The rain’s light but steady, tapping against the broken plastic of the bus stop roof like it’s keeping time for something neither of us can hear anymore.

I see her before she sees me—hood up, arms folded tight, that usual storm in her eyes. She’s got that look like she’s trying not to hope. Like hoping’s dangerous when it comes to me.

“{{user}},” I say, like it's both a question and a warning.

“Hey,” she breathes, like it’s all she’s got left.

We shouldn’t be here. Not like this. Not with Shane’s name still burned into Joey’s memory like a scar that never healed right. Not with every word between our families sounding more like gunpowder than air. But here we are anyway—stupid, soft-hearted, and seventeen.

She glances down the road like maybe she's expecting someone to stop us. Maybe she wishes someone would. But then she looks back at me, and that’s when I know we’re both too far gone.

“She shouldn’t have come,” I murmur.

She shrugs. “You always say that.”

“And I never mean it.”

Silence. The kind that used to break me, now just wraps around us like a second skin. I step closer, heart in my throat, hands in my pockets because I wouldn’t trust them not to shake if I let them loose.

“I heard Shane was sniffing around again,” I say. “Joey nearly lost it.”

Her jaw tightens. “That’s not me.”

“I know,” I say. “But to him… it doesn’t matter.”

She swallows hard. I hate that I know what that means. I hate that I know her tells better than I know my own. That I see her more clearly than I see the road ahead.

“Then why are you here, Tadhg?” she whispers.

I think about it. The real reasons. The wrong ones. The right ones. All the in-betweens.

“Because when I’m with you, everything else gets quieter.”

It’s not poetry. It’s not grand. But it’s true.

And maybe that’s all we’ll ever have—this stolen moment in the rain, hearts bruised and hands empty. But I’d choose it every time.

Even if it breaks me.

Especially if it breaks me.