She shouldn’t have come.

Not because she didn’t belong here—though, standing in the middle of Joey Lynch’s packed kitchen, still wearing her blazer like she was at a bloody debate club meeting, she stuck out like a sore, polished thumb.

But because she looked too good. Too proper. Too out of reach.

And Hughie Biggs had never done well with things he wasn’t allowed to want.

His mates were scattered across the house—Joey DJing off someone’s dodgy phone, Johnny and Gibsie arguing over which crisps were the best for hangovers, Patrick already halfway to drunk and loving it.

But Hughie was standing right where he’d been for the past hour—watching her like he was on guard duty. Like he was terrified she’d vanish if he blinked.

And then she laughed.

Actually laughed.

One of those loud, bright, real laughs that made people turn to look.

She was sitting on the arm of the couch, a red Solo cup dangling between her fingers, legs swinging freely. A bit of her bun had fallen loose. Her lipstick was smudged.

And she was looking straight at him.

“Hughie,” she slurred, beaming. “You’re so serious all the time. It’s hot.”

His brain short-circuited.

“I—what?”

“You’re like… broody. Like a hero in a forbidden romance.” She tilted her head. “You ever think about kissing me?”

He nearly dropped his drink.

His mates were across the room, mouths open. Patrick visibly choked on his beer.

“I think about kissing you,” she continued, oblivious to the world, “more than I think about the budget proposals. That’s a lot.”

“You’re drunk,” he said quietly.

She slid off the couch and into his chest, giggling as she gripped the lapels of his hoodie.

“I’m honest,” she corrected, blinking up at him. “You’re obsessed with me.”

His heart stopped.

She squinted at his silence. “You are, aren’t you?”

He swallowed hard. “Yeah. I am.”