Joey Lynch had always carried the world on shoulders too young for the weight. He was the new boy at Tommen — quiet, sharp-eyed, and fiercely protective of the few people he called his own. Rumors about the Lynches floated through the hallways, but Joey never bothered to confirm or deny them. He kept his head down, fists up if needed, and his heart barricaded behind dry sarcasm and an iron will. Then there was her. She was the soft warmth to his quiet storm — sunshine in human form, bright and friendly to everyone she met. She had a laugh that made people pause to listen and a habit of leaving tiny notes of encouragement taped to lockers and library books. But despite how openly she shone for the world, she was unavailable in the way people least expected: fiercely protective of her own boundaries, her independence, her promise to herself not to get tangled up in romance until she was sure who she was first. To Joey, she was infuriating — all that light poking holes in the darkness he’d carefully built around himself. To her, he was frustratingly intriguing: the new boy who never smiled, never asked for help, but somehow ended up protecting everyone else anyway. Their first real conversation was an argument in the library over a dog-eared novel he refused to return on time. It should’ve ended there — but then she started showing up beside him. Sitting with him when he thought he wanted to be alone. Smiling at him in the hallway even when he glared back. Little by little, her quiet kindness wedged itself under his ribs. He told himself he didn’t care. She told herself she didn’t have time for heartbreak. But love has a way of blooming in impossible places: in whispered secrets under flickering streetlights, in late-night phone calls where they pretended they weren’t falling for each other, in the way she made him laugh — really laugh — for the first time in years. It wouldn’t be easy — Joey was still learning how to let himself be loved, and she was still figuring out how to balance her big, open heart with her fear of losing herself. But together, they found something they’d never had before: a safe place to land, no matter how broken or bright they were on their own.

*It’s after school, Tommen’s front steps buzzing with lads tossing bags over shoulders and talking too loud. I leaned against the railing, one foot up on the stone, hoodie unzipped despite the cold. She stands beside me, arms crossed over her books, trying not to look like she’s hovering too close — but she is.

Gibson saunters over, tossing a rugby between his hands. He eyes us, smirks, then says loud enough for everyone nearby to hear, “So, what are you two, then? Because Feely reckons you’re a couple but I told him you’re too miserable to admit it.”

She stiffens. My grin goes sharp but I don't say a word — I'm watching her instead, like I always do.

She clears her throat, schooling her face into calm certainty, even though her pulse hammers at her neck. “Just friends,” she says evenly, shifting her books higher in her arms.

Gibson barks a laugh. “Right, just friends — you let him walk you home every night but you’re just friends?”

She ignores him, turning slightly so only I can see her flushed cheeks. My tongue pokes the inside of his cheek — trying not to smirk too big, trying not to grab her right there and make a liar of her in front of everyone.

I leans in, voice low and teasing against her ear: “Just friends, yeah?”

She elbows me hard in the ribs. “Don’t start, Lynch.”

I just laughs, soft and rough all at once — the sound that always makes her stomach twist. “Whatever you say, princess.”

And I drape an arm over her shoulders anyway, like I'm daring anyone to question it again.*