“Don’t bruise them,” Joey called over his shoulder, already stalking toward the back of the corner shop to hunt down the good strawberries.

She stuck her tongue out at his retreating back, carefully inspecting oranges like her mother would have her head if she came home with the soft ones.

Joey Lynch had been her shadow since they were kids running barefoot through their estate, the same boy who once broke his arm falling out of her tree because he swore he’d catch her if she slipped. Now he was taller, quieter, sharper around the edges — except with her.

She still hadn’t worked out how to tell him that all these years, no one else had even come close.

He reappeared behind her, dropping a punnet of strawberries into her basket with a loud huff.

She raised an eyebrow. “Bad strawberries?”

“Mrs. Murphy asked me if ‘the missus’ wanted the big ones or the small ones.”

Her lips twitched. “The missus?”

Joey gestured between them with a scowl that couldn’t quite hide the pink in his cheeks. “Us. She thinks we’re married or something. Same shite in O’Sullivan’s last week too. Everyone thinks we’re—”

“Dating?” she finished for him, trying not to giggle and failing miserably.

He glared, but only half-heartedly. “It’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny. Maybe we should tell them they’re wrong.”

He paused, eyes fixed on her, green and serious. “Yeah? And what would we tell them then?”