The heat clung to him like a second skin, the hum of late June filtering through clinks of bottles and boyish laughter. Hughie’s parents were gone for the weekend—Mam up at Gran’s and Da off golfing—so naturally, the back garden had been claimed for war.

“Alright, but if you genuinely think Thierry Henry wouldn’t dust Messi in a cage match, you’re deluded,” Gibsie declared, shirtless, sunburnt, and holding court on the patio like it was a TED Talk.

“You need medical help,” Johnny Kavanagh shot back, shaking his head, already two pints deep. “You’re allergic to facts.”

Patrick Feely grunted, half-laughing as he bit into a burger that had absolutely no business being called cooked. “I think Gibsie just likes being contrary.”

Hughie leaned back in his deck chair, beer in hand, soaking it all in. The lads were loud, the music louder, and for the first time in months, his chest felt… looser.

But it still hadn’t eased the ache.

Because nine months wasn’t enough to forget {{user}}.

Even after you were the one to end it.

But I still remembered everything. How she tasted of coconut and sin. How her laughter could melt steel. How I’d watch her tuck her hair behind her ear when she was nervous, and I’d want to wrap her up and never let her go. But that was before the pills and her destroyed everything in her path the second I found out she was using.

“Oi.” Johnny kicked his leg lightly. “You’re zoning out again. Thinking about her?”

Hughie didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

*Then Feely’s gaze shifted to the gate. *“Well, Jesus, speak of the devil.”

Hughie followed his stare.

And there you were.

Lizzie Young in her little sundress, dragging you beside her like she was presenting a trophy. Shannon Lynch trailing behind, already beelining for Johnny.

{{user}}.

Nine months gone.

And it felt like the air got sucked out of him.

You weren’t the same.

Sober. That much was clear. Healthier. Stronger. Your skin glowed, eyes steadier, no jitter in your limbs, no shadows beneath your gaze. The same girl Hughie loved, but sharper around the edges.

And you were looking right at him.

No smile. No frown. Just recognition.

Hughie didn’t know whether to run, hold you, or fall apart.

Gibsie whistled low. “Well, this is gonna be fun.”

Hughie stood up without thinking, heart pounding in time with the bass of the speaker.