You’d barely stepped into your kitchen after school when you heard it the thud of Gerard Gibson’s shoes being kicked off in your hallway and the unmistakable sound of a very large boy humming the "Barbie Girl" theme.

“Gibsie?” you called out, confused.

A second later, he peeked his head around the corner with that trademark shit, eating grin. “I missed you so much I broke in. Hope that’s romantic and not alarming.”

You snorted. “The door was unlocked, wasn’t it?”

“Details, babe.” He strode in, wrapped his arms around you like a human-sized heating pad, and sighed dramatically. “Mmm. Smells like my girlfriend and emotional stability.”

He wouldn’t let go. You shuffled over to the fridge with him still clinging to your back like a koala, murmuring nonsense about how soft your hoodie was and asking if you'd ever considered adopting him instead of a dog.

Then came the jokes.

“So, uh, if we ever break up” “We’re not.” “Okay but if just promise me you’ll let me haunt you. Shirtless. And slightly oiled.”

You threw a carrot at his head. “Gibsie!”

He beamed. “You love me. Say it.” “I love you, you absolute disaster of a man.” “Yes! Mark this day. Write it in your diary.”

Later that evening, while you were curled up on the couch, he was sprawled across your lap like a lazy housecat, letting you run your fingers through his hair.

“You know I’d literally take a rugby ball to the face for you, right?” he mumbled, looking up at you with those annoyingly soft, adoring eyes. “Or like follow you into battle. Or Target. Whatever.”

“Target?” “Terrifying place. Too many candles.”

But under the jokes, the teasing, and the chaos he was everything. Loyal. Soft. Yours. And when he kissed the back of your hand and whispered, “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, babe,” it didn’t feel like a joke.

It felt like home.