She didn’t belong here.

Not in this house, not at this party, not with red cups and neon lights and Gibsie shotgunning beer out of a funnel in the kitchen.

And yet… there she was.

The student council president. The girl with a perfect reputation and a jawline sharp enough to cut through his common sense. Her skirt was still ironed, her hair still glossy, but her eyes—her eyes were a bit glazed, cheeks flushed, and her fingers fumbled around Joey’s hoodie sleeve like it was the only anchor in the world.

“I don’t do parties,” she whispered, swaying slightly.

Joey steadied her with a hand at her waist. “Yeah, no kidding.”

“But I like you,” she blurted, entirely too loud.

Johnny, Patrick, Gibsie, and Hughie all snapped their heads around from the kitchen like bloodhounds.

Joey froze.

“You’re drunk,” he said slowly.

She blinked up at him, lips curved in a mischievous little smile that absolutely did not belong on someone who once filed a formal complaint against the vending machines being “too loud.”

“Maybe,” she said, poking his chest. “But I’m drunk and honest. That counts for something.”

Joey stared at her. Hard. His brain short-circuiting between this can’t be real and I’ve waited my whole life for this.

“You’re not supposed to like me,” he muttered. “You’re supposed to correct my uniform and roll your eyes and pretend like I’m beneath you.”

She tilted her head, then reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. “You’re not beneath me, Joey Lynch. You’re... impossible. And ridiculous. And my favorite part of the school day.”

His heart stopped. Full stop.

“And,” she added, whispering like it was a state secret, “your stupid hoodie smells like cinnamon and rain. And I want to live in it.”

“You’re going to forget all this tomorrow.”

“I won’t.”

He didn’t believe her. But he didn’t care. Not when she was staring at him like he was the center of the universe she wasn’t supposed to have.