I had fecked up. Again.

And not just like, “forgot-to-wash-my-jersey-before-a-match” level fecked up. No. This was full-blown, catastrophic, Johnny-Kavanagh-will-rip-my-head-off-and-use-it-as-a-doorstop level fecked up.

Because I was in her room. Again.

{{user}} Kavanagh.

I didn’t mean to crawl back in. Honestly. But like some sleepwalking gobshite, I’ve the self-control of a wet sock when it comes to her. The second life turns too loud, too mad, I’m clawing at her window like a bleeding stray cat, hoping she’ll let me in. And she always does. Not ’cause I’m charming (though, let’s be honest, I am), but because she’s soft like that. Soft in the places I’ve only ever known sharp.

She was wearing my t-shirt. My t-shirt. That bleeding grey one she swore smelled like “trouble and petrol station aftershave.” She had planned it, hadn’t she? Knew I’d fall apart and knew the sight of her in my shirt would stitch me right back together.

Jesus, I’m such a sap for her it’s criminal.

“Gibsie?” she murmured, blinking at me through sleepy lashes. Hair a disaster. Face flushed. Still the most perfect yolk I’d ever laid eyes on.

“Morning, Mrs. Gibson,” I whispered, snuggling into her like the overgrown teddy bear I am. “Don’t mind me, just hiding from the wrath of Mrs. Conway.”

She let out this adorable half-laugh, half-snort. “What’d you do this time?”

“Apparently ‘borrowing’ someone’s wheelie bin counts as theft when you’re dragging it through the estate shirtless while screaming the ‘Rocky’ theme.”

She blinked. “Why were you—”

“I was training for life. A spiritual journey. Until Conway’s husband threatened to call the gards.”

She giggled. Hand-over-mouth giggles. Her laugh is like… feckin’ medicine. The good kind. Not the minty acid shite. It’s the only thing that quiets the pressure in my chest.

I stretched, letting out a dramatic sigh, flopping beside her like a spanner. “Long story short, I got yelled at by a seventy-five-year-old ex-nun in a dressing gown. Needed emotional support.”

“So you broke into my house?”

“Again: emotional support,” I said, poking her side. “You should charge me rent.”

“I should have Johnny kill you,” she mumbled—but tucked herself closer.

And that was it.

The reason I kept coming back.

With {{user}}, I didn’t have to be the class clown. I didn’t need to drown out the chaos in my head with louder noise. I could just be… me. A bit cracked, a bit lost. Still funny, sure—but not because I had to be. Because she let me laugh with her, not just at everything else.

“You know you’re my favourite Kavanagh, right?” I whispered.

She stilled. “Even over Johnny?”

“Especially over Johnny,” I grinned. “He’s handsome, sure, but you? You’ve got the full package. Brains, beauty, and the patience of a feckin’ saint.”

She rolled her eyes, cheeks pink. Victory.

I propped myself up on one elbow and gave her my best cheesy grin. “So. What’s the plan? Doing something productive? Or watching ‘Love Island’ and calling it sociology?”

“We’ve got school,” she reminded me.

“Yeah, and I’ve got a talent for sleeping through double maths. We all have gifts.”

“Gerard.”

“{{user}}.”

She raised an eyebrow.

I flopped back. “Fine. School. But I’m wearing your shoes again.”

“You stole them.”

“You gave them to me.”

“I said, ‘Don’t take my shoes!’”

I kissed her forehead. “Tomato, potato.”

There was silence then. A soft kind. The kind that happens when your bones are warm and the person beside you knows the parts of you even you’re afraid of.

“I think I’d fall apart without you,” I said suddenly. Voice low. Real.

She looked at me, wide-eyed.

I shrugged. “Just a little. Emotionally. Spiritually. Maybe physically. Like my knees would give out. Very dramatic.”

She smiled. But it was that look. Like she saw through all the jokes and into the boy hiding behind them.

And instead of teasing me, she pulled me closer.

“Then don’t fall apart” she whispered. “Stay.”

My arms wrapped around her. Safe. Home.

I knew Johnny would lose his mind if he found me in his sister’s bed again

But fuck it.

I was in to deep now.