Don’t fucking fall apart. Not here. Not now.
I blink hard. But the heat stays. Pressed behind my eyes, thick and burning. Bit by bit, the world pulls back as if someone hit mute. The room narrows. I swear I smell mildew and second-hand smoke. Back to sixteen. Bin bag in one hand, the other braced against the door my maw had just slammed.
That time, she meant it. ‘You’re a waste of space, Finn. Piss off. And don’t come back.’
My body tenses for impact, even when nothing touches me. Everything feels temporary. If I move wrong, the world will teeter, crumble, and I’ll be locked out again. My body registers the old gut-deep, stomach-sick panic. That cold rush down my back, my chest clamping shut.
I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste metal and grip the sink harder, trying to focus on the cold porcelain. On the sound of the water. I squeeze my eyes shut and wait. Let the wave pass. Let it claw at my ribs, but not pull me under.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
By five, the background noise starts to return. By two, my heart’s still hammering, but at least it’s not trying to punch through my ribcage anymore. I open my eyes. The lad in the mirror looks like me but drained and shaken. I splash water on my face, but it doesn’t help.
Fuck.
This is why I don’t do feelings. Why I don’t date. Why I keep it light and filthy and forgettable. Because when it starts meaning something, it stops being safe. I felt it tonight. Her hand in mine, her eyes locked on my mouth. But nobody fucking stays. Not when you’re too loud and too much and too fucked up. Not when they catch a glimpse of the real you and realise there’s no fixing it.
Theo doesn’t know what I am. Doesn’t know about the kid who learned to perform to get fed and not beaten up, who got good at jokes so he didn’t get a thrashing. Who clawed his way out of a piss-stained stairwell and decided that if he wasn’t wanted, he could at least be watched.
She doesn’t see what’s under the charm yet. And I hope she never does.
I know what it costs to carry someone else’s damage. And Theo’s already carrying enough. She’s bending over backwards to make this work. To keep her job and save Charlie’s agency. To protect me from every whisper and fake headline and sleazy bawbag at a party who thinks he can say whatever he wants.
There’s no way I’m dragging her down with me.
Even if part of me wants to close the space between us anyway, counting down to the next time I get to touch her.
Chapter 9
Theo
Rain comes at me sideways. Stirling’s weather forecast promised ‘light precipitation’, which is meteorologist-speak for ‘prepare to drown standing up’. My fringe’s sticking to my forehead like seaweed, and my wool coat now weighs seventeen stone.
But the cameras are rolling, so I smile.
Scrubby grass flattens under the wind, the Ochils crouch in the distance, dull green under a sky that can’t decide between grey and greyer. Trees lean in the wind, bare-limbed and stubborn.
The Rebels’ new stadium reeks of wet grass and fried food. Lads in puffer jackets crowd under umbrellas, shouting over each other about tactics like they’re on the coaching staff. The stands pulse with anticipation, half-empty but twice as loud as they should be. What the local rugby fans might lack in numbers, they make up for in volume and creative profanity.
Charlie texts:
All set?
All ready. Position secured. Kiss arranged. Operation Dummy Pass
* * *
My stomach flips at the word ‘kiss’. It sounds harmless enough for what I’ve orchestrated. A performance piece and strategic photo opportunity. Nothing more than optics.
But after that moment at the party …
Finn emerges from the tunnel with the team. He’s transformed in his kit. Pink hair slicked back by rain, shorts hugging his thighs in ways that would probably get flagged on TikTok. He moves like the rules are optional and every eye belongs on him.
‘Look who it is.’ His voice cuts through the din as he jogs toward me. ‘My good luck charm.’
