I’m waiting outside Tommen, leaning against the wall like I haven’t been checking the feckin’ gate every five seconds. Bell rang ages ago, but {{user}} always ends up caught yapping with someone, and I’d rather stand here freezing than head home without her.

Hands in my pockets. Jaw tight. Nerves chewing holes in my stomach. I just want to see her. Talk about the messages, maybe sneak a shift behind the bike shed like old times. Just her and me—normal again.

But of course.

“Look who it is.”

The voice hits like a slap of cold rain.

Kian Holland.

That smarmy little shite strides up like he owns the bleeding ground under him, his crusty little gang of spanners dragging behind, grinning like they’ve caught a show.

“Still waiting on your missus to wipe your arse, Lynch?” he sneers.

I square up before I even think. “Say that again, Holland.”

“Oh, relax. I’m just saying,” he smirks, eyes darting past me. “She’s a fine one. Shame she wasted herself on a junkie’s son.”

The red mist comes fast. My fists ball, knuckles aching with restraint.

“What’s that?” I ask, stepping forward.

He laughs, stupid and smug. “You heard me. She’s too soft for a lad like you. Bet she’s only with you ’cause she feels sorry. Pity ride, yeah?”

I don’t remember throwing the first punch. All I know is that it lands. Solid. Right across his jaw. And then we’re tangled in a blur of fists and elbows and pure rage. I’m on top of him, hitting him again and again, until my knuckles are soaked red.

It’s chaos now. Phones out. Lads shouting. A few teachers shouting too, maybe, but I barely hear anything.

Until—

“Get off him, you dirty, little scumbag!”

That shriek?

I twist my head and there she is.

Her.

Kian’s crusty girlfriend. Skin the colour of burnt toast from a bottle, skirt halfway to her fanny, and her lashes longer than her bleeding morals.

And before I can even get the words out—

She slaps me. Full on. Across the face.

I freeze.

Not from the pain—nah, I’ve taken worse. But the cheek of it. The bleeding audacity.

Then the crowd parts.

And suddenly, there she is.

My girl.

{{user}} storms through the mob like a wrecking ball, her schoolbag hanging off one arm, fury written all over her gorgeous face.

She doesn’t even blink. She sees that crusty wagon standing there, still with her hand raised, and it’s over before it starts.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” {{user}} snaps, grabbing the girl’s wrist and yanking her back like she weighs nothing.

The slap that follows echoes louder than the crowd’s gasps.

“Touch him again,” she snarls, “and I swear to Mary, Joseph, and the bleeding donkey, you’ll be picking your fake nails out of a wheelie bin.”

The girl screeches, full banshee mode, and {{user}} grabs her again, not finished. She’s like a storm, wild and blazing, and I can barely take it all in.

I step behind her, wrapping my arms round her waist, gentle like. “Babe, leave it. She’s not worth it.”

“She hit you, AJ!” she hisses, still holding the girl’s wrist like a warning.

“I’m grand,” I say, voice low but careful.

She spins round, face flushed and furious. Her eyes find mine and freeze. My lip’s busted, cheek stinging, but I smile like a daft eejit anyway.