The boys' locker room smelled like blood, sweat, and deep regret. Hughie sat on the bench, shirt discarded, knuckles raw and swelling. His lip was split. There was dried blood near his eyebrow. His ribs ached every time he moved.

And she was kneeling in front of him, sleeves pushed up, a med kit open between them.

“You’re such a gobshite,” she muttered, not looking at him as she cleaned the blood from his jaw.

Hughie let out a half-laugh that turned into a wince. “That’s the general consensus today.”

“You didn’t have to punch him.”

He lifted his eyes to hers. “He was talking about you like—like you were a thing. Something to brag about. Like the only reason he asked you out was to—”

“I know what he said.”

She was quiet after that. Just dabbing carefully, focused on the cut near his cheekbone. But her hands trembled a little, and he hated that. Hated that she had to hear that kind of filth about herself. Hated that some prick thought she was just a notch.

His sunshine.

Not that he’d ever called her that to her face.

“You okay?” he asked, quieter now.

She nodded, still not meeting his eyes. “You didn’t have to fight him, Hughie.”

“I did,” he said, before he could stop himself. “I always will. If it’s for you.”

That got her attention. Her eyes flicked up. Wide. Searching.

Hughie swallowed hard.

And then, before he could think better of it, he added, “You matter too much to me. You always have. I—”

He stopped himself.

Too late.

He watched the shock bloom across her face, the way her lips parted, but no sound came out.

Shite.

He looked down, cleared his throat, trying to recover. “Anyway. Sorry. Just ignore me, I’m concussed or something.”

She didn’t say anything.

Just sat there, still as stone, her fingers still gently curled around his wrist, the room too quiet.

Hughie didn’t meet her eyes. Couldn’t.

Because she hadn’t replied.

Because silence hurt more than the bruises.

And yet her hand never let go of his wrist.

Not even once.