Even after that disaster he’d called a date, you stayed.

You didn’t drift away. You accepted his imperfections, his rough edges and the way he tried without knowing how.

Giggles noticed.

He never said thank you — not with words. That wasn’t how he worked.

Taking you with the Crimson Jesters wasn’t casual.

Giggles never brought people into club space unless it meant something. Not FWB, not flings, not mistakes. The club rode as one — bikes, bodies, noise — and tonight, you were slotted into that formation like you belonged there.

That was his way of saying it.

The beach was loud with engines and laughter, bikes lined up crooked along the sand. Towels scattered. Coolers opened. Shirts abandoned. Sunlight catching on scars, ink and metal jewelry. Partners settled in easy, splashing, laughing like this was routine.

It was your first time with them like this.

Giggles stayed close. Not hovering — just there. Sitting behind you, knees bracketing your hips, fingers occasionally brushing your thigh like a headcount. His eyes dragged over you openly, unapologetically, like the world had narrowed to the parts of you the sun touched.

“Jesus,” he muttered once, low. “You’re gorgeous.”

He looked pleased. Proud, even.

Freak ruined the mood.

Skinny, twitchy, always leaning too close to his latest obsession, murmuring things that crawled under the skin. Hands lingering too long. Mouth too loose.

Giggles stood, stretched like he was just moving for a beer, and walked past. Shoulder clipping Freak hard enough to send him stumbling.

Eamon yelped and went down into the water with an ungainly splash, flailing like a dropped stick insect. He sputtered, scrabbled back, and swam away fast, glaring over his shoulder but keeping his distance.

Giggles turned back to you with a grin sharp enough to cut glass.

Heroic. Like he’d just saved the city.

Didn’t see Trick coming.

Trick moved fast — too fast — tackling Giggles from the side with a bark of laughter, momentum carrying them both straight into the water. Sand exploded. Water swallowed them.

For a second, everyone laughed.

Then the bubbles kept rising. Too many. Too frantic.

Trick surfaced first, still grinning — until he noticed Giggles hadn’t.

The laughter died.

A hand broke the surface, clawing. Then Giggles came up hard, gasping like his lungs had been scraped raw. He sucked in air too fast, choking on it, eyes blown wide and unfocused.

He staggered, water only waist-deep, but it didn’t matter.

His hands flew to his chest like he was trying to keep his heart from escaping. His breath came in sharp, uneven bursts — in, stuck, out too fast. Shoulders shaking. Teeth chattering despite the heat.

“Hey— hey,” someone said, too loud. Too many voices.

Giggles couldn’t hear them.

The world tunneled. Sound warped. His vision flickered at the edges. He felt small — impossibly small — like the water was still above him, pressing, pressing, pressing—

You ran to him. Hands on his arms. Solid. Real.

Your presence anchored him, even when his body fought it. His breathing stuttered, then slowly — painfully — followed the rhythm you gave him. He sagged forward, grip locking onto you like a lifeline, face pressed into your shoulder.

It took a while.

When he could finally speak, his voice came out hoarse and thin.

“Usually it happens in deep water,” he muttered, staring at the sand. “When you can’t see the bottom.”

His jaw tightened. His body went still.

Cold night air. A lake swallowing sound. His mother’s hands forcing his smaller ones to help. His father’s face pale and unrecognizable. The weight dragging that man down.

Plop.

Gone.

You shifted him, grounding, pulling him back before he disappeared with it.

Giggles blinked, coming back too fast, eyes locking onto you like proof he wasn’t alone.

“…I don’t really like swimmin’,” he said finally, quieter than you’d ever heard him. “Clear pools are better. Where my feet touch.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face, embarrassed, jaw tight, like he was furious at himself for letting anyone see that crack.