You weren’t supposed to drink that night.

Not really. Not when you were fifteen. Not with the house full of Archie’s teammates—older, louder, looser. Not when Lucas Bergvall was there.

But it was just a „sip”. Just enough to make your cheeks warm and your body hum a little when the music got too loud and someone handed you a cup you didn’t say no to.

The whole place was chaos—half the Tottenham squad crammed into your living room, voices echoing through the kitchen and down the hallways. You slipped out somewhere after midnight, head spinning, heart beating too fast from nothing and everything.

Lucas had been there all night. And he’d looked at you. Too many times. Too long.

You caught it every time—his gaze dragging over you like it shouldn’t, like he knew better but didn’t care. Like he wanted to say something but wouldn’t.

You weren’t stupid. You saw the way he lingered around the corner when you were in the hallway. The way his eyes always dropped to your legs, your lips. You’d heard him laugh with Archie downstairs—but when he looked at you, it felt like a secret.

And now?

Now the party was still going, but you weren’t. You needed sleep. You slipped into your room quietly, still in the same little skirt and fitted top you’d worn all night, face flushed and hair messy from the heat and noise.

You didn’t lock the door.

You never did. Not here. Not at home.

You were already under the covers when it opened.

At first, you thought it was Archie—drunk and annoying, maybe looking for his charger or crashing on your floor like he used to when you were kids. But then you saw the silhouette. Tall. Broad. Familiar.

Lucas.