The front door swung open, and there Moylo stood, looking ridiculous.

Ridiculous because, for the first time in forever, he wasn’t in some rumpled hoodie or a rugby kit. No, the cocky, ever-charming Moylo Banks was standing in their doorway in a full-blown suit—pressed, sleek, looking like he’d stepped out of a bloody magazine. His hair, usually an unruly mess from too many hours on the pitch, was freshly cut, styled just enough to make him look almost too put together. And in his hands? A bouquet of wildflowers, slightly crumpled from his grip, as if he'd been holding onto them like a lifeline.

Behind him, Atwoods Halston was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching the whole thing unfold with a shit-eating grin.

Moylo cleared his throat, rocking slightly on his feet before he finally spoke.

"Alright, don’t laugh," he warned, though there was already a flush creeping up his neck. "Or do, I suppose I deserve it. But—" He held out the flowers, shifting them in his hands as if debating whether to actually follow through with it. "Figured I’d come back properly this time. Not just crash through the door smelling like sweat and cheap aftershave."

Atwoods let out a dramatic sigh behind him. "Took him long enough, eh? I was startin’ to think he was gonna bottle it altogether."

Moylo shot him a glare before turning his attention back, blue eyes flickering with something uncertain.

"Missed you," he admitted, softer now. "Figured I’d try and impress you a little, but—ah, shite, is this too much? The suit? Feels weird. Like I should be at some posh dinner instead of standing here like a right eejit."

He rubbed the back of his neck, the same way he always did when he was nervous, before flashing a lopsided grin. "So? You gonna say somethin’, or just keep staring like I grew another head?"