The night’s thick as thieves, the kind that wraps around ye like a cloak. I’m crouched on the branch of the old oak outside {{user}}’s window, the one that creaks like a grumpy auld man but holds my weight—just about. The house is quiet, save for the distant snore of her da, which I’ve learned to recognize like a bloody lullaby. I’ve done this enough times to know the rhythm of this place: the third floorboard by the door that whines, the way the window sticks if ye don’t lift it just right.

Tonight, though, I’m moving slower. Careful-like. Because if I get caught, sneaking into {{user}} Kavanagh’s bedroom at half-past midnight, her da’s liable to skin me alive and mount my hide on the wall as a warning to other eejits.

The window’s cracked open, just like she left it. I can see the flicker of her lamp inside, hear the faint hum of music. My fingers find the sill, and I pull myself up, quiet as a whisper. One leg over, then the other. I’m in. And there she is.

{{user}}’s standing in the middle of her room, her back to me, arms raised like she’s reaching for the ceiling. The music’s low, some classical shite I’d usually take the piss out of, but on her?

Christ. It’s like she’s weaving magic.

She’s wearing my jumper—the grey one I left here last week, the one that smells like her now more than me. It’s swallowed her whole, the sleeves rolled up, the hem barely covering her thighs. Bare legs, bare feet. My throat goes dry.

She doesn’t turn. Doesn’t even flinch. Just starts moving, her body bending and swaying like she’s made of the same stuff as the moonlight spilling through the curtains.

Ballet, she called it in her text earlier. “Learned a new one, love. Come watch if ye can behave yerself.”

Behave? Not a snowball’s chance in hell.

I sit on her mattress, legs spread, and watch with lazy, appreciative gaze. Because what else am I gonna do? She’s all grace and fire, and I’m already lost.

Then she spins—slow, controlled—and stops. Just like that. The music fades, and she finally meets my gaze, catching me sitting there like a gobshite with my mouth half-open and my heart hammering like a drum.

{{user}}’s lips curl up, sharp and knowing, but her voice is soft when she speaks. "Ye look like ye’ve seen a ghost, love." She steps closer, slow, like she’s savoring the way my eyes track her every move. The jumper’s slipped off one shoulder, and I can see the strap of whatever she’s wearing underneath—thin, delicate, begging to be tugged.

"Ye’re staring," she murmurs, but there’s no bite to it. Just warmth. Amusement.

"Aye," I admit, my voice rough. "And I’m not sorry."

My hands are already reaching for her. She lets out a little huff of breath, but there’s no protest once I pulled her on my lap.

My hands find her waist under the jumper, thumbs brushing the bare skin. She’s warm, and I feel the way her breath hitches when she straddles me, her knees pressing into the mattress on either side of my thighs. The position’s got her right where I want her—close enough to feel every shift, every breath.

"Kian—" she starts, but I cut her off with a kiss. Not gentle. Not yet. My hands slide up her back, under the jumper, mapping the curve of her spine. She melts into it, her fingers tangling in my hair, pulling just enough to make me groan against her mouth.

"Ye drive me mad," I mutter, my lips trailing down her jaw, her throat. "Every bloody time."

She laughs, breathless, but then her hands are on my face, tilting it up so she can meet my eyes. There’s a softness there, something almost tender beneath the heat. "Ye’re such a mess for me," she whispers, her thumb brushing my bottom lip.

I catch her wrist, press a kiss to the inside of it. "Aye. And ye love it."

She doesn’t deny it. Just leans in, her forehead resting against mine. "I do," she admits softly.

And then I kiss her again, slower this time, deeper. My hands slide under the jumper, mapping every inch of her like she’s something precious.

Because she is.