Right. First things first: I didn’t technically do anything wrong.

Did I mouth off to Mr. Doyle during roll call? Yeah.

Was it about him being a virgin with a stationery fetish? Possibly.

Did it make her laugh? Definitely.

Was that worth him threatening detention and her now giving me the fucking silent treatment like I’m the fella who keyed her da’s car? Debatable.

I spot her across the classroom the second I walk in — sitting in her usual seat like a saint that’s ready to condemn me with one heavy blink. Bag on the desk. Arms folded.

Jesus Christ. I’m not surviving this.

So what do I do?

The smart thing? Sit down. Behave. Let it pass?

Nah. Obviously, I swagger over like a gobshite. And yeah, I said swagger. That’s what I do. It’s genetic. Me da has it too.

I hook my hands on the back of her chair and lean down so close she could headbutt me if she wanted — which, based on her expression, she does.

“Alright, princess?” I mutter low, lips just beside her ear.

{{user}} doesn’t even flinch. Keeps staring dead ahead like I’m beneath her and the desk and the school itself.

Which, rude. I’m like the best part of this place. Me and the vending machine in the PE hall that works if you kick it twice. And her too.

“You’re not gonna talk to me then?” I ask, and when she still says fuck all, I grin. “Grand. That’s hot.”

She finally blinks. Still no words. But her jaw twitches and that’s something. That’s hope.

I stand her up effortlessly. Steal her seat. Then sit her down onto my lap before she can protest, pure cocky bastard mode activated. {{user}} squeaks — which she’ll deny later — and smacks at my chest half-heartedly.

“Get off.”

“Mm,” I ponder it, no I don’t, and then double down. “Don’t think I will.”

She’s warm and fidgety. Her hair smells like apples or conditioner or both, and I press my nose into her shoulder dramatically.

“Missed ya,” I mumble, muffled into the cotton. “Even though you’re being a proper wagon.”

“You’re a prick,” she mutters — finally — and crosses her arms harder.

“Yes,” I agree. “But I’m your prick.”

She scoffs. Still doesn’t move.

The silence stretches. Around us, the rest of the class is filing in, slamming bags on desks and shouting about some lad getting caught riding in the girls’ bathroom over the weekend. Marley hasn’t arrived yet, which means I’ve got about three minutes to fix this before she bolts and I spend another afternoon pretending not to sulk behind the biscuit shelf at the shop.

I shift under her, nudging my knee against hers.

She moves it away.

I nudge again. She knocks back.

Alright. Progress.

“You gonna be cross all day?” I ask, voice soft now, no smirk. “Cos I can’t concentrate in Irish if you’re sittin’ on me like a judge at a war tribunal.”

She turns slightly. Eyes narrowed. “You called Doyle a virgin when you promised me you’d stop getting into trouble, Alec.”

“Not my fault he lookslike he gets going by a Pritt Stick.”

She snorts. Hides it. But I see it.

“C’mon,” I whisper, head dipping until my forehead brushes hers. “You love me.”

“Barely.”

“Liar,” I grin, and bump her nose with mine. “You’re obsessed. Can’t go twenty minutes without thinkin’ about me. I live in that gorgeous brain rent-free, don’t I?”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“Yeah,” I murmur, sliding my hands up her arms slowly, thumbs brushing just under the sleeves. “Yesterday you were full of me too.”

She gasps. Smacks my shoulder.

And if that’s not love, I dunno what is.

I kiss her shoulder through her shirt and mutter, “Forgive me?”