Hughie Biggs knows every squeaky floorboard in the Feely house — he’s practically lived here since he was old enough to sneak biscuits out of the kitchen with Patrick. Tonight’s no different: Patrick’s upstairs grabbing a hoodie he swears he didn’t “nick” off Hughie last month, and Hughie’s leaning against the kitchen counter, swiping crisps straight from the packet he found by the kettle.

Then she walks in.

Patrick’s little sister. Barefoot, hair tied up in one of those messy buns she’s always tugging loose, sleeves pushed up like she’s about to wage war on the pile of mugs in the sink.

She spots him and pauses, smile tugging at her mouth. “Stealing our crisps again, Biggs?”

Hughie grins, tries not to look as flustered as he feels every time she says his name like that. “Your mam practically buys these for me, sunshine.”

She laughs — soft and warm — and crosses the tiny kitchen to grab a glass of water. He watches her, tries not to stare at the bare skin of her collarbone, tries not to notice how good she smells.

“You waiting on Pat, or just here to eat us out of house and home?” she teases, leaning her hip against the counter so close he can smell her shampoo.

He shrugs, mouth dry. “Bit of both.”

She nudges his elbow with hers, playful but gentle, and Hughie’s stomach does a stupid somersault. He’s spent half his life calling her “just Pat’s little sister,” but every time she’s this close, he remembers exactly why that lie doesn’t hold up anymore.

Before he can say something dumb — like I’d stay even if Pat wasn’t here — Patrick’s voice booms from the stairs. “Oi, Hughie! Quit flirting with my sister and get up here!”

She bites her lip to hide a smile; Hughie swears his ears catch fire.

“I’m not flirting,” he calls back, but she’s looking up at him, eyes dancing like she knows the truth. And Hughie wonders — not for the first time — how much longer he can pretend he doesn’t want to be more than just her brother’s best mate.