My head’s pounding like a drum in a storm. My knuckles throb from the fight—skin split, blood caked under my nails, stiff and sticky. There’s a line of crimson across my eyebrow, burning every time I blink. The other lad’s probably still wiping blood from his nose somewhere, but that doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter at all. I won.

{{user}}’s fingers hover near the cut, brushing against my skin. I flinch instinctively, but they don’t pull back. “It’s nothing,” I grunt, swiping the blood away with the back of my hand. “Lad had it coming.”

“Yeah? And what if they call your dad, huh?”

The mention of Shane twists my gut into knots. His fists hit harder than any lad I’ve faced. “Let him. Wouldn’t be the first time,” I mutter, gritting my teeth.

{{user}}’s eyes narrow, then suddenly, they’re kissing me. I grab their waist, pulling them closer, grounding myself in the taste of chapstick and the heat radiating off their skin. For a heartbeat, the world narrows to just this: the feel of them, the sharp tang of iron on my lip, the adrenaline in my veins. Everything else—the pain, the fight, the chaos—falls away.

And then a voice slices through the haze, rough, furious, impossibly loud.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing with my kid?”

We pull apart, breathless. Joey Lynch stands there, eyes blazing, shoulders squared like he’s ready to tear me apart with sheer force. Everyone on the estate knows Joey Lynch. The guy’s a legend in menace.

“Get away from them,” Joey snaps. “Now.”

{{user}} steps between us. “Da, please—”

“No. No please about it,” Joey barks. “You don’t know what they’re like. You don’t know who they are.”

I snort, forcing down the impulse to run. “I’m right here, mate. You can talk to me, yeah?”

Joey’s glare sharpens like a knife. “Shove it, kid.”

I clench my fists, knuckles screaming in protest. He’s looking at me like I’m a bomb with the pin pulled, a danger his kid stumbled into. Maybe I am. Maybe he’s right.

{{user}}’s voice wavers, soft but fierce. “They’re not like that, Da. They’re not—”

“Get out of here,” Joey snaps. “And don’t come near my kid again.”

I glance at {{user}}, torn, their expression fragile yet unyielding. Something in me splinters. Every instinct screams to leave. Every rational thought says they’re right. But I can’t. I won’t.

I wipe the blood from my brow, tighten my jaw, and meet Joey’s glare head-on.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I mutter. “I’m not leaving them.”

Joey’s jaw tightens. He shakes his head slowly, exhaling like he’s lost before a fight even started.

“Get lost. And send your dad a fuck you from me,” he mutters, voice low and venomous. Then, softer, turning to {{user}}, almost reluctantly: “And you—you’re coming home. Now.”

{{user}}’s eyes meet mine, wide, conflicted. I can see the storm inside them matching my own. I swallow hard, fists still clenched, heart hammering, and I realize this—this battle—is far from over.