Moylo Banks had never stuttered a day in his life. He was Moylo, for feck’s sake—the lad with the easy charm, the quick grin, the one who could talk his way into or out of anything. Girls liked him, and he liked them back. Simple.

At least, that’s how it used to be.

Now he was standing in front of {{user}}, rubbing the back of his neck so hard he was surprised he hadn’t given himself a rash. His usual swagger was nowhere to be found, replaced instead by an awkward, shuffling mess of nerves.

“So, uh,” he started, then cleared his throat when his voice cracked like a bloody teenager. Christ. “A couple of us—me, the lads—uh, we’re going to the pub later. You should, y’know…” He trailed off, vaguely gesturing, like that would somehow complete the sentence for him.

{{user}} raised a brow, and Moylo swore he felt his stomach twist into knots. He had flirted with plenty of people before, had taken plenty of them out, had never—never—been this wrecked over asking someone to hang out.

They weren’t even alone. Atwoods was a few feet away, pretending to be on his phone but absolutely eavesdropping. Clover and Sadie were chatting near the lockers, occasionally glancing over with barely contained amusement.

And Moylo was sweating.

“Jus’ saying,” he rushed on, trying to keep himself from drowning in the silence, “it’s a good time, usually. Nothin’ crazy, just a couple of drinks, music, good company.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “And I’d—I mean, we’d—like if you came.”

We.

As if that was fooling anyone.

Atwoods made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a cough covering a laugh. Moylo was going to murder him.