Archive of Our Own

London had that kind of grey sky that looked like it’d never make up its mind - neither rain nor shine, just endless cloud hanging low over the rooftops. The sort of afternoon where everything felt suspended in time. You had been sitting by the café window for nearly an hour, watching traffic crawl along Green Street while the smell of roasted coffee beans and baked scones wrapped around you like a blanket.

The place was small, clustered with mismatched chairs, chalkboard menus, the hum of soft chatter from various groups and pairs that only made sense in a place like this. You came here often when you needed a break from everything - from the lads’ noise, from the pubs and its pints, from the endless chants that carried up from match days. You always enjoyed the quiet here. It was the kind of quiet that didn’t demand anything from you.

The book in your hand was new, fresh from the library down the road, but it was taking a while to really garner your attention fully. That's why you'd been staring out the window the last ten minutes, the iced tea condensating in front of you with each minute passed. You'd thought with how detached you were in the moment, the sound of the door opening would get your attention quickly. Perhaps the stocky man with bright blue eyes and a nervous furrow of his brows would make you put the book down.

But he only really had your observation when he decided to stand in the doorway like a bloody idiot. 

You looked away from the window, finding the young man lingering by the door, an air of awkwardness and curiosity veiling over him like a cloud. Completely out of place. Totally American.

He stood there for a moment like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to breathe in the same air as everyone else. His backpack, worn and abused, was slung over one shoulder, a mess of nervous energy about him. But he had that polite look - the kind you didn’t see much around here. You noticed him because everyone else did too, the barista’s head turning, a table of old blokes giving him the once-over. He might as well have had a sign that said not from around here.

You didn’t mean to stare, but he caught your eye as he finally took a step towards the counter. He fumbled with his wallet as he kept meeting your eyes, noticing how with each glance, your head seemed to tilt even more then the last, genuine confusion in your eyes.

“Uh - just a coffee, please?” he asked the girl at the counter.

“What kind of coffee?” she replied flatly.

“Just… coffee. Black?”

You bit your lip to stop from laughing, shaking your head as you turned back to your book. Poor bloke.

When he sat down two tables away, his nervousness practically radiated off him. He glanced out the window, then at his coffee, then at the window again. You could tell he was trying to look casual. You’d seen that look before. Always when newcomers were trying to figure out which part of London they had landed in.

After a minute or two, curiosity got the better of you. You leaned slightly in your chair, speaking just loud enough for him to hear.

“You’re not from here, are you?”

He blinked, startled, turning toward you. He looked at you for a moment, those blue eyes shrouded in shock and surprise that you had just spoken. Let alone spoken to him. “Uh - no. That obvious?”

You gave him a small smile, the light of the cafe making the lipgloss you were wearing glint. “Just a bit. You’ve got that lost puppy look about you.”

He laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck, and he could feel his nerves melting, slowly but surely. “Yeah, I, uh… I’m still figuring out the whole London thing. It’s different.”

“Different how?”

“Well, for one, I just got yelled at by a cab driver for trying to get in on the wrong side.”

You couldn’t help but grin, placing the book on the table in front of you. “Yeah, that’ll do it. We like to keep people on their toes here.”

He chuckled, a little more relaxed now. You could tell he wasn’t used to people talking to him out of nowhere. He kept glancing around like he was waiting for someone to tell him off. It was endearing, in a way you hadn’t expected.

“I’m Matt,” he said after a beat, offering a hesitant smile.

You replied with your own name, leaning back in your chair, enjoying the way he repeated it with a testing tongue. “And welcome to Green Street, Matt. You picked a charming part of London to lose yourself in.”

He chuckled again, properly this time, one filled with a sense of mirth. “So it’s not just me who thinks this place looks… rough?”

“‘Rough’ is generous,” you said dryly. “You’ll get used to it though. Everyone’s bark is far worse than their bite.”

“Everyone?”

You shrugged. “Most. Depends who you hang around.”

