You and Joey had always existed in a strange, unspoken space—somewhere suspended between best friends and something more, though he never let it tip all the way into love. Not with you. Not when there were prettier faces to chase, wilder bodies to follow, or pills that dulled the ache in his chest faster than your voice could. Still, somehow, you remained. Always.

You were there in the quiet mornings when he didn’t bother to make coffee, leaving mugs with your fingerprints on the counter. You were there when the fights he started left bruises on his knuckles, stitching him up without a word. You were there when he drank too much and the room spun violently, holding back his hair while he emptied his stomach onto the floor. You were his constant, the anchor in his storm, the shadow that moved with him through every bad decision. The one person who never, ever gave up on him.

Most nights, Joey would crawl through your bedroom window after midnight, smelling like smoke, sweat, and beer. His voice would be a low murmur, barely audible over the hum of the city.

“Didn’t wanna be alone,” he’d confess, half a smile, half a plea.

You never asked questions. You never demanded explanations. You just lifted the blanket, made space, and let him in.

Other nights it was the opposite—you, clutching your phone with hands that shook, pressing your palm against the wood of his front door because he hadn’t answered in hours, and every hour felt like a year. He’d swing it open, pretending not to be surprised. Pretending he didn’t need you as much as you needed him.

“Reckon you got a sixth sense or something,” he’d mumble, stepping aside.

“You’re an idiot,” you’d mutter, brushing past him. “Someone’s gotta keep you alive.”

He would smirk at that, but never offer a thank you. Not once. It didn’t matter. You weren’t in it for gratitude. You were in it because someone had to be.

You were his secret protector, his unseen ghost. He let the world believe he was alone, but you were always there—every stumble, every scrape, every reckless dive into chaos.

So when the fire took his parents in the middle of the night, consuming everything in a flash of heat and smoke while he stood barefoot on the lawn, staring at the ruins of both his hatred and his love, he didn’t call anyone familiar. No police. No cousins. No fleeting girlfriends or friends who’d vanish with the sunrise.

He asked Edel Kavanagh to call you.

Edel was barely more than a neighbor—someone who’d shouted across fences and windows, someone who knew the echoes of sirens better than the sound of Joey’s voice. She was wrapped in a blanket, blinking away the smoke and heat, when he turned to her, trembling, as pale as ash.

“Can you call someone for me?” he rasped.

“Sure,” she said gently. “Your aunt? Uncle?”

He shook his head, voice hoarse. “No. I need you to call… them. {{user}}. Hughie Biggs’s twin.”

“Hughie Biggs?” Edel repeated, confused. “Wait… you know their sibling?”

Joey nodded, voice breaking, shaking. “Tell {{user}} I need them. Please. Don’t—don’t wait. Just… tell them I need them now.”

Edel didn’t understand then. Not fully. But the urgency in his tone—the raw, desperate tether of his words—made her hands move before her mind could catch up. She pulled out her phone, pressing the numbers, feeling the gravity of his request settle like smoke in her lungs.

“Alright,” she said softly, almost to herself. “I’ll call them.”

And somewhere, between the fire and the ash and the screaming sirens, Joey clung to the hope that you’d come. That you’d appear, the way you always did—silent, steady, unshakable. That you would be there to hold the pieces of him together when the world had already let go.