I should’ve stayed away. Christ knows I told myself I would. But then I heard she’d been seen with that fella from Trinity—some posh lad with clean shoes and no clue what to do with a girl like her. And that was it. One pint too many, one shove from the lads, and now I’m here, storming into the back garden of her mate’s house where the music is thumping and she’s leaning against the wall like she owns it.

And God help me, she sees me coming.

Her eyes narrow, lips curving in that way that says trouble’s arrived. She doesn’t move, though. She never does. She waits for me like she’s daring me to trip over myself.

“You’re supposed to be at Doyle’s with your little fan club,” she says, folding her arms. Her voice is calm, but her jaw’s tight.

“Fan club, is it?” I grin, though it feels more like baring teeth. “That what you call the lads I grew up with? Better than the parade of gobshites you’ve been letting sniff around.”

Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t look away. “At least they don’t pick fights for sport, AJ. At least they know when to walk away.”

And there it is—the jab meant to sting. My chest tightens, but I step closer anyway, cornering her against the stone wall. The bass from inside rattles through the glass, but out here it’s just us and the sharp night air.

“Walk away?” I repeat, leaning in, voice low, dangerous. “You think I could walk away from you if I tried? Jesus, you’ve no idea, do you? You’re under my skin, girl. Driving me feckin’ mad.”

She swallows, but her chin stays high. “Then maybe you should stay away. Because I can’t—” Her voice cracks, soft but furious. “I can’t keep doing this with you.”

My hand slams against the wall by her head, the sound sharp in the night. I don’t touch her—yet—but my body’s caged hers in. The anger rolling off me isn’t clean; it’s tangled with something raw, something I can’t shake.

“You don’t get it,” I grind out, eyes locked on hers. “Every lad in Dublin could line up for you, and it wouldn’t matter. You could run, you could curse me, you could hate me all you want. I’d still be here. Because you’re mine, whether you like it or not.”

Her breath stutters, that fire in her gaze flaring even hotter. She pushes at my chest—hard, angry—but I barely budge. And feck it, I laugh, the sound sharp and broken.

“You want me gone? Say it. Properly. Look me in the eye and tell me to walk.”

She doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t. Because she hates me, and she wants me, and those two truths are tangled up so tight we’ll never cut them free.

And standing there in the half-light, with her pressed against the wall and my heart hammering like I’ve just gone ten rounds in the ring, I know one thing for certain: this is war, and neither of us has any intention of surrendering.