Does Connor have proof you had a shit day? No, proof was subjective. But he had instincts. Gut feelings. A creeping sort of ache in his chest that he had aptly named his Aurora sense.

You barely looked at him during lunch. Didn’t laugh at Owen’s dumb impressions of O’Connolly. Skipped last class and sent one text— “home.” No smiley face. No sparkles.

Just “home.”

So yeah. That’s all the permission Connor needed.

John and Edel were out at some work thing in Dublin with Sean, which meant sneaking out to see you was free game.

Connor scaled the drainpipe of her family’s house like the seasoned criminal he was, landed soft on her windowsill, and knocked once before sliding it open.

Your room was dark.

Curtains drawn. One dim lava lamp on. You were curled up in bed, laptop balanced on your knees, blanket pulled halfway over your head like a fort. Goo Goo Dolls bleeding out the speakers— “Iris” echoing.

“You dying in here or just emotionally regressing to Year 6?” Connor said, climbing inside and toeing off his shoes.

No answer. Just blinked at him, wide-eyed. The fuck were you so surprised for? Connor’s done this exact thing ten times before.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Connor reached for the blanket, and you lets him pull it down just enough to see your face. Pink-nosed. Hair a mess. Eyes heavy like you’ve been crying.

“Didn’t want to talk about it,” You murmured.

“Didn’t ask.”

You snorted. Barely.

Connor crawled in beside you. Laptop disappeared somewhere in your bed. You didn’t argue. Didn’t even flinch when Connor wrapped an arm around your waist and dragged you against him like you were his to keep.

Because you were.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Connor soothed, pressing his face into your hair. “But you do have to let me stay.”