The argument started before you even realised what it was about.

You were in your room, sitting on the floor with your back against the bed, scrolling mindlessly—until your name cut through the noise downstairs.

“…she’s not okay!” Your father’s voice bellowed.

You halted.

Your Mam responded instantly. “She’s our daughter, not a diagnosis!”

Your stomach dropped.

You didn’t need to hear the word to know what they were talking about.

Still—

“She is bipolar, whether you want to admit it or not!”

There it was.

It landed heavy.

Like something permanent.

Your hands went still in your lap.

A soft knock broke through the moment.

Before you could answer, the door opened just a crack.

Hughie shoved his head through the gap.

“Hey… I let myself in,” Hughie said quietly, already reading your expression. “Your parents didn’t notice.”

Of course they didn’t.

They were too busy arguing about you.

He took a step inside, closing the door behind him, his eyes never leaving yours.

“You heard?” He asked gently.

You gave him a small nod.

That was all it took.

Hughie swallowed the room in two steps and dropped to his knees in front of you, his hands falling to rest lightly on your knees—not gripping, just grounding.

“I hate it,”

“I know,” He murmured.

Another shout echoed faintly through the walls.

You jumped.

Hughie noticed immediately.

Without thinking, he shuffled closer, a hand cupping the back of your head, pulling you into him. It was natural—like he did it a hundred times before.

Because he has.

You pressed your face into his hoodie. “They’re talking like I’m… broken.”

His grip tightened slightly.

“You’re not broken,” He said, firm this time. “You’re my girl. You’re you. That hasn’t changed.”

Your chest ached at that.

In a good way.

“They don’t get it,” You said.

“Maybe not,” He admitted. “But I try to.”

You pulled back slightly.

He didn’t look uncomfortable. Or unsure.

Just certain.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Hughie added quietly. “Not because of this. Not ever.”

The shouting downstairs continued—but it felt further away now.

Less important.

Because right here—

He chose you.

“I don’t want to stay here,” You confessed, your voice quieter than you meant it to be. “Can we go? Please.”

Hughie didn’t even hesitate.

“Yeah,” He said straight away. “Of course we can.”

Another sharp wave of voices echoed from downstairs—your name, then the word crazy again—and that was enough.

You shot off the bed. Your hands were unsteady, but Hughie stayed close, like he was making sure you didn’t have to do any of this alone.

He reached for your hand as you moved toward the door.

“Come on,” He murmured.

The two of you slipped into the hallway, the argument still raging below. This time, you didn’t stop to listen. You didn’t let yourself freeze.

You just followed him.

Down the stairs. Past the living room. Out the front door.

The cold air hit you instantly.

You inhaled sharply, like your lungs had been waiting for it.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Hughie just kept hold of your hand, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles as you both stepped further away from the house.

Further from the noise.

“You okay?” Hughie asked after a minute, glancing at you.

You nodded, even though your chest still felt tight.

“Better than in there.”

He gave a small, understanding nod and slowed his pace slightly so you didn’t have to keep up—so you could just… walk.

He stopped walking then, gently pulling you to a stop with him.

“It doesn’t change how I see you,” Hughie said, steady and certain. “Not even a little.”

Your throat tightened.

“You’re still you. You’re still the girl I chose.”

The words settled somewhere deep inside you, soft but solid.

The street was quiet, the sky dimming as evening settled in. For the first time since the argument started, everything felt… calmer.