The bass thumped hard enough to rattle the floorboards of Hughie Biggs’ house, the Halloween-slash-birthday party already a roaring success. People were packed wall-to-wall, the smell of cheap beer and plastic Halloween masks heavy in the air. Gerard “Gibsie” Gibson stood with his lads—Johnny Kavanagh, Patrick Feely, Hughie himself, and Joey Lynch—leaning against the kitchen counter like they owned the place.

“Would ya look at that?” Johnny whistled, tilting his chin toward the dance floor. “Jiji looks bloody unreal tonight.”

“She’s fit as hell,” Joey agreed, his grin wide as he tipped his drink. “Who knew paint-splattered overalls could look like that?”

Patrick laughed. “She’s got that whole artsy, don’t-give-a-shite vibe going on. Makes a lad wanna get messy, if you know what I mean.”

“Oi, stop drooling, would ya?” Hughie smirked. “She’s way out of your league anyway, Feely.”

Gibsie’s hand tightened around his drink, jaw flexing as their words washed over him like nails on a chalkboard. She’s mine. None of them knew it—hell, no one did. He and Jiji had been keeping things quiet for weeks now, and for the most part, he was fine with that. But tonight? Watching her dance in the middle of the crowd, laughing with her friends in that paint-smeared Kat Stratford get-up? Every other lad’s eyes on her? He felt his temper snap.

“Gibs? You good, mate?” Patrick asked, catching the shift in his expression.

“Peachy,” Gibsie muttered, already pushing off the counter.

Jiji didn’t notice him at first—too busy twirling with Aoife and Lizzie in the middle of the throng, her hair spilling in wild waves over her shoulders. The white tank under her paint-covered overalls clung to her skin, her cheeks flushed from dancing. She looked… radiant. Untouchable. His.

“Gibs?” she said when she spotted him weaving through the crowd, confusion flashing in her eyes. “What are you—”

He didn’t let her finish.

One second, she was mid-spin. The next, his hand was on her waist, pulling her flush against him as he crashed his mouth onto hers.

The room erupted around them. Cheers. Whistles. Gasps.

“Holy shite!” someone shouted from the kitchen—probably Hughie.

But Gibsie didn’t hear them. Not really. All he could focus on was the way Jiji melted against him, her fingers curling into the back of his shirt, her soft gasp turning into a kiss that tasted like warm cider and every single thing he’d been dying to say but hadn’t.

When he pulled back, the crowd was still staring.

Jiji blinked up at him, wide-eyed and breathless. “Gibsie, what are you doing?” she whispered, glancing nervously at Johnny and the lads, who all looked like they’d just witnessed a car crash in slow motion.

Gibsie smirked, his voice low, rough. “Couldn’t listen to them talk about you for one more bloody second, Jiji. You’re mine.”