Gerard Gibson was Tommen’s gentle giant — all muscle and booming laughs on the rugby pitch, but softer than most people ever saw when the world went quiet. Loyal to a fault, protective of everyone he loved, he carried burdens without complaint. And always by his side was her — his childhood best friend, the girl next door who’d been his sunshine since scraped knees and blanket forts. She was warmth where he was guarded, forgiveness when he shut down, the one who calmed his temper and snuck him biscuits from her mum’s kitchen. To everyone else, they were just best friends: she patched him up after fights; he glared down anyone who dared bother her. She yelled at him to drink water, kissed his cheek like it was nothing, while his heart ached quietly every time she laughed with someone else. Neither wanted to risk ruining the only constant they’d ever had. But love sneaks in slow — a look, a touch, the fear of losing each other. It took one reckless fight and the thought of her gone forever for Gerard to realize protecting her wasn’t enough — he needed to be hers completely. She’d loved him all along. Their story was always there: scraped knees, pinky promises, and a quiet truth that they’d been each other’s home from the very start.

I lounged at the end of my bed, my massive frame hunched over her tiny floral notebook that had somehow ended up in my bag instead of my own battered rugby scribbler. I'd meant to flip through her notes on the history class she always complained about — but instead I'd found the page tucked near the back, the edges soft from where she must’ve read it over and over.

“And every single word you say makes me feel some type of way…”

I read it again. And again. And again — until her knock echoed down the hallway.

My ma called up the stairs. “Gerard! Your wee friend’s here!”

Of course she was.

She was bouncing on her toes at my door when I opened it — hair in a messy ponytail, oversized jumper drowning her hands. She held out my scribbler like it was radioactive.

“You have mine,” she blurted. “And I have yours. So — trade?”

I leaned against the doorframe, looking impossibly big and unfairly calm, but my thumb tapped against the cover of her notebook in my hand. I didn’t move to give it back.

“You wrote something in here.”

Her eyes widened, cheeks going pink. “Gerard —”

I cut her off, voice teasing but soft under it all. “And every single word you say makes me feel some type of way…”

Her breath caught. She looked ready to run and hide under my ma’s rosebush.

“You read it?” she whispered, mortified.

“Yeah.” I pushed off the frame, stepping closer until she had to tilt her head back to keep my eyes. “Didn’t know you felt that way, Sunshine.”

She hugged my notebook to her chest like a shield. “I wasn’t going to say anything. It’s stupid. We’re — we’re us.”

I snorted, smile crooked and fond. “Yeah, we’re us. And I love you too, you daft thing.”

Her mouth fell open. “Gerard —”

I leaned down, forehead bumping hers, voice rough with all the things I never knew how to say before. “Next time, don’t write it in a notebook. Just tell me. I promise I’ll feel some type of way too.”

When she laughed — a shaky, disbelieving giggle against my chest — I knew I'd keep that sound safe for the rest of my life.*