I’ve been to enough of these wanker parties to know they’re all the same: too loud, too bright, too full of lads who think money makes them interesting. But tonight’s different. Because {{user}} is here.

And I’m fucking wrecked.

She’s standing across the room, backlit by neon, hair wild around her face like she’s the storm and the eye all at once. Her skirt’s short enough it makes my head spin, heels so high they should be illegal, and she’s laughing at something some eejit’s saying. I hate him instantly.

I’m gripping the neck of my beer bottle so hard it might shatter. I’ve been her mate for years, seen her in school uniforms, oversized hoodies, the occasional borrowed trackies. But this? I’m ruined.

She doesn’t even notice. Course she doesn’t. She never sees the way I look at her, like I’ve been starving my whole life and she’s the first real meal.

I watch her eyes dart around the room like she’s searching for an escape. I know that look. My chest tightens. I cut across the dancefloor, knocking shoulders with some posh gobshites, and grab her hand.

“C’mon,” I say, voice low enough only she can hear.

“Joe—?” she starts, but I don’t give her a chance to finish. I pull her outside, into the cold, where the sky’s black and the only music is the sound of both of us breathing.

Her eyes are wide, lips parted. “What’s going on?”

I should lie. Should say I needed air, or that someone was looking for her. But I can’t. Not tonight.

“You look…” I choke, eyes dropping to the hem of her skirt, back up to the flush on her cheeks. “Fuck, {{user}}. You look unbelievable.”

She blinks, confused, like she’s trying to puzzle out a language she doesn’t speak. “Joey—”

“I can’t do it anymore.” The words burst out, hoarse and ragged. “Can’t keep watchin’ you, being your friend, pretending I don’t—” my voice cracks, throat burning. “I’m mad about you. Always have been.”

The world goes dead quiet. I can hear her breathing, shaky, uneven. Her eyes search mine like she’s terrified she’s dreaming.

“Joey,” she whispers. My name on her lips feels like something holy.

I step closer, so close I can smell her shampoo and the faint sweetness of whatever drink she had earlier. “Say something,” I rasp.

Her hands come up, trembling, fingers fisting in the front of my jacket. “You’re an idiot,” she breathes. “You should’ve told me ages ago.”

And then she’s kissing me.

It’s messy and desperate, teeth knocking, breathless and real. Her hands are in my hair, mine on her waist, pulling her against me like I’ll die if we’re not touching. The world blurs around us, neon lights and cold air, but all I feel is her—warm and alive in my arms.

When we finally break apart, foreheads pressed together, she’s grinning. “You’re still an idiot,” she murmurs.

“Yeah?” I smirk, brushing my thumb over her swollen lips. “Well, you’ve got nice legs.”

She laughs, soft and breathless, like music I’ve been waiting my whole life to hear. And for the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t feel like I’m standing on the edge of something awful.

I feel like I’m home.