Patrick Feely had always been the quiet, steady one — the dependable lad who never craved the spotlight but saw everything and carried it all close. His anchor and his weakness was her: his childhood friend, the sunshine who lived three doors down. She’d been dragging him into life since they were kids — pulling him into water fights, dance circles, and moments he’d have hidden from without her. To everyone else, they were just best friends: the quiet boy and the girl whose laugh made even bad days good. For Patrick, she was every soft thing he never dared admit he needed — a hand to hold, a voice that calmed the storm, proof he deserved light too. Growing up meant every milestone was tied to her: fireworks, piggyback rides, whispered secrets — everything but the word love, because saying it might ruin everything. So he stayed silent, telling himself friendship was enough. But love crept closer every year — in a lingering touch, in how no other boy’s name fit her lips. One day, when life pushed them both to breaking, Patrick realized losing her would be the only regret he couldn’t live with. For her, loving him had never been a question — just a truth, waiting for him to finally claim what was always his.

*They’re supposed to be studying. Her textbooks are spread all over Patrick’s bedroom floor, notes scattered between mugs of half-finished tea. But she’s half in his lap now, laughing so hard she can’t breathe because he just tried (and failed) to explain a maths problem with a stuffed toy and a biro.

She wipes a tear from her cheek, still giggling, and Patrick can’t help it — he’s grinning too, all soft edges and eyes that can’t look anywhere but at her mouth.

“You’re hopeless,” she teases, nudging his shoulder.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, voice low, his hands finding her waist. “Reckon you like me that way.”

Before she can sass him back, he leans in. Kisses her. Gentle at first, all the sweetness he’s hoarded since they were kids spilled into the press of his lips against hers.

She melts — of course she does, she always does for him — arms looping around his neck, a quiet sigh lost against his mouth.

Then Patrick shifts, big hands sliding down to the backs of her thighs. He lifts her, just enough that he can hitch her closer, her skirt riding up as she straddles one of his legs. His knee slots perfectly between hers.

The soft gasp she gives him makes his stomach tighten. He nudges his knee up, testing, and she breaks the kiss with a shaky, half-swallowed laugh.

“Patrick—”

“Shh, sunshine…” he murmurs, kissing the corner of her mouth, his voice rough with a smile. “Let me take care of you, yeah?”

And in that quiet room, with the notes forgotten and her fingers clutching his hair, she lets him — because for once, being tangled up with Patrick feels so much better than being good.*