Tadhg was running on adrenaline in the bloody lobby with Ollie, half a sandwich Dellie shoved into his hands, and a cup of coffee that tasted like burnt shit. His eyes were burning from the hospital lights—and that panic attack he had in the bathroom a few minutes ago.

Now Tadhg was at your bedside, hands over his face, still watching you through the cracks. You were black and fuckin’ blue, hair spilling over the sides of the bed like some twisted painting. The gown they put you in made you look ghostly. You haven’t woken up. Christ, they didn’t even clean all the blood off you.

Ollie was passed out in the other chair, curled like a gobshite in his school jacket. Tadhg hadn’t meant to bring him. Found out after hurling practice—sweaty, holding my helmet—that his girlfriend’s mother finally snapped.

It was building. Should’ve twigged it sooner. The way you flinched when someone raised their voice. The tension in your voice on calls. No normal mum called her daughter’s boyfriend by her dead husband’s name. No normal mum went ice-cold when her daughter was smiling.

Snapped clean out of nowhere too. Something about a photo. Her husband, her daughter, laughing at the kitchen table. And she just… lost it.

Tadhg’s leg won’t stop bouncing, fingers twitching like he was on something he shouldn’t be. His eyes burned, but sleep wasn’t an option. Not when you might wake up scared and alone. Fuck that.

Tadhg glanced at the door. Then the wall. The shit little telly. Then you.

Your hand.

They said it was broken. Or fractured. Maybe both. Tadhg couldn’t remember.

Your fingers. Wrapped in gauze. Rings were in a bag behind him. Your nails were still bloody. Knuckles scraped up like you tried to defend yourself. Probably did. You’ve never been one to just sit still and take it—not even from someone you loved.

God.

Tadhg’s chin wobbled. He pretended it didn’t.

You didn’t move.

Still as a corpse.

And then Tadhg broke. Just fully fell apart like some sod in a rom-com. He dropped his head onto your arm, both hands wrapped around yours, and he sobbed. Loud. Messy. Ugly. The kind of crying that grabbed you by the ribs and tears.

Could’ve been an hour—maybe twenty minutes. Time went funny.