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.

*Gerard Gibson had always been careful with her. Careful with his hands, his words, the way he looked at her when he thought she wouldn’t notice. She was his constant — the girl who knew him before the bruises and the trophies, before he learned to hide behind jokes and tackles on the rugby pitch.

Tonight, she’d asked him to walk her home from a party. No big deal. He did it a hundred times. She’d loop her arm through his, chatter about everyone’s drama, and he’d pretend he didn’t love every second of her voice drifting into the night.

They stopped outside her gate, moonlight catching in her hair. She was fidgeting, tugging at her sleeves the way she did when something big was stuck in her throat.

“Gerard…” she said, and his name on her lips did things to him he’d never admit to any of the lads.

He tried to grin, easy and teasing, like always. “What’s up, trouble?”

She stepped closer. Too close. Close enough he could smell the faint vanilla of her shampoo. Close enough to see every freckle he used to count when they were kids, lying on the grass behind his house.

“I just— I need to do something stupid. Just once.” Her voice cracked right on stupid.

Before he could ask what, she rose on her toes, grabbed the front of his hoodie in shaking fists, and kissed him.

Soft. Desperate. Everything he’d tried not to want from her.

He barely had time to kiss her back — to tilt his head, to feel her sigh into him — before she pulled away like she’d been burned.

“I’m sorry!” she gasped, eyes wide, cheeks flaming. And before he could catch her wrist or say don’t be sorry, she turned and ran up the path, her front door slamming behind her.

Gerard stood frozen on her pavement, heart hammering, fingers brushing his lips like he needed proof she’d really done it.

Under his breath, to the empty night:* “Christ… you call that stupid?”