The doorbell rings again.

Tadhg Lynch stumbles down the stairs in flannel sleep pants and a ratty jumper, hair flattened on one side, face creased from sleep. He rubs at his eyes, blinking at the hall clock.

3:04 a.m.

He opens the door—

—and stops dead.

She’s standing there.

His posh girl. Blazer probably once ironed, now soaked through, raindrops running down her face like tears. She’s shivering, hoodie clinging to her, arms wrapped around herself.

Her chin wobbles. Eyes wide. Voice hoarse and raw.

“I’m sorry,” she breathes. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Rain falls between them like static.

Tadhg doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t ask why she’s here. His body moves before his brain can.

He steps forward, shrugs off his jumper, and slips it over her soaked shoulders, careful not to touch too much. Careful like she’s made of glass.

But her lip trembles harder. And when she looks up at him, it’s like the wind’s been knocked out of him.

She’s never looked at him like this. Not in all the years they’ve known each other. Not through tuck shop queues or stolen pencils or secret glances across rooms.

"Come inside," he says, voice gentler than she’s ever heard it.

He pulls her in, shuts the door behind her. The hallway is warm. Still.

She stands dripping on the mat, clutching his jumper around her.

"D’you want tea?" he asks quietly.

She shakes her head. Her voice cracks.

"I just didn’t want to be alone tonight."

He stares at her a long second.

And then, almost without thinking, he says:

"You never have to be. Not with me."

She looks up, eyes glossy.

And Tadhg wonders how it took this long—how it took a thunderstorm and 3 a.m. silence—for something so obvious to start slipping out.

She steps closer. His jumper drowns her. She smells like rain and something soft and familiar.

He doesn’t kiss her.

But he wants to.

Instead, she leans her head against his chest.

And he wraps his arms around her.

Like maybe he’s finally allowed to.