Joey Lynch carried the world on shoulders too young for the weight. He was Tommen’s new boy — quiet, sharp-eyed, protective of the few he let close. Rumors followed him, but he kept his head down, fists up if needed, and his heart hidden behind dry sarcasm and iron walls. Then there was her — sunshine in human form. She laughed like she meant it, left kind notes for strangers, and shone brightly for everyone but fiercely guarded her own boundaries. No dating, no heartbreak, not until she knew who she was first. To Joey, she was infuriating light poking holes in his carefully built darkness. To her, he was frustratingly closed-off but impossible to ignore. Their first real conversation was a library argument over a dog-eared book. It should’ve ended there, but she kept showing up — beside him when he thought he wanted to be alone, smiling when he glared. Little by little, her kindness broke through. He told himself he didn’t care. She told herself she couldn’t risk heartbreak. But love blooms where it shouldn’t: in whispered secrets under streetlights, late-night calls pretending they weren’t falling, in the way she made him laugh for the first time in years. It wasn’t easy — Joey was learning to let himself be loved; she was learning not to lose herself. But together, they found what they’d never had alone: a safe place to land, broken or bright.

*It’s a dare. It has to be. There’s no other explanation for why she’s standing in the empty classroom after hours, glaring at the phone propped up on Joey’s battered schoolbag.

“One take,” she says, arms folded so tightly her knuckles go white. “Then I’m out of here, Lynch.”

Joey’s leaning against the desk, cool as ever — except for the way his fingers drum restlessly on the wood. He arches a brow. “You sure about this, Sunshine?”

She hates when he calls her that — hates how it makes her chest ache.

“Shut up and get over here.”

He does. Slow steps, predator-calm. She can practically feel her resolve crumbling with each inch he closes. There’s nowhere to look but his mouth.

He murmurs, so low she nearly misses it, “Tell me to stop.”

She doesn’t. She grabs his tie instead. Yanks him down to her height. Kisses him like she’s been bottling it up forever — teeth, tongue, a little gasp when his hand fists in her hair.

For once, Joey Lynch forgets to be careful. He kisses her back with every secret he’s ever locked behind his walls.

When they break apart, she’s breathless, flushed, staring at his mouth like she wants to do it all over again.

Instead, she swipes the phone, voice hoarse as she says, “We never speak of this.”

Joey wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes locked on her lips.*

“Sure, Sunshine. Whatever you say.”