Hughie Biggs sat perched on the edge of a stone bench, his school tie askew, hair a little messy from whatever mayhem Gibsie had dragged him into earlier. The last of the golden hour sun spilled over the courtyard, catching on the copper in his hair and the curve of his smile as he tried to fix the rip in his backpack with a half-snapped pen lid.

She dropped down beside him without warning, thigh pressed to his for just a second before she scooted away—just enough to pretend it didn’t mean anything.

“You look like you wrestled a raccoon,” she said, eyeing the rip, the pen lid, and the smear of ink on his fingers.

Hughie grinned. “Don’t insult the raccoon. He put up a good fight.”

She snorted, reached into her own bag, and wordlessly passed him a roll of duct tape—silver, peeling at the edges, well-used. He stared at it like it was a peace offering.

“You always carry this?” he asked, brow raised.

“Only for the hopeless cases.” She glanced sideways at him. “Like you.”

He made a wounded sound. “Harsh.”

“Honest.”

He chuckled and shook his head, still fiddling with the tape, cheeks warm despite the cold. She watched him for a second longer than she probably should’ve, biting her cheek like she was fighting off a grin. And then, without warning, she nudged his arm and said:

“You’re my pretty boy, though. Always have been.”

The world stilled. Hughie blinked down at the tape in his hands, then up at her—heart suddenly louder than it had any right to be. Her words floated between them like nothing, like everything.

He tried for a smirk, but it was crooked and soft and so very Hughie. “Yeah? Thought I was just your hopeless case.”

She bumped his shoulder. “You can be both.”

They didn’t say anything else. Just sat there in the fading light, sharing a roll of duct tape and an unspoken truth neither of them dared name yet. Not out loud. Not yet.