I should’ve walked away.

I knew I should’ve.

But the second I saw that lanky gobshite shove her—hands on my girl—my vision went red. He might’ve meant it light, barely a nudge, but that’s not what I saw. That’s not what I ever see when it comes to her.

{{user}} was standing there in that posh Tommen uniform, looking like she didn’t belong in a place full of lads who don’t know how to shut their mouths or keep their hands to themselves. Seventeen. Sweet. Sharp. Soft in all the ways the world wasn’t.

And me? Nineteen. Old enough to know better. Dumb enough to swing anyway.

I was meant to pick her up. That’s all. I’d been dealing down by the pitch earlier, slinging eight balls to overprivileged eejits who think a high’s the same as a personality. I had the motor running, some shite music, she liked, playing low, waiting on her.

Then I saw it. That lad. Pushing her back like she was in his way. Like she was nothing.

And then I wasn’t waiting anymore.

I don’t remember what I shouted, but I remember the sound of my knuckles hitting his jaw. It was quick. Messy. Some teacher yelled. Some girl screamed. The lad hit the ground like a sack of messages. And I stood over him like a bleeding animal.

Because she was mine.

My girl. My everything, my sunshine. And he touched her.

The Gardaí were there faster than I expected. Must’ve been nearby, probably already watching me—I’m Shane Holland, after all. I don’t exactly fly under the radar. They grabbed me by the arms, twisted them behind my back, shoved me up against the bonnet of some fancy solicitor’s car.

“You’re lifted for assault,” one of them growled in my ear.

Didn’t even flinch. Not until I saw her face.

“Stop! Don’t take him” She yelled.

Tears in her eyes, hands shaking. She looked so small. So feckin’ beautiful it hurt.

I locked eyes with her, breathing hard.

“I’d do it again,” I told her. Loud enough for the whole bleeding school to hear. “You hear me? I’d knock his lights out ten times over if it meant he never touches ya again.”