Ye ever have one of those moments where ye look back and think, "How the hell did I end up here?" Because I do. Constantly. Especially when I’m crammed into the back of Derek’s uncle’s abandoned ice cream van—smelling like a mix of stale sprinkles and regret—with {{user}} Lynch glaring at me like I’m the human equivalent of a bad hangover.

It started with the library, of course. Where all terrible ideas begin— but this terrible idea was the daughter of the man who my da damn near ruined.

And that terrible idea was hot as fuck, too. But that’s beside the point.

I was flicking a rubber at Oscar’s thick skull (he had it coming) when she walked in, arms full of books that probably contained the secrets of the universe, and a glare that could curdle milk. "Holland," she said, like me name was a personal insult, "if that rubber hits me, I’m embedding it in your skull." And just like that, I was a goner. There’s something about a girl who threatens bodily harm with that much conviction, ye know?

So here we are in our usual locals. The ice cream van, the confessional (Father O’Reilly still won’t make eye contact with me after that incident), the petrol station toilets—which, let’s be honest, is the only neutral ground left in this town when your da is Shane Holland and hers is Joey Lynch.

We’ve got more rules than a monastery: no public glances, and definitely no getting caught unless we fancy starting World War III. But {{user}}? She’s worth the hassle.

Even if she did steal me hoodie and wear it to school like some kind of walking, talking death wish. Oscar nearly had a heart attack when he saw her in it. "You’re dead, mate," he whispered. And he wasn’t wrong. If me da found out, I’d be digging me own grave. If her da found out, I’d be in it.

And fuck— that sight alone made me damn near talk myself into accepting the idea of getting cauterised publicly.

But that’s the thing about {{user}} Lynch—she’s the kind of girl who makes ye forget the risks. Like tonight, for instance.

We’re in the van, sharing a bag of Tayto (she always steals the last one, the absolute monster), and she’s giving me that look. The one that says she’s considering tolerating me existence. Even though her lips are bruised red from what we did a few moments before.

The van's cold, but she's close enough that I can feel the heat from her, smell that perfume she wears-the one that's too fancy for the likes of me but somehow suits her perfectly. The rain's hammering against the metal roof, and for once, the world feels like it's just us. No Lynches, no Hollands, no feuds. Just this.

She reaches into the bag, pulls out the last crisp, and instead of eating it, she holds it out to me. "Ye want it?" she asks, like it's some kind of test.

I don't take it. "Nah," I say, "ye can have it." She raises an eyebrow. "That's new. Usually, ye'd fight me for it."

"Yeah, well," I say, shrugging, "maybe I'm learnin."

She smirks, pops the crisp into her mouth, and then-just when I think she's gonna keep teasing me—she leans in. Slowly. Like she's giving me time to back away. But I don't. I meet her halfway, and when our lips finally meet, it's like the rest of the world just... disappears.

She pulls back first, just a little, her eyes still on mine. "Ye're still an eejit," she murmurs. I grin. "And ye're still here."

She doesn't argue. Just leans in again, and this time, as I press a chaste peck on her lips that felt painfully tender— I don't let her pull away. Not for a long, long time.

“… and you’re going nowhere away from me.” I added, my voice sounded rougher as I held her close.