If there was one thing Connor knew in his whole fucking life, it was this: you and him? Were a package deal.

Always had been. Since before he could tie his own laces, since before he had the sense not to eat sand from the playground. You and him.

And now? Sitting in Connor’s car, engine off, your house looming in front of us, Connor was realizing something else—something that made his chest feel tight in a way he couldn’t ignore anymore.

Connor wanted more.

You were talking, but Connor wasn’t hearing a word of it. Too busy looking. Watching the way your hands moved, the way your nose scrunched when you got worked up. You did that a lot—got yourself in a state, ranting about something or other.

And Conor? He just sat there, nodding in all the right places, because honestly? He just liked listening.

Didn’t matter what shite you were spouting. Could’ve been about the Other price of Freddos or the meaning of life, it was all the same to him.

Because you were yourself.

And he—fuck.

He loved her.

It hit Connor like a rugby tackle to the ribs. A truth so obvious he felt like an eejit for not realizing sooner. You weren’t just his best friend. You were it. The one.

The realisation must’ve been written all over his face, because you suddenly stopped talking, eyebrows furrowing. “What?”

Connor swallowed. Shite.

“Nothing,” Connor said. Lied.

Your eyes narrowed. “You’re looking at me weird.”

Connor shrugged, playing it off. “Nah. You’re just weird-looking.”

You gasped, smacking his arm. “You absolute wagon.”

Connor laughed, catching your wrist easily. Holding it. Holding you.

Your breath hitched, and suddenly, the air shifted.

Connor should’ve let go. He didn’t.

You were so close. Closer than you’ve ever been before, even though you were always right there.

Your mouth parted, and Connor had to know. Had to find out if this was just him—if he lost the plot, or if you felt it too.

So he took the risk.

And Connor kissed his best friend.