The sky was the color of smoke, all gray clouds and cold wind, but it wasn’t the weather that turned the air sharp.

It was Sean’s voice.

Loud. Laughing. Arrogant.

“Mate, I didn’t even want a full date with her,” he was telling his mates by the benches. “I just wanted to see how far I could get before she pulled the saint routine. You know the type—pure on the outside, but dying for it.”

Gerard “Gibsie” Gibson froze mid-step, halfway to tossing a rugby ball back to Hughie.

Johnny Kavanagh heard it too. He stopped talking.

“Gibsie,” Patrick warned softly.

But Gibsie had already dropped the ball.

He didn’t say a word. Didn’t give a warning.

He was across the field in seconds, fists flying. Sean didn’t even get to finish his laugh before Gibsie knocked him flat.

The lads were behind him immediately. Johnny dragging one of Sean’s mates down by the collar. Joey swinging low and fast. Hughie tackled someone half his size without blinking. Patrick moved in tight and efficient, focused like he’d been waiting for an excuse.

It was messy. Loud. A blur of shouts, fists, and teacher whistles. But Gibsie didn’t stop until Sean was spitting blood and the smug was gone from his voice.

Ten minutes later, they were behind the gym—bruised, breathless, hands shaking from adrenaline. Gibsie sat slumped against the wall, breathing hard, knuckles split and still bleeding.

She found them there.

Her bag slipped from her shoulder as she knelt in front of him. No judgment in her eyes, just quiet, worried determination.

“You’re a bloody idiot,” she whispered.

“I know.”

He didn’t fight her when she grabbed the sleeve of her jumper and used it to wipe the blood from his eyebrow. She pulled a packet of tissues from her coat pocket like she’d planned for something like this, dabbing at his lip, his cheekbone.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” she asked, voice soft.

“Nah,” Gibsie rasped. “He barely landed a hit.”

She rolled her eyes. “That’s not the point.”

He didn’t reply. Just stared at her—at the way she carefully cleaned his face, how her fingers shook even though she kept her jaw tight.

She didn’t ask why. She didn’t tell him off for starting it.

She just took care of him, like she always had.

And Gibsie let her. Because this—her kneeling in front of him, worried, gentle, real—this was the only part of the fight that mattered.