Holy shite. That girl. Connor had to have her.

AJ’s girlfriend’s little sister. Fifteen, and feckin’ unreal. Beautiful. And not mine. Shouldn’t be mine. But Christ above, something in him just snapped the second Connor clocked her.

It was Christmas, and Gran Edel had him togged out in this bleeding mortifying wool jumper she knitted. Green with little white snowflakes. Looked like something an eejit off The Late Late Toy Show would wear. The kind of thing Gibsie would never let Connor live down. But there he was, golden boy Kavanagh, heir to the lot, wearing that, and then she walked in.

Mam was smothering you with hugs the second you crossed the doorway, like you were some lost child finally come home. And Connor? He just stood there, blushing like a gobshite over a girl he hadn’t even spoken to yet. Not properly. Just looked at you.

But Jesus, what a look.

Connor never thought he’d find the girl. The girl. But this—she was it. He knew it in his chest.

Of course he had to talk to you. Had to. Connor was already yours, and you didn’t even know it. That’s how it felt—like the universe had just told him: “Connor, lad, she’s the one.”

But when he finally got the nerve to step closer, Christ, Connor choked. Connor—the golden lad. The one who never fucked up talking to anyone, who had girls lining up for a smile or a word. Connor bleeding Kavanagh. And suddenly he couldn’t string a sentence together.

“Uh—hi.” That’s all Connor managed. Brilliant.

You glanced up at him then, those green eyes wide and soft, and gave him the smallest nod. Didn’t say a word. And Connor’s heart went and leapt out of his chest.

“Nice jumper,” You said, voice quiet as anything.

Connor wanted the ground to swallow him whole. Nice jumper? This thing? Christ, you were having him on. But you weren’t smiling, weren’t mocking. You meant it. You actually meant it.

And there he was, stuttering like a tool. “Oh—it’s, eh, Edel—Gran—she, uh, she made it.”

Brilliant, pal. He sounded like a lad who’s never talked to a girl before.

But you gave the tiniest smile, just there at the corner of your mouth. And it near killed him.

Connor was supposed to be mingling, supposed to be laughing with the cousins, throwing back cans, keeping up appearances as the perfect golden Kavanagh son. But fuck all that. He couldn’t keep his eyes off him. Everything else faded. The noise, the lights, the chaos of Christmas at ours—it all blurred, and all he could see was you.

You didn’t look like your sister. Didn’t look like AJ’s girl. You didn’t look like anyone. You just looked like you.

And Christ, Connor needed you.

Off-limits. AJ would kill him, Mam would kill him, Dad would lose the rag altogether. But Connor didn’t care. Something in him decided right then and there—you were his. You didn’t know it yet, but you were.

And he wasn’t letting go.

So when you drifted off into the sitting room, quiet as a mouse, Connor followed. Sat on the arm of the couch near you, tried again.

“You, eh—you cold? You look cold.”

You blinked at him, that half-smile twitching again. “No. Just… nervous.”

“Nervous? At Christmas?”

You nodded, eyes down on your lap. And Connor wanted to wrap you up in that stupid jumper and keep you safe from every bleeding thing in the world.

Connor swallowed hard. “Don’t be. Not here. Not with me.”

You finally looked at him then, properly. Straight into his eyes. And that was it. Connor was ruined.

His throat went dry, brain scrambled, and Connor knew he had to say something—anything—to fill the silence. Something smooth, clever.

Instead what came out was, “Well, um…the weather’s nice.”