking too loud, the way we used to when the world was simple.

“You remember that party in fourth year?” she asks, leaning her head on the couch cushion. “You nicked the speaker and played ‘Mr. Brightside’ till everyone wanted to throttle you.”

“Course I do,” I said, grinning. “Was tryin’ to set the mood.”

“For what? A migraine?”

That got a low laugh out of me.

“You loved every second of it.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

Her cheeks were flushed from the wine, and mine were from the way she was lookin’ at me—like she couldn’t decide whether to kill me or kiss me.

And feck me I hope it was the second one.

Then, somewhere between the third refill and the memory of every fight we’d ever had, the room started tilting. We were sitting closer now, knees brushing, the air thick with that electric, dangerous thing that had always sat just under our friendship.

She looked at me, eyes flicking from my mouth back up again before she caught herself. “You should probably go,” she said, voice barely a whisper.

“Probably,” I said, leaning in a little. “But I won’t.”

Her breath caught. She hesitated, half leaning back, half leaning forward—torn between reason and something else entirely. I saw it in the way her fingers clenched around her glass, the part in her lips.

“Connor…” she murmured, a warning.

I swallowed hard, the sound rough in my throat. “I’m not tryna make a mess of this, love. Just—Christ—been holdin’ it in too long.”

She shook her head slightly, whispering, “This is mad, I am technically talking to a lad—”

“Then let it be mad,” I cut in, voice low. “Might as well let the thing burn.”

Her breath hitched when I leaned closer, my words brushing against her neck as I spoke. I whispered, the confession barely holding itself together. “Can’t stop thinkin’ about you, even when I try.”

She tried to protest, but the sound melted into a gasp when my lips ghosted over the spot just below her jaw.

“Tell me to stop,” I murmured, voice rough. “Go on.”

She just sat there, eyes fluttering shut, heart hammering so loud I could feel it through her. I pressed another kiss, then another—trailing up the curve of her throat, stopping just shy of her mouth.

“But… I’m talking to—“ and at that whisper— I snapped, slammed my lips messily into hers.