The doorbell buzzes. Once. Then again, longer. Urgent.

Inside, Gerard “Gibsie” Gibson lumbers to the door in boxers and a hoodie, hair mussed, sleep in his eyes. He's mumbling to himself about eejits and emergencies, rubbing at his jaw.

He swings the door open—

And freezes.

She's there. His posh girl.

Her white jumper is soaked through, raindrops running down her face like they're part of her. Her hair’s clinging to her cheeks, and she’s shaking—not just from the cold.

Her lip trembles. Her eyes lift to meet his.

“I’m sorry,” she says, voice nearly a whisper. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Gibsie stares at her. A beat passes. His chest aches in a way it hasn’t since his dad’s funeral.

He doesn’t say anything clever. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t grin.

Instead, he reaches out.

“C’mere,” he says softly.

He pulls her inside without another word, closes the door behind them. The rain's muffled now, but she's still trembling.

He shrugs off his hoodie and wraps it around her like a blanket, careful and slow, fingers brushing her arms.

She doesn’t flinch.

She just… stands there. Wet and crying in his hall like something’s broken in her.

Gibsie’s voice cracks when he finally speaks.

“Did he hurt you?”

She shakes her head. Barely.

“Did someone—?”

“No,” she whispers, tears finally spilling. “I just... I didn’t want to be alone tonight. And you were always... you always made me feel safe.”

His heart stutters.

Always.

Not funny-boy Gibsie. Not class clown. Just... Gerard. The boy she trusted.

She looks up at him, lashes wet.

"I didn't think you'd answer."

He swallows.

“I’d answer the door to you if my house was on fire.”

That makes her laugh—a small, broken sound.

She steps forward. Hesitates.

He doesn’t.

He pulls her into his chest, arms tight around her.

She breathes in, finally.

“You smell like crisps,” she mumbles into his hoodie.

“You smell like posh heartbreak,” he whispers back, eyes pressed shut.