He nodded, his curiosity flickering behind that gentle expression. “You’re from around here?”

“Born and bred,” you said, stirring your tea lazily before taking a quick sip. “And you're what, visiting? Studying?”

“Neither. My sister lives here. I, uh… needed a change of scenery.”

There was something in the way he said it - quiet, a little heavy. You didn’t want to pry, but you gave a small nod, letting the silence settle comfortably between you and hoped he could read the quiet in the way you were trying to convey it.

He sipped his coffee, grimaced slightly. “So… what’s with the tea obsession here? Everyone keeps telling me to have a ‘proper cuppa,’ but no one’s explained what that actually means.”

You smirked, and he was entranced by it. “It means you’re doing it wrong.”

“Doing what wrong?”

“That.” You nodded toward his cup. “You’ve got to have tea. Properly brewed, not that bag dunked in hot water nonsense. Milk, no sugar, and you let it steep. It’s a ritual.”

He smiled at your conviction, “Sounds serious.”

“Deadly serious. It’s how we survive all this dreary weather.”

Matt hesitated, a glance at your tea following before he spoke, “Show me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Show you?”

“Yeah. The proper way. You said you’re an expert.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, tilting your head at him again. “You’re bold for an American.”

“Desperate to fit in,” he countered, a grin growing on his face. “Help me out.”

So you did. You got up with a little smile, motioned to the counter, and guided him through the process, the girl being much kinder to you then she had for him. You felt like a teacher, choosing compound words in a sweet voice that had him chuckling, making talk of choosing the right tea to waiting patiently - “No, not yet. It needs another minute, don’t rush it.” He followed every instruction with that same earnest focus, nodding like he was taking notes.

When he finally took a sip of the tea, he lit up and looked at you. “Okay… okay, that’s actually good.”

“See?” you said, crossing your arms with mock pride. “That’s culture.”

Matt smiled at you then, properly - eyes bright, shy but genuine. “Thanks. I, uh… I’m glad I met you.”

You shrugged, brushing it off even as warmth flickered through you. “Don’t thank me yet. Wait till you meet the rest of this lot. Then you’ll see what you’ve really signed up for.”

He frowned, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

But you just smiled knowingly. “You’ll find out.”

Outside, the rain finally decided to fall, steady and cold against the glass. You both lingered there a bit longer, talking about trivial things — music, accents, bad weather — until you realized time had slipped by. He was easy to talk to, easier than most, and when he left, he did so with a small, nervous wave that made you grin in spite of yourself.

You glanced down at your umbrella as you mentioned needing to head off, and despite the effort, Matt still walked you to the door. "Be safe out there, yeah? Don't want no Brits coming after my colonial," you said as you harboured the umbrella.

He smiled at your choice of words, watching as you stepped out into the rainfall and turning to look at him from under the umbrella. "Surely I'll see you again?"

Matt said it in such a questioning tone, it had you smiling with a short chuckle. "Sure you will. You need to learn how to properly butter a scone next."

The pub smelled of lager, sweat, and a little bit of trouble.

It was packed to the rafters that night, the noise a mix of laughter, shouts, and football chants spilling from the corner table where the GSE boys had staked their claim. Glasses clinked, someone yelled across the bar for another round, and the dim yellow lights made everything look like it was caught in a haze of smoke and mischief.

Matt had been there less than a week, and already, he’d learned that The Abbey Arms was their place. Their home turf.

Pete had his usual seat against the wall, relaxed but commanding, pint in hand, telling some wild story that had the boys hanging off every word. Even Matt had to admit the man had charisma. People gravitated toward him, trusted him, followed his lead because it was easy too.

Matt liked him. He really did. But there was something about Pete Dunham that felt like a lit fuse - dangerous if you got too close.

“So, Yank,” Dave said, clapping him on the back, “how you liking London then?”

Matt grinned sheepishly. “It’s… lively.”

“Lively,” Swill mimicked in a terrible accent that didn't come close, laughing with a snort. “That’s one way to put it. Wait till match day, mate. That’s when things really get lively.”

