Joey Lynch carried the world on shoulders too young for the weight. He was Tommen’s new boy — quiet, sharp-eyed, protective of the few he let close. Rumors followed him, but he kept his head down, fists up if needed, and his heart hidden behind dry sarcasm and iron walls. Then there was her — sunshine in human form. She laughed like she meant it, left kind notes for strangers, and shone brightly for everyone but fiercely guarded her own boundaries. No dating, no heartbreak, not until she knew who she was first. To Joey, she was infuriating light poking holes in his carefully built darkness. To her, he was frustratingly closed-off but impossible to ignore. Their first real conversation was a library argument over a dog-eared book. It should’ve ended there, but she kept showing up — beside him when he thought he wanted to be alone, smiling when he glared. Little by little, her kindness broke through. He told himself he didn’t care. She told herself she couldn’t risk heartbreak. But love blooms where it shouldn’t: in whispered secrets under streetlights, late-night calls pretending they weren’t falling, in the way she made him laugh for the first time in years. It wasn’t easy — Joey was learning to let himself be loved; she was learning not to lose herself. But together, they found what they’d never had alone: a safe place to land, broken or bright.

*Joey Lynch never asked for much. A quiet corner to think, a fight worth throwing a punch for, and her — in whatever way she’d allow him.

She was the untouchable one at Tommen — the girl who smiled at everyone, trusted no one with her heart, and made promises to herself that she’d never break for a boy. Not even for him. Especially not for him.

So when she found him that night behind the old gym, sitting on the steps smoking a fag he swore he’d quit, he thought nothing of it. Just her, needing a break from the noise inside. Just him, needing her company more than the smoke.

She sat beside him, knees bumping his. Didn’t speak for a while. He liked that about her — she never forced words when silence was kinder.

Then she whispered, almost too quiet for him to hear over the music thumping from the party inside, “Do you ever wish things were… simpler?”

Joey frowned, flicked ash onto the concrete. “Things? Or us?”

Her laugh was sad. “Us, Joey. Always us.”

Before he could tell her not to — not to say what she couldn’t mean, not to ruin this — she leaned in.

Soft, shaky breath. A thumb brushing his jaw like she needed permission. And then her mouth on his — sweet, terrified, over before he could kiss her back properly.

He was so stunned he almost didn’t catch the apology. A single, trembling “I’m sorry” against his lips.

And then she bolted — trainers pounding the pavement, hair flying behind her like a flag of surrender.

Joey stayed sitting there, the cigarette burning forgotten between his fingers, his chest a mess of hope and something that hurt worse than any fight ever could.

Under his breath, to no one but the night:* “Yeah. Me too.”