There are a million things about her that don’t make sense—at least not for a lad like me.

She’s the kind of girl who wears black to weddings. Has that sharp eyeliner flick that could probably slice through steel. Got a tattoo at sixteen and didn’t cry, just stared at it in the mirror and said, “It’s beautiful.”

Not exactly a Claire Biggs-type girl. Not a girl anyone would expect to be mine.

And yet, here we are—her in my passenger seat, legs crossed, navy top, black shorts, boots like she’s ready to stomp someone’s heart out. Her hair’s up in a messy twist, sunglasses perched on her head like a crown, and that don’t-fuck-with-me energy radiating off her like heat from tarmac.

“GIBSIE I SWEAR TO CHRIST, IF YOU DON’T SHUT UP I’LL CUT YOUR BALLS OFF AND SERVE THEM AS SANDWICH FILLING!”

That’d be her now—snapping at Gibs, who’s hanging out the back window, screaming whatever bleeding pop shite is on the radio.

Claire, beside him, is laughing with a smile like she’s half-expecting the two of them to get into it, and Patrick in the far back is pretending he doesn’t know any of us.

Gibsie only laughs, louder. “She loves me really!”

She turns around like a villain out of a Tarantino film. “Try me, Gerard Gibson. I’ve got nail scissors and rage, don’t think I won’t.”

And the mad thing is—I fall harder.

Every. Single. Time.

She isn’t like the others. She’s not soft-spoken or sweet for the sake of being liked. She doesn’t giggle or flutter her lashes. She tells lads to die like she’s offering directions to the shop. The only one she doesn’t bark at? Me. Somehow, I’m the lucky one.

She used to tell me I was mental for liking her. Said I’d be better off with someone quieter. Someone with French-tip nails and a natural hair colour. I told her straight: I don’t want quiet. I want her.

I want the sharp wit, the black eyeliner, the scowl that melts into a smile only for me. I want the girl who came from money but never bragged. Who never spoke about her dad unless she was drunk or dreaming—because he left when she was ten and never looked back. Who still goes stiff when someone asks about her family.

She won’t admit it, but that broke her in ways the world hasn’t quite figured out yet.

And still—she’s the strongest person I know.

She leans her elbow on the window frame now, wind in her hair, knuckles resting against her mouth. Eyes on the sea in the distance like she’s trying not to smile, but losing the battle anyway.

I watch her instead of the road for a second too long.

“What?” she mutters, not looking at me.

“You’re bleeding gorgeous, that’s all,” I say easily.

She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks go a little pink. “You’re such a sap, Kavanagh.”

“And you love it,” I grin.

“Unfortunately,” she sighs.

We hit a bump and Gibsie screams from the backseat, launching into another off-key chorus. This time it’s “Dirty Little Secret,” and the window’s rattling from his lung power. Claire’s singing with him, Patrick’s begging for silence, and I swear to God this is how I die—crashing into a ditch full of daisies while Gibsie hits the high note.

She groans, covering her ears. “Johnny, I swear to Christ, do something before I push him out onto the N71.”

“Love,” I say, biting back a smile, “don’t kill him. He is my best man in five years.”

She flips me off.

Affectionately.

I reach across and take her hand anyway, lacing our fingers together. Her rings are cool against my skin. Her nails black, one chipped. I love every inch of her.

The girl who hates crowds, but came anyway. Who only likes Lizzie Young and no one else. Who’s scowling now because the beach will be full of eejits and babies and tourists.

And yet she came. For me.

“I’ll bring you somewhere quiet after,” I whisper, pulling her hand to my lips. “Just you and me, alright?”