The table erupted in laughter like it was unkept secret, something that made Matt both boil with intrigue yet shudder with caution. Pete smirked into his drink, but there was something in his eyes - calm, steady, watching everything.

That’s when it happened.

The door swung open, a gust of cold air following it, and suddenly, without a word, the entire energy in the room shifted.

You walked in.

The noise dropped, not completely silent but fractured, like the pub itself had taken a breath. You had a friend with you, laughing softly as you brushed a strand of hair from your face, oblivious to the dozen eyes following your every step. Your coat was draped loosely over your shoulders, your cheeks flushed from the cold, and the low hum of your voice carried just enough to make heads turn.

Matt noticed the shift before he saw you. The boys straightened, some elbowing each other, others leaning back with barely concealed grins. There was a quiet rule to clean yourself up when you walked nearby, always had been. Matt looked at you, at the air that tousled around you. You looked amazing, just like at the cafe, only now, you had a more fluffed up look to you, dressed to the nines and carrying a light too bright for a pub like this.

But then he saw Pete.

Pete Dunham - fearless, loud, cocky Pete - sat up straighter, cleared his throat, and pretended to be fascinated by the condensation on his glass.

Matt frowned. What the hell was that?

Ike noticed the way the American was looking at you, intrigue and curiosity glinting in his gaze. The man smirked, following your line of walk. “That, my friend, is something out of'a bible.”

Matt blinked. “What?"

"An angel," Swill answered from behind his glass.

Pete’s eyes flicked up, sharp. Dave caught the warning glance but shrugged as he loosely defended, “What? He doesn’t know.”

“Still,” Pete said lowly, tone edged, “Watch your mouth.”

Dave held up his hands in mock surrender, grinning. “Relax, bruv. I’m just saying.”

“Yeah, saying what?” Pete shot back.

Ike leaned in with a laugh, nearly knocking his pint over in the process, “Saying she’s bloody gorgeous, mate. And she’s gonna walk past us like always, with that sexy little walk-”

Before he could finish, Pete’s pint hit the table with a solid thud.

“Oi,” he snapped, voice low but hard as steel. “Watch your fuckin’ tone.”

It wasn’t loud, but it cut through the laughter like a blade that the boys went quiet. Matt froze completely

There was something in Pete’s eyes - something protective, unflinching. He didn’t say it, but everyone at that table knew it: you were off-limits. You weren’t just anyone. You weren't just some tart to ogle and catcall... Nah, you were something else.

Matt looked between them, the tension thick, and then back toward you - just in time to see you glance their way.

You saw them, all of them. The lot of loud, half-drunk idiots you’d been avoiding for weeks. But your gaze stopped on the unfamiliar face, on that silly American, and something about his startled expression made you smile.

The boys caught it, some going rigid as their spine straightened, hands flying to chests as Bovver muttered, "Can't be."

"That was a smile, I saw it," Swill stated, a hand going to his peck.

You turned to your friend briefly, said something that made her laugh, and then - to the shock of every man at that table — you crooked your finger.

At him.

Matt pointed to himself, completely bewildered. “Me?” he said out into the open air.

You nodded once, a teasing smile tugging at your lips. The pub, for the first time that night, felt like it went dead silent.

Pete stared - not angry yet, just stunned. Dave’s jaw dropped. Bovver whispered, “No fuckin’ way,” under his breath.

“Go on, Yank,” Dave muttered, elbowing Matt. “Before she changes her mind.”

Pete’s eyes never left you, and yours stayed away from his like they always did, focused entirely on the man beside him. “Don’t,” he said quietly, a warning in his tone.

But Matt, blissfully unaware of the minefield he was walking into, got up anyway.

You met him halfway through the crowd, both of you standing in the warm, buzzing air between tables and laughter. The way you smiled at him, soft but curious, had Matt completely thrown.

“Well,” you said, crossing your arms, “fancy seeing you here.”

