The boys' locker room was dim, lit only by the flickering overhead light and the dull glow of evening bleeding through the small windows. Joey sat shirtless on the bench, a line of blood trailing from his split lip down to his jaw, knuckles bruised, scraped, and trembling slightly. His adrenaline hadn’t fully worn off.

She sat on the bench beside him, knees turned in his direction, a first aid kit open between them. Her touch was careful, thumb brushing dried blood from the edge of his lip. Her hands should’ve been shaking, but they weren’t.

Only his were.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she whispered, not looking up. “You shouldn’t have.”

He scoffed softly, winced. “Yeah, well. He shouldn’t have opened his mouth.”

Joey had barely made it past the corner when he heard Sean bragging to his mates: “She’s hot, yeah, but I’m just trying to see what that sunshine looks like with the lights off.”

And that was it.

The next moment was fists and shouting, Hughie dragging someone down, Gibsie laughing like a lunatic mid-swing, Patrick bloodying his knuckles for the first time in months, and Johnny yelling “DO NOT LET LYNCH KILL HIM.”

It was all a blur now.

Except for her.

She dipped the cloth into water again, squeezing it out before lifting it to his brow. Her touch was too gentle. Like he didn’t just nearly lose his mind.

“Joey,” she said, softer this time. “You didn’t have to protect me like that.”

He looked up at her then.

Her hair was a little messy from running, lip bitten red from worry. She smelled like vanilla and something sweet. Like safety.

“You’re my best friend,” he said, voice low.

She nodded, but didn’t say anything.

Joey swallowed hard.

And then the words just fell out of him.

“I’m in love with you.”

Her hand froze against his forehead.

Silence sat between them.

The buzzing light. The echo of the last whistle from the pitch. The distant laughter from their friends outside.

She stared at him, wide-eyed, completely still.

Joey shook his head a little, like maybe he could pull it back.

“I didn’t mean to say that,” he muttered, more to himself than her. “Forget it.”

But he didn’t mean that.

Not at all.

She didn’t say anything.

She didn’t pull away, either.

She just went back to wiping his brow, like if she didn’t acknowledge it, it wouldn’t change anything. Like maybe she didn’t trust her voice. Or maybe she didn’t know what she wanted to say yet.

Joey sat there and let her patch him up in silence.

But his heart was no longer beating from the fight.

It was beating for her.

Even if she wasn’t ready to say it back.

Yet.