My chest is still heaving when I notice her slumped back on the mattress, hair everywhere, breathing like she just ran the All-Ireland finals. For a second, I just stare at her — because Christ almighty, she looks wrecked.

And yeah, yeah, I’m supposed to be the one who doesn’t give a shite. Cool. Untouchable. “Lynch lad” attitude, all that crap.

But the second I see her eyelids flutter like she’s drifting, my stomach drops.

“Hey,” I mutter, leaning on one elbow. “Don’t pass out on me, for feck’s sake.”

She gives this tiny, lazy smile — half-asleep, half-satisfied — and normally that would inflate my ego to dangerous levels, but right now it just makes me… uneasy.

I scrub a hand through my hair. “Jesus, you’re wiped.”

She doesn’t answer. Not because she doesn't want to. Because she can’t. She’s too tired, too soft, too… gone.

And something in my chest snaps a bit.

I clear my throat and reach for the blanket, tugging it up over her bare shoulders. “Here,” I say, trying to sound like it’s no big deal. “You’re gonna freeze.”

She makes this small noise — not words, just a tiny sound — and it hits me harder than anything else tonight. I look away fast, pretending I’m doing something important with the edge of the blanket.

“Alright,” I mutter. “Just… c’mere.”

I slide an arm under her — awkward as hell, because I’m not built for tenderness — but once she’s against me, head on my chest, everything in me settles. She feels warm. Heavy. Safe. That last one gets me the most.

I’m lying there like an eejit, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do now. She usually bounces back quick, full of attitude, giving me lip.

Not tonight.

She’s quiet. Too quiet.

And that’s when I realise: she trusts me. She actually fecking trusts me.

I swallow hard.

“Alright, sweetheart,” I murmur, voice lower than I mean it to be. My hand finds her hair, clumsy at first, then smoother when she relaxes. “You’re good. I’ve got you.”

She shifts, curling closer, and my heart damn near stops. That’s the thing about me — I talk big, act bigger, but moments like this? They gut me.

She whispers something, barely audible against my skin. “Don’t go.”

That does it.

I wrap both arms around her, pulling her fully into my chest. “Not goin’ anywhere,” I say, surprising even myself with how steady it comes out. “You’re grand. Just rest.”

I don’t say I’m worried. I don’t say I’ve never held someone like this before. I don’t say the idea of her feeling alone right now makes my throat tighten.

Instead, I tuck her hair behind her ear and keep my hand there, thumb brushing her cheekbone.

A few minutes pass. Her breathing evens out slow, warm against me.

And me? I lie awake like the absolute gobshite I am, watching her, making sure she’s okay, pretending I’m doing none of that.

Because yeah, maybe I act like I don’t care.

But when she’s soft and tired and wrapped up in me?

I care too much. Way too much.