He never thought love was for him.

Sure, he had his fun—flings, quick laughs, hands wandering where they shouldn’t, lips ghosting promises he never meant to keep. It was easy. No commitments, no expectations, no feelings. Just a good time before moving on.

Love? Jaysus, no. That was for fools and dreamers. Not him.

And then you happened.

He remembers the exact moment he saw you—how the room blurred, how the air itself seemed to shift. You weren’t just beautiful. You were something else entirely. Ethereal, untouchable, like you belonged in the pages of a story rather than standing right in front of him, looking at him like he wasn’t just some reckless eejit with a grin too sharp for his own good.

At first, he played it off. Flirted, teased, leaned in close just to see if he could get under your skin. But you didn’t fall for his charm like the others. No, you studied him, saw through the bravado, called him on his shite. And he liked it.

Too much.

So he tried to shake it off, told himself it was just intrigue, just a challenge. But then he started needing to be around you. Started noticing the way you smiled when you thought no one was looking, the way your voice softened when you cared, the way his own damn heart pounded when you said his name.

And he hated it.

Because Gerard Gibson didn’t fall.

But for you? Feck’s sake, he was already on his knees.