If Joey knew where I was right now, he’d throttle me. Not because I’m here—at his house, in his sitting room—but because of what I’m doing.

{{user}} is sitting cross-legged on the couch in front of me, tugging at the sleeves of my hoodie like she’s trying to swallow herself whole. It’s my spare one, the one I left in her room last week, and it’s about three sizes too big. She looks better in it than I ever did, and that thought alone would have Joey putting me six feet under.

“Hold still,” I mutter, brushing her hair gently out of her face so I can press the ice pack to the faint bruise blooming along her cheekbone.

She hisses. “Ow.”

“Drama queen,” I tease, but my stomach twists. Because even if it’s not that bad, even if it’ll fade in a day or two, it’s still a mark someone left on her.

It happened at the party tonight. I’d only turned my back for a second to grab drinks, and when I came back, some prick had his hands on her — too close, too rough, his voice all wrong. Joey hadn’t noticed yet, but I had. And before I knew it, I was shoving the idiot back, voice low and dangerous, ready to break his nose. She got between us before I could swing. The lad stumbled, caught her face with his elbow as he scrambled away.

Accident, sure. But I’ve never wanted to hurt someone so much in my life.

{{user}} insisted we leave before Joey caught wind of it. Said it wasn’t worth the row. So now here we are, on the couch, her house quiet except for the telly buzzing low in the background, my hoodie swallowing her whole, an ice pack pressed to her face. It was just one of many; I knew they kept a pretty major stock of them in this household for obvious reasons.

“You’re staring,” she says softly, eyes flicking up to mine.

“Am not.”

“You are.”

I don’t argue, because she’s right. I can’t help it. I’m looking at her, at the way she’s biting the inside of her cheek like she doesn’t want me to see that she’s shaken. At the way she’s still holding onto my other hand, fingers curled tight like she doesn’t plan on letting go.

“You should’ve let me hit him,” I say finally, voice rougher than I meant.

Her brow furrows. “And what? End up in hospital yourself?”

“Worth it,” I mutter.

She rolls her eyes, but I see it—that flicker in her expression that says she doesn’t hate the idea of me throwing myself in front of the whole world for her. That maybe, just maybe, she likes it.

I shift closer, ice pack sliding a little as my thumb brushes her cheekbone. She leans into the touch without meaning to, and my chest aches like something’s breaking loose inside me.

“I mean it,” I whisper. “You’re worth it. Every time.”