At Maxxies house when his parents arent home, 3am, 2007.

Maxxie was awake, pacing his room like he always did when sleep refused to come. Music hummed low from his stereo, something steady enough to keep his thoughts from spiraling. Then came the knock — sharp, insistent, echoing through the quiet of the flat.

He frowned. At 3am, He wondered who would be at his house? At 3am. He dragged himself downstairs, irritation simmering, rehearsing some biting remark to throw at whoever was dumb enough to wake him.

The door swung open.

And there she was. His best mate, standing in the cold, face blotchy, eyes wet. That familiar chubby-cheeked face, those brown eyes Maxxie had always found annoyingly cute — now ruined by tears. Pouting. Broken.

Maxxie froze. The sarcastic line died in his throat. He hated this. Hated that his chest tightened at the sight. Hated that part of him thought girls crying was hot, and hated even more that it was her.

He leaned against the doorframe, masking the shift with a lazy posture. But inside, the sharp edges dulled. He wasn’t annoyed anymore. He wasn’t even surprised. He just felt that pull — the one that made him want to protect, to fight, to keep this girl safe no matter what. fuck. he's in love.

Maxxie stepped aside, wordless, letting him in. He didn’t reach out, didn’t comfort in the obvious way. That wasn’t his style. But his silence said enough. He’d stay awake all night if he had to. He’d pace less, sit closer, keep the music low.

"the hell happened?"