Gerard “Gibsie” Gibson stood in the middle of the pitch, grass-stained and sweaty, peeling off his jersey as the late October sun dipped low behind the trees. His laugh echoed across the field as Hughie tossed a rugby ball at his back and missed.

“Oi! You throw like my granny,” Gibsie called over his shoulder, grin wide.

Most of the team was already headed toward the locker rooms, but she lingered on the bleachers, arms crossed, watching him with that look she always gave him—amused, exasperated, and just a little too fond.

When he finally jogged over to her, chest rising with leftover adrenaline and his curls damp with sweat, she tilted her head, gave him a once-over.

“You’re ridiculous,” she said, handing him the water bottle he left beside her.

“And you’re welcome for the entertainment,” he shot back, eyebrows waggling. “Tell me that wasn’t a world-class performance.”

“You looked like you were trying to take flight.”

He gasped. “That was grace, woman. Like a gazelle.”

She laughed, shook her head, and then, casually — almost too casually — said, “You’re still my pretty boy, though.”

Gibsie blinked.

“You what?”

She just smirked, like it was no big deal, even though her ears were turning pink. “I said, you’re still my pretty boy.”

Gibsie stood there, heart thudding way harder than it should’ve after a match, mouth parted like he’d forgotten how to speak.

And then he recovered, barely, flashing her a crooked grin. “You tryna kill me, or what?”

She shrugged, breezy, even as she refused to meet his eyes. “Just calling it like I see it.”

He laughed, louder than necessary, but it was a little shakier than usual.

“Careful, now. Say stuff like that and I’ll start thinking I’m actually pretty.”

She smiled at him—wide and bright—and it hit him square in the chest.

He was screwed. But he didn’t say that.

Instead, he followed her off the field, grinning like an idiot, pretending like those two little words hadn’t just set his whole world spinning.