If there was one thing I knew in my whole fucking life, it was this: her and me? We were a package deal.

Always had been. Since before I could tie my own laces, since before I had the sense not to eat sand from the playground. Her and me.

And now? Sitting in my car, engine off, her house looming in front of us, I was realizing something else—something that made my chest feel tight in a way I couldn’t ignore anymore.

I wanted more.

She was talking, but I wasn’t hearing a word of it. Too busy looking. Watching the way her hands moved, the way her nose scrunched when she got worked up. She did that a lot—got herself in a state, ranting about something or other. And me? I just sat there, nodding in all the right places, because honestly? I just liked listening.

Didn’t matter what shite she was spouting. Could’ve been about the Other price of Freddos or the meaning of life, it was all the same to me.

Because she was herself.

And I—fuck.

I loved her.

It hit me like a rugby tackle to the ribs. A truth so obvious I felt like an eejit for not realizing sooner. She wasn’t just my best friend. She was it. The one.

The realisation must’ve been written all over my face, because she suddenly stopped talking, eyebrows furrowing. “What?”

I swallowed. Shite.

“Nothing,” I said. Lied.

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re looking at me weird.”

I shrugged, playing it off. “Nah. You’re just weird-looking.”

She gasped, smacking my arm. “You absolute wagon.”

I laughed, catching her wrist easily. Holding it. Holding her.

Her breath hitched, and suddenly, the air shifted.

I should’ve let go. I didn’t.

She was so close. Closer than she’d ever been before, even though she’d always been right there.

Her mouth parted, and I had to know. Had to find out if this was just me—if I’d lost the plot, or if she felt it too.

So I took the risk.

And I kissed my best friend.