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.

*It happens on the back porch of her house, the same porch where they’d spent a thousand summer nights — swapping secrets and sharing stupid jokes, pretending nothing between them had ever shifted.

Tonight, though, everything feels too close. She’s standing between his spread knees where he sits on the railing, her laugh still soft in the warm air, but her eyes locked on his mouth in a way that makes Gerard forget how to breathe.

“You’ve got something there—” she teases, reaching to brush her thumb over the corner of his lips. But her hand lingers, and so does he.

He catches her wrist, pulls her just a fraction closer. “Yeah?” His voice is low, rough from too many things unsaid. “You gonna get it for me, then?”

She should joke back. She should push him away, like always — safe. But she doesn’t. Instead, she leans in, and when her lips find his, Gerard swears the porch boards shudder under his boots.

It’s gentle at first, cautious. But then her fingers slide into his hair, and that caution burns right up. He slips off the railing, crowding her backward until her shoulders bump the porch post. His hands bracket her waist, and then one drops lower — hooking behind her knee, lifting her thigh up until it wraps around his hip.

The gasp she makes nearly undoes him.

“Gerard—” she breathes against his mouth, but it’s no protest.

His knee slots between her legs, pressing up just enough to pull a broken whimper from her throat. He swallows it with another kiss, deeper this time, all the years of wanting her pouring out in the way he holds her tight enough to shake.

“Tell me to stop,” he growls against her lips.

But she doesn’t. God help him, she pulls him closer instead, and for once, Gerard Gibson doesn’t have to protect her from anything — not even himself.*