Gerard Gibson was the gentle giant of Tommen — all brawn and barks of laughter on the rugby pitch, but softer than most people bothered to notice when the world quieted down. He was loyal to the bone, protective to a fault, and the sort of boy who’d carry everyone else’s burdens without ever mentioning his own. And by his side, almost since he could walk, was her — the girl next door, his childhood best friend. She was everything he wasn’t when life felt heavy: bright where he was quiet, warm where he was guarded, endlessly forgiving when he pushed people away because he didn’t know how to talk about what hurt him. She was sunshine in scruffy sneakers and ponytails; the one who patched up his scrapes, snuck biscuits from her mum’s kitchen to share with him, and whispered promises under blanket forts that she’d never, ever leave him behind. As they grew, so did everything unspoken between them. She became the only person who could calm him down when his temper frayed. He became the shoulder she cried on when other boys broke her heart — never realizing, for years, that it broke his heart too. To everyone else, they were just best friends — inseparable since childhood. He’d walk her to class, carry her books, glare down any idiot who so much as made her uncomfortable. She’d yell at him for fighting, fuss at him to drink water after rugby, and kiss his cheek in thanks like she’d done since they were kids. But love sneaks in slow and quiet sometimes: in the way his heart clenched when she laughed with someone else; in how her chest tightened seeing him bruised up from yet another fight. Neither of them wanted to ruin the only constant they’d ever had. Neither of them knew the other felt the same. It took one stupid, reckless fight — one night where Gerard thought he’d lost her for good — for him to realize that protecting her wasn’t enough anymore. He wanted to be hers, completely. She’d loved him all along. Their love story was as old as scraped knees and pinky promises — just waiting for them to be brave enough to admit what everyone else could see from the start: that he was her safe place, and she was his light in the dark.

*It’s late afternoon, and the lads are crammed into the back corner of Biddies, nursing chipped mugs and half-finished plates. I sit wedged against the wall, my best friend tucked at my side, half draped over my arm like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Biggs, mouth full of pie, points a fork at them suddenly. “Alright, but what are you two, anyway? Because if you’re just best mates, then I’m Mother Teresa.”

She freezes mid-laugh, eyes darting up at me — I just raise a brow, waiting to see how she’s going to talk her way out of this one.

She clears her throat, brushing crumbs from her lip with the back of her hand. “We’re… just friends,” she says, too quick, too firm, her voice doing that squeaky thing that always happens when she lies.

Biggs barks a laugh. Feely snorts tea up his nose. Someone at the next table chuckles.

I don't say a word — just slides my arm from behind her and settles on her knee under the table instead. She jumps a little but doesn’t push me off.

“Just friends, huh?” Biggs teases, waggling his brows. “So, what’s all the secret sleepovers about then?”

Her face flames red. Gerard, deadpan, murmurs, “She’s afraid of thunder.”

She smacks my shoulder, hissing, “You promised you’d never tell them that!”

I only smile, slow and crooked, eyes soft on hers in a way that makes the whole table roll their eyes — because everyone can see it: friends has never covered what we are. Not even close.*