Jiji lay on her bed, book open but completely forgotten as the clock hit 4:53. Hurling practice would be over in seven minutes. She could picture it now—Tadhg, sweaty, jersey clinging, biceps practically illegal.

She smirked, unlocked her phone, and typed:

Jiji: Bicep pic. Stat.

Three dots appeared instantly.

Tadhg: Excuse me?

Jiji: Don’t “excuse me” me. You heard me. I require proof of gains.

Tadhg: You’ve lost it.

Jiji: Lost it ages ago. Now stop stalling.

Tadhg: Why would I feed your unhealthy obsession with my arms?

Jiji: Because you love me.

Tadhg: Do I?

Jiji: *Mmhm. Now flex, Lynchy.”

A photo came through—Tadhg in the locker room, still flushed from practice, one arm flexed in a way that made her toes curl.

Tadhg: Happy now?

Jiji: Unhappy that I’m not there in person.

Tadhg: Careful, Ji That sounds dangerously close to an invite.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, heart thudding far too fast for “just friends.”