The Biggs house was glowing in orange lights and laughter, every room pulsing with music, the air thick with heat and the smell of cider and sweat. Halloween had hit Tommen hard—and with it, Hughie Biggs' birthday bash.

Upstairs, tucked behind a closed door in the guest bedroom, Johnny Kavanagh sat on the edge of the bed, elbow on his knee, heart pounding like he was in the middle of a match. She sat beside him, Juliet to his Romeo—though neither of them dared to mention how perfect it looked.

Outside the door, their friends howled and banged on the walls.

"Seven minutes!" someone shouted. "Go on, get it over with!" someone else yelled.

She turned to him slowly, lips curved in a small, nervous smile. "We could just… do it," she said, softly. “It’s a game.”

Johnny stiffened. His eyes searched hers, reading past the ease in her voice, the way her fingers curled in her lap. "No."

Her brow furrowed. "Johnny—"

“No,” he said again, firmer this time. His voice dropped to something rougher, closer to his chest. “Not like this.”

Their eyes met, and the noise outside dulled. The tension between them—years of unsaid feelings and almosts—hung thicker than the smoke in the hallway. But neither moved.

They didn’t kiss.

Not then.

Later, after the party, the streets were quiet under the silver cast of moonlight. Her angel wings were long gone, and Johnny had abandoned his fake sword somewhere in the garden. They walked slowly, shoulders bumping once, twice, in a rhythm they both pretended wasn’t deliberate.

At her gate, she turned to him, fingers twitching by her side.

“Thanks for walking me.”

He nodded. “Always.”

She hesitated. “Okay, well—”

He kissed her.

No warning. No half-measures. Just hunger and heat and something he'd been holding back for far too long. His hands caught her waist, hers flew to his chest, and it was nothing like a game. It was real. It was everything.

When he finally pulled back, breathless, he kept his forehead close to hers.

“I meant something like that.”