Having a crush on my best friend’s little sister was a bad idea, a very bad one at that.

In my defense, that family had Brad Pitt’s fucking genes. Like, no exaggeration, they all looked like they’d been spat out of some Calvin Klein catalogue, hair perfect, smiles blinding, bone structure straight off a bloody Greek statue. Even the mum looked like she was two Pilates classes away from joining Love Island, and I swear the dad looked like he could still clock sub–7 minutes on the Cooper test. So yeah, falling for the sister? Not entirely on me.

And listen, I’d always sworn off that whole “forbidden fruit” shite. You know the type — lads getting starry-eyed over someone they’re absolutely not meant to be touching. Always thought it was pathetic, a recipe for disaster, the kind of bollocks you’d only see in those Wattpad stories my cousin reads where some American quarterback shags the babysitter and calls it destiny. But the thing is, when it’s your best mate’s little sister, it doesn’t feel like destiny, it feels like you’re about three bad decisions away from a shovel to the back of the skull.

Because the thing about her wasn’t just the looks — though Christ above, she had them. It was the fact she carried herself like she knew she was untouchable, like some medieval princess who’d watched lads burn entire kingdoms down and still barely batted a lash. Meanwhile, there’s me, loser in the corner, swearing on my Da’s grave that I’d never be the Hughie “pussy-whipped” archetype, and yet there I was, rearranging my entire week just for the possibility of running into her in the bloody kitchen when I was over at their house.

It was pathetic. It was reckless. And, to top it all, there was a possibility that Hughie would try to cut off my dick if it got near his little {{user}}.

So, I did the thing I was the best at: shag another girl. Classic tactic, aye? Distract yourself, get it out of your system, pretend you’re a lad with options instead of some desperate creep pining after his best mate’s baby sister. Only problem was, me and my dyslexic arse decided to do that in the Biggs’ house.

Now, look, I didn’t plan it. I wasn’t exactly prowling like some sex-starved alley cat. It just… happened. One minute I’m necking pints in the kitchen, next I’m shagging someone whose name I’m 90% sure was Sophie-or-Sadie-or-Something-with-an-S, and five minutes later we’re upstairs, door questionably locked, me proving once again why my Da said my brain’s “all bollocks, no brakes.”

And, of course, the universe — vindictive bastard that it is — had to intervene. Because who walks in, looking for her charger or some equally innocent shite?{{user}} fucking Biggs. Standing there in the doorway, eyes wide, me caught mid-thrust like some Poundland porno extra.

I swear to Christ, time stopped. In the way where you’re just waiting for the earth to open up and swallow your sorry arse whole. The girl under me squealed like a dying guinea pig, scrambling for her skirt, and I just… froze. Like a deer in headlights, except the headlights were her eyes, big and brown and full of “what the actual fuck am I looking at?”

And I wanted to say something, anything. “It’s not what it looks like” maybe, though clearly it was exactly what it looked like. Or “Sorry, wrong room,” as if I’d accidentally tripped and landed dick-first in Sadie-Sophie-Someone. But nothing came out. My mouth opened and closed like a goldfish about to be flushed, and I think I managed a strangled, “Erm.”

She just stood there, staring, head tilted slightly. Then she muttered, “fucking asshole,” turned on her heel, and left. also. she never cursed. which told me I’d fucked up. Royally.

Now, I know lads who’d laugh that off, or be like, “Nice score, Gibs” shrug, go back to their pint, and carry on like nothing happened. But me? No. My soul fucking left my body. Because this wasn’t just anyone catching me mid-shag. This was Hugh’s little sister. The one I was already obsessed with.

And Christ, if Hughie ever found out? I’d be in a shallow grave before sunrise