Matt blinked, realisation dawning. “Wait - you’re that Y/N?”

You tilted your head, a purse of your lips forming. “Depends what you’ve heard.”

“Mostly that you’re… uh…” He trailed off, remembering Pete’s stare vividly. “Important.”

That made you laugh, a light, melodic sound. “Important. That’s a new one. Usually, I’m ‘pain in the arse.’”

He grinned, shoulders relaxing a little at the energy dancing between you now. “I can’t imagine that.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised.” You nodded toward the bar. “Come on. Let me get you a proper drink. No tea this time.”

You grabbed his sleeve, a gesture that came so casually and naturally, and tugged him toward the counter before he could argue.

The boys were still staring, Pete most of all. His jaw worked as he watched you lead Matt away, your laughter spilling over the music, your hand brushing the American’s arm. He didn’t move, didn’t speak - but the look in his eyes said everything.

Dave broke the silence first, half-whispering, “Mate… she just dragged him off.”

“Yeah,” Swill said, grinning wide. “Dragged him. The Yank. You see that?”

Pete’s stare remained fixed. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I fuckin’ saw.”

He drained the rest of his pint in one go, his jaw tight and clenched.

Across the room, you leaned against the bar beside Matt, laughing at something he said. You looked carefree, bright in a place built of smoke and concrete and fights waiting to happen. You weren’t supposed to fit here, and yet somehow, you did.

And maybe that’s why Pete Dunham couldn’t stop staring. Because no matter how much blood or loyalty tied him to Green Street - you were the only thing that ever made him want out of it.

The night turned quickly. Your friend, Marlene, was quick to state how much her feet hurt from all the walking. You had just been in the city for a work event, dressed well and up for a place like Abbey Arms. Matt was begrudged to leave you earlier on, only because you wove him off with concern when you noticed the lads looking a little too closely. You took notice of how they pinned him to the table, casting glances at you, and Matt looked nervous as hell.

It was cold when you finally left the pub, the kind of cold that bit through your coat and made the air smell faintly of wet concrete and tobacco. Music still leaked faintly through the door behind you, muted laughter spilling from the windows as you and Marlene stepped outside, arms linked.

“God, it’s freezing,” she muttered, pulling her scarf tighter.

You smiled faintly, your mind still half back inside. You could feel eyes on you the whole night - Pete’s especially. The way he watched without meaning to, like he couldn’t help himself, like you were a secret he was trying not to say out loud. It would’ve been flattering if it wasn’t so complicated.

You’d known Pete Dunham for years.

You’d seen him before the fights, after the fights, in the thick of the chaos that followed. He was charming, smart, magnetic - everything that made men follow him and women fall for him. But you’d also seen what came after. The bruised knuckles. The bloody shirts. The calls in the middle of the night when one of the boys landed in hospital. You didn’t hate him. You just hated the world he refused to leave.

You cleaned him up once. You swore you'd never do it again. 

Marlene called a cab, waved, and slipped away down the street, leaving you standing alone under the flickering light of the lamppost. You were halfway through lighting a cigarette when you heard the door creak open behind you.

“Didn’t think you smoked,” came that familiar, gravelly voice. Despite living in England from birth, his accent always seemed sharper then most.

You didn’t turn. “Didn’t think you cared.”

Pete stepped up beside you anyway, his presence filling the space before you could stop him. He smelled of cologne, leather, and the kind of night you knew was always on the edge of trouble.

“Always care,” he said softly, almost under his breath, but ran it off with a tipper of his feet and hands in his pockets. “Even when I shouldn’t.”

You glanced at him then, cigarette still between your fingers. He looked like he always did: a confident stance, rolled-up jacket sleeves but the collar zipped to his chin, a hint of mischief hiding behind that smirk. But his eyes betrayed him. They were softer than you remembered.

“You shouldn’t,” you replied, exhaling smoke through the words. “I’m not one of your little GSE twats, Pete.”

