It’s loud inside Biddies — bodies packed in, music pulsing, laughter echoing off the wood-paneled walls. But Johnny Kavanagh only hears the thud of his own heartbeat when he spots her across the room.

She’s leaning against the bar, laughing at something the lad beside her says — a hand brushing her arm, too familiar for Johnny’s liking. His jaw clenches. He knows it’s none of his business. She’s not his. They fight more than they talk. Half the time, they can’t even be in the same room without one of them storming out.

But still.

Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s pushing through the crowd, grabbing her wrist.

“What the hell is your problem?” she snaps the second they’re outside in the cold, the door swinging shut behind them. Her eyes are blazing, her hair mussed from the wind, and she’s already half turned to storm off when he cages her in — right there between his car and the wall.

“Let go of me, Kavanagh,” she spits, shoving his chest.

“No.”

“You don’t own me—”

“Shut up,” he growls, voice low, wrecked.

Then he kisses her.

It’s not gentle. It’s months of biting words and lingering stares and nights lying awake thinking about what if. It’s possessive, desperate, angry — and all-consuming.

She gasps against his mouth, fists gripping the front of his jacket, ready to shove him off — or pull him closer.

He breaks away, barely breathing, eyes locked on hers.

“That what you wanted, yeah?” he mutters. “Or should I go back inside and let him try his luck?”

She doesn’t answer. She just pulls him in again.

This time, neither of them stop.