It’s too warm inside Biddies, the music too loud, the air thick with sweat and perfume and something bitter rising in Gibsie’s chest.

He sees her before she sees him — laughing at the bar, head thrown back, some fella leaning in far too close, saying something that makes her smile that smile. The one that used to be his to fight for.

She catches him watching.

Of course she does.

Gibsie doesn't look away. He downs what’s left in his glass, hands it off to someone he doesn’t bother to register, and stalks toward her like a storm rolling in.

She sees him coming and immediately tenses, eyes narrowing. "What?"

He doesn't answer — just takes her hand and tugs. Not rough, not gentle either. Firm enough to make her scoff, annoyed, but follow.

Outside, the air bites colder than expected. Gravel crunches beneath their feet as he pulls her around to the side of his car, away from the thrum of the bar and the people inside.

The second he lets go, she shoves his shoulder. Hard.

“What is your problem, Gerard?”

He doesn’t say anything.

She keeps going, hands flying, voice sharp. “You can’t just drag me out of places because you’re in your feelings. You don’t get to act like this—like I owe you an explanation for anything I do—”

“Shut up,” he growls.

She freezes.

His hand comes up to cup the side of her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek like he doesn’t know he’s doing it.

“Gerard—”

But he kisses her.

It’s angry. Messy. Desperate. His mouth crashes into hers like it’s the only thing that might stop him from falling apart. And she lets him. She lets him until her fingers curl in his shirt and her breath is tangled with his and it’s not a fight anymore—it’s surrender.

When he pulls back, barely an inch between them, his voice is hoarse.

“I don’t like seein’ you with other lads. I don’t like that you smile at them like that. I don’t like that you look at them the way I’ve been dying for you to look at me.”

She just stares at him, breath catching.

But this time, she doesn’t push him away.