He let out a dry chuckle at that, tilting his head, “Yeah, I noticed. You don’t take orders.”

“Never have.”

He nodded slowly, watching you. “You shouldn’t have brought the Yank over.”

You turned to face him fully, arching a brow. “Why? He’s nice. Bit nervous, but harmless.”

“Yeah, harmless,” Pete repeated, jaw tensing. “That’s not the point.”

“What is the point then?”

He looked down at the pavement, then back at you, his voice dropping low. “You know what the lads are like. Don’t give them reason to run their mouths.”

You laughed quietly, shaking your head as you tapped the cigarette. “So now I’m responsible for what your lot say? That’s rich.”

“I’m not sayin’ it’s on you-”

“Then what are you saying?” you cut in sharply. “That I shouldn’t talk to people? Or that you don’t like when I don’t do what you expect?”

He flinched slightly at your tone, eyes darkening. “I’m sayin’ I don’t like them talkin’ about you like that.”

You paused. The honesty in his voice, the way it cracked just slightly, took the sting out of your words. You let out a sigh, glancing away from him with a click of your tongue. “I can handle a few idiots, Pete,” you said quietly. “Been doing it my whole life.”

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, kicking at the ground, “doesn’t mean you should have to.”

Something in your chest softened, just a little. You’d never seen him look so… unsure. He wasn’t good at this - at being vulnerable. You knew he meant well, even if it came out wrapped in attitude.

“You’re a good leader,” you said after a beat. “But you’re a terrible listener.”

That made him smile, faintly. “Maybe you just talk too much.”

You rolled your eyes, taking another drag of the cigarette. “Classic Pete Dunham response. Can’t admit when he’s wrong.”

“Never am.”

“Sure.” You blew out smoke, smirking. “Remind me of that next time you end up with a split lip.”

He laughed, head tipping back, that warm and low sound that made your stomach twist despite yourself. “You really think you’re above all this, don’t you?”

You shrugged, “Not above. Just not in it. There’s a difference.”

He nodded slowly, looking at you in that quiet way he did, the way that always made you feel like he saw more than he should. “You don’t like me much, do you?” he asked suddenly.

"I didn't say that," you scoffed.

“Didn’t have to. You’ve been sayin’ it with your eyes for years.”

You sighed, flicking the ash from your cigarette. “I don’t like what you do, Pete. Doesn’t mean I don’t like you.”

The silence that followed was thick enough to drown in. You could feel his gaze on you, heavy, searching, like he was trying to find the truth between your words.

“Good,” he said finally, voice quiet. “’Cause I’ve never stopped likin’ you.”

You looked up at him, and for a moment, the street around you disappeared - the pub noise, the distant traffic, even the drizzle starting to fall. It was just him, his breath warm in the cold air, his heart somewhere behind those words he’d probably never planned to say.

You looked away first, tossing the cigarette to the curb. Your heart was thundering, and you sniffed from the cold. “You should go back inside. The boys’ll start wondering where their king’s gone.”

He chuckled softly, but his voice had gone rough. “Maybe I don’t wanna be king tonight.”

You shot him a sidelong look. “Then what do you want to be?”

He met your gaze, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Yours.”

You swallowed hard, pulse quickening, but you masked it with a smirk and a scoff. “You really think a line like that’s gonna work on me?”

He grinned and despite you turning your back to walk, he didn't move. “Maybe not tonight. But it’ll stick.”

“Goodnight, Pete,” you said, turning toward the street.

“Night, darlin',” he murmured, voice lingering longer than his footsteps.

You didn’t look back, not because you didn’t want to, but because you already knew what you’d see if you did: Pete Dunham watching you walk away like he always did, with that stubborn mix of hope and frustration that never seemed to leave his eyes.

The hum of your car came to an abrupt halt as you parked and stopped the vehicle just outside of the school grounds. Your little brother, Teddy, was supposed to be just about done with his last - and favourite - class of the day. P.E with his favourite teacher and your worst nightmare. 

