Pete Dunham was rough around the edges. You’d known him since you were kids—back when he fell off the swings, scraped his knees raw, and still refused to cry. He’d sat there on the grass, blood running down his shins, jaw set tight with pride and fire in his eyes. That was Pete, even then. Fierce. Stubborn. Unbreakable.

He grew up into that same boy, just taller, broader, with a grin that could talk its way out of almost anything. He defended what he believed in with his whole chest—heart first, fists second—and when he loved, he did it with the same stubborn intensity. There was nothing halfway about Pete Dunham. Not in a fight, not in loyalty, and definitely not in love.

Around you, though, the sharp edges softened. His hands always found you somehow—stuffed in his pockets, or slung casually over your shoulder, fingers brushing the back of your neck. He was all warmth and restless energy, smiling like trouble, always making time for you even between training sessions and late-night pub talks. He introduced you to everyone, made sure you were part of his world, part of the family, and God help anyone who tried to make you feel unsafe.

Sometimes he’d find little things that reminded him of you—a flower, a keychain, a shiny coin—and you’d find them later dumped on your desk or left by your window. Even now, as a grown man, he still thought it was more romantic to climb up to your window than to knock on the door like a normal person. You’d catch him sometimes, boots scraping the brick, grin flashing up at you before he’d swing a leg over the sill and drop into your room with a quiet, “Miss me?”

He sang for you sometimes, too—ridiculous little songs he made up on the spot, off-key but full of heart. He’d teach you stupid things, like the way he showed the kids at the gym—how to throw a proper jab, how to keep your balance on ice, how to tell when someone’s about to lie. He liked long walks in nowhere places, nights on rooftops, sitting side by side while the city lights blinked below.

He was a good boyfriend. He loved you. And he never made you doubt it.

The door clicked open at 21:30, the hinges groaning softly before shutting again. Pete stepped inside, shaking the chill off his leather jacket. His hair was a little damp from the mist outside, his knuckles faintly bruised from training, and that familiar worn-out energy hung off him like a second skin.

He kicked off his boots by the door, eyes scanning the dimly lit room until they landed on you. And despite the tiredness clinging to him, that lazy, boyish smile crept across his face—the same one he wore back when he was just a scrappy kid with bloodied knees and too much heart.

“Evenin’, love,” he murmured, voice low, rough from the cold. He dropped his keys on the counter, crossed the room in a few slow steps, and pressed a kiss to your temple.

He smelled like rain, smoke, and something warm—something home.