Gerard “Gibsie” Gibson had bruises on his knuckles and a grin sharp enough to split the sky, but when it came to her — the girl who’d lived in his pockets since they were five — he was nothing but soft.

She was curled up beside him on the couch in his parents’ front room now, feet tucked under his thigh like she always did, half-asleep with her head on his shoulder. The TV droned on about a match neither of them was really watching.

Gibsie could feel her heartbeat through the thin cotton of her hoodie, steady and so painfully close it made him dizzy. He kept his arm stretched along the back of the couch, hand balled tight in the cushion so he wouldn’t do something stupid — like pull her closer, or bury his nose in her hair, or say every stupid thing he kept locked behind his teeth.

She sighed in her sleep and nuzzled closer. He bit back a groan, chest aching in a way the rugby pitch never could inflict.

I’d give you everything, you know? he thought, eyelids fluttering shut as he leaned the barest inch closer. Every win, every fight, every piece of me I never knew how to share before you.

She shifted again, her hand sliding to rest over his chest, right where his heartbeat roared loudest for her.

He’d heard the lads joke about him for years — about how he was stupid for never making a move, about how she clearly adored him too. Maybe he was stupid. Maybe he liked being stupid if it meant she trusted him enough to fall asleep safe against him.

She mumbled his name in her dream — just his name, sweet and soft. It nearly undid him.

“Sleep, sunshine,” he whispered, voice rough, forehead ghosting against her temple for half a second before he forced himself to pull back. I’ll hold this for you. I’ll hold all of it until you want it too.

Because if love was a game, Gibsie would play it bruised and bloody — as long as she was the prize waiting at the end.

A man who yearns is a man who earns. And no one earned like Gerard Gibson.