You walked towards the edge of the square field of the school, seeing the onslaught of young boys jogging in the distance, two unmistakable figures towering above them. Pete was an enthusiastic teacher, but you thought it must only be because he was grilling even more boys about the importance of soccer. You shoved your hands into the pockets of your jacket, watching as the kids played around Matt who basked on the ground after losing the ball again. 

You smiled to yourself when you saw Pete dogging him alongside the boys, shaking your head at his childish antics. Times like these make you wonder that nothing really separates him from the 11 year olds except for his height and physical age, because other than that, he was acting just like those kids.

You looked over when you heard your name called in the light breeze, smiling softly as you saw Teddy weaving through his mates to you. Some of his friends that you recognised seemed to share his excitement, following along after your brother as he jogged in front of you.

"Hey, superstar," you grinned, ruffling his hair that was slick with sweat and grass.

"Did you see it? The goal?"

"How could I have missed it?" Teddy beamed at the acknowledgment as his friends surrounded you both. "You lot still have teeth after that crazy match?"

"Barely!" his friend, Scott, piped up as they all gauged their mouths open and showcased some pearly whites or spaces in few.

"That's comforting," you sighed. You glanced up, locking eyes with Pete who merely watched you from a distance. He was in all white tracksuit, and it might've been a silly decision if he had actually played.

"Alright lads, head off and clean up," Pete called out. "Parents will be here soon."

The boys cheered with excitement at the prospect of the day ending, rushing towards the school grounds. Teddy lingered, and you lowered slightly with a caress of his cheek, "You alright?"

"Mr. Dunham was askin' about you today."

Your eyes widened at that, and even Teddy noticed how you inhaled sharply. "What did he say?"

"Just asked me if you were picking me up, is all," he shrugged. "Said you were. Then he got all weird and started smoothing down his hair. Like he's got any."

You couldn't stop the short snort escaping you at his humour streak, before you went quiet again with a hum. Teddy met your eyes, and you pursed your lips, carding your hand through his air. "Go on, get dressed. I'm going to have a chat with Mr. Dunham."

"Don't go all mean on him," your little brother begged. "I actually really like him. His class is always fun, and I actually enjoy history now too."

"Yeah, because he lets you boys leave early to play on the field," you rebuked with a roll of your eyes. "Get your things, or else I won't treat you to ice cream."

"Ice cream?!"

"Yes, ice cream, you nutter, now go, shoo," you shoved him back slightly and he grinned, taking off in a vicious sprint after his classmates. 

You sighed before turning slightly, finding Matt and Pete approaching you. The former had a sweet smile on his face, whilst Pete walked with a supposed nonchalance and outstepped walk. "Is that your brother or cousin?" Matt asked when he was close enough. 

"Brother, or little devil, you mean, but yes," you sniped to which the man laughed, "And you? Suddenly a goalie, are you? Really ticking all the Brit boxes."

He chuckled at the words, and you proceeded to look over at Pete. He was watching you with that same grit, speaking with a hint of tease, "You stalking local soccer games now, or just here for moral support?”

"Neither,” you replied smoothly, lips curving. "And you know that."

He shoved his thumb over his shoulder towards Finn, who had just disappeared into the school.  “He’s good, by the way. Fast. Bit of a show-off, but we allow it.”

“Runs in the family,” Matt said under his breath, earning himself a raised brow from you.

“Was that a compliment or an observation?” you asked.

He smiled faintly. “Both.”

Pete looked between the two of you like he’d missed a private joke, quickly speaking as if to spit the fire out, “Anyway, we were just saying how good it’d be to get more help with the weekend clinics. You any good with kids?”

“I’ve survived my brother for eleven years,” you said dryly. “So, I’d say I’m qualified.”

Matt chuckled softly again, but Pete looked utterly delighted. “That sounds like a yes to me.”

You tilted your head, giving him that half-smirk you knew would fluster him. “I didn’t say yes, Dunham. I just said I’m capable.”

