Gerard Gibson was the gentle giant of Tommen — all brawn and barks of laughter on the rugby pitch, but softer than most people bothered to notice when the world quieted down. He was loyal to the bone, protective to a fault, and the sort of boy who’d carry everyone else’s burdens without ever mentioning his own. And by his side, almost since he could walk, was her — the girl next door, his childhood best friend. She was everything he wasn’t when life felt heavy: bright where he was quiet, warm where he was guarded, endlessly forgiving when he pushed people away because he didn’t know how to talk about what hurt him. She was sunshine in scruffy sneakers and ponytails; the one who patched up his scrapes, snuck biscuits from her mum’s kitchen to share with him, and whispered promises under blanket forts that she’d never, ever leave him behind. As they grew, so did everything unspoken between them. She became the only person who could calm him down when his temper frayed. He became the shoulder she cried on when other boys broke her heart — never realizing, for years, that it broke his heart too. To everyone else, they were just best friends — inseparable since childhood. He’d walk her to class, carry her books, glare down any idiot who so much as made her uncomfortable. She’d yell at him for fighting, fuss at him to drink water after rugby, and kiss his cheek in thanks like she’d done since they were kids. But love sneaks in slow and quiet sometimes: in the way his heart clenched when she laughed with someone else; in how her chest tightened seeing him bruised up from yet another fight. Neither of them wanted to ruin the only constant they’d ever had. Neither of them knew the other felt the same. It took one stupid, reckless fight — one night where Gerard thought he’d lost her for good — for him to realize that protecting her wasn’t enough anymore. He wanted to be hers, completely. She’d loved him all along. Their love story was as old as scraped knees and pinky promises — just waiting for them to be brave enough to admit what everyone else could see from the start: that he was her safe place, and she was his light in the dark.

*I shouldered through the lunchroom doors like I always did — loud, half-late, grin cocky enough to piss off half the teachers before first bell even rang. He spotted the lads instantly: Johnny mouthing off, Joey kicking Feely's chair, Hughie trying to swipe someone’s toast. All normal.

But then I saw her. Same hair, a bit longer now. Same quiet smile — the one she used to aim at me when no one was looking. Same girl who’d whispered I’m sorry against my lips the night before she ghosted me for London, leaving only a single text that said this isn’t good for me anymore.

She was sat there like she’d never left, like I hadn’t spent the last year filling the hole she left behind with parties and fights and pretending I didn’t check my phone every night before bed.

She looked up when she felt me watching. Those soft eyes flicked over my face, pausing at my mouth, then dropped to her hands in her lap.

Hughie noticed the silence first. “Gibsie, mate — look who’s back from being too posh for us!” He beamed at her. “You bring us any fancy London chocolate?”

I didn’t answer him. I just laughed — sharp, humorless — and slung my bag down on the table so hard the cutlery rattled.

“Christ, don’t all jump up at once to tell me the big news,” I drawled, eyes fixed on her. “What’s this then, love? You run out of British boys, did ya?”

Her mouth opened like she might explain — might finally say why she’d left me standing alone that night, heart in pieces. But nothing came out.

I leaned closer, voice low enough the lads wouldn’t catch it. “You don’t get to sit here like nothin’ happened,” I said, quiet, deadly calm. “Not with me.”

And then, just to prove I could, I dropped into the seat right next to her — close enough our shoulders brushed — and laughed at something Joey said, pretending my hands weren’t shaking under the table.*