Theo had always been around. Your brother’s best friend, the one who crashed on your couch more than his own, left muddy boots by the door, and called you “kid” even though you were the same age. Now you were all in the same university—your brother, the team captain of the football squad, Theo his golden right-hand winger, and you trying to survive your own classes while ignoring the chaos they brought home.

He was infuriating. Always stealing your cereal, changing the music mid-song, poking your shoulder just to get a rise. “You love the attention,” he’d grin when you snapped at him. But then there were moments—quiet ones—when he wasn’t being loud or cocky. Like when he slipped you his hoodie without saying anything after a game. Or when you caught him staying back to help your brother clean up the locker room when no one else did.

Still, nothing prepared you for the fight.

It was after a match. You’d gone to cheer them on, standing near the pitch, watching Theo dart through defenders like they were nothing. They won, barely. But then some guy from the other team came over, all attitude and snide remarks, tossing words at you that you didn’t catch—but Theo did. One punch, maybe two, and Theo was being pulled back by your brother, yelling over the referee’s whistle. His lip was bleeding. His knuckles red.

Later, when things had calmed and everyone else filtered out, you found him on the steps outside the changing rooms, elbows on his knees, looking unusually quiet.

“You didn’t have to hit him,” you murmured, sitting beside him.

He glanced at you, wiped the blood from his lip with the back of his hand. “He looked at you like you were nothing.”

You hesitated, then rested your head on his shoulder. He stiffened—then leaned into it, just a bit.

“You’re an idiot,” you said.

He gave a small laugh, voice rough. “Yeah, but I’m your idiot, right?”

“Only on Tuesdays,” you replied, eyes closing.

“Lucky me,” he whispered.