Pete froze for a beat, blinking. “Right, yeah, capable. Sure. Totally different thing.”

Matt stifled a laugh behind a cough.

You were enjoying this, too much, probably. The tension between you and Pete had shifted since that stormy night. It wasn’t as sharp, wasn’t prickly. It was something warmer now, something that buzzed just beneath the surface.

The moment was cut off when Teddy came running over, kicking his ball toward Pete, who caught it with his foot in a surprisingly smooth motion. “Good game, kid,” Pete said, tossing it back. “You’re showing more skill.”

“Thanks!” your brother said brightly. “You’re pretty good too - for an old guy.”

Matt outright laughed this time, and Pete clutched his chest dramatically. “Old guy? I’m in my prime!”

You snorted as you grabbed Teddy's bag. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Pete grinned, turning toward you with an inclined step to bring himself closer to you. “You really think so?”

You met his eyes, playful but steady. “No,” you said, honesty coating the word, letting the word linger just long enough to make him grin wider. “But I like that you’re trying.” With that, you turned, draping your arm around Teddy's shoulders as you began to walk toward your car. You could feel both of them watching you, the air thick with that teasing kind of energy that made your heart beat a little too fast. “See you around, coach,” you called over your shoulder.

It was one of those late London afternoons when the light turned everything gold. The city hummed outside your window - buses wheezing down narrow streets, laughter spilling from the pub on the corner. You’d been pretending to read for an hour, though your eyes hadn’t moved past the same paragraph once.

Your mind kept drifting back to the football match that weekend with Teddy's grin, Pete’s laugh, the easy way he’d leaned down to ruffle your brother’s hair like he’d known him forever. And the way he’d looked at you after, like he couldn’t quite believe you were standing there, talking to him, smiling.

You hated that it still made your stomach flutter.

You’d told yourself from the start that Pete Dunham was trouble. Loud, brash, reckless, everything you swore you’d stay away from. But every time you told him no, he only seemed to hear try harder.

A knock sounded at the door.

You hesitated before answering, a familiar voice calling from the other side with a twist of your name that could be your nickname, "It’s me.”

You sighed, but your heart was thundering and your smile was growing as you stood, “Pete, if this is about Teddy nicking one of your footballs again, I swear—”

“Relax,” he said, laughing when you opened the door. He nearly doubled over at the sight of you, dressed in a cozy knit set and your hair pulled back. “... I came to see you, not the little terror.”

He was leaning against the doorframe, that cocky grin plastered on his face, but there was something softer in his eyes. He was dressed cleaner than usual; jacket zipped, hair tamed and touched up, hands shoved awkwardly into his pockets.

“Right,” you said slowly, crossing your arms. “So you just thought you’d drop by for a chat?”

He shrugged, “Something like that.”

You arched a brow, tilting your head at him. “You’re acting weird.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

He laughed under his breath, looking down at his boots for a moment before meeting your gaze - curious and soft - again. “Alright, maybe I am.”

You stepped aside, gesturing into the house with a shrug, “Come in, then, before you give the neighbours somethin' to gossip about.”

He walked past you into the small living room, glancing around the place like it was holy ground. He always seemed a little out of place on the very rare occasion he found himself here- too alive, too loud for the quiet walls. You headed into the kitchen where the old tea sat from just half an hour ago, reheating the kettle before you poured him a cup. It was mostly to give your hands something to do.

He accepted it with a grin. “You always this proper, then? Or is this just for me?”

“It’s so you don’t break anything,” you replied sweetly.

That made him laugh, full and genuine. “You wound me, darlin'."

“You’ll live.”

A comfortable silence stretched between you as he sipped his tea. He hadn't sat down yet, but neither did you, taking it upon yourself to lean against the countertop of the small kitchen island and watching him from their He then set the cup down carefully - it was comical really, how delicately he handled it.

When he spoke, his voice was lower than before. “So, listen… I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh, that can’t be good."

He shot you a look - half amused, half nervous - and scratched the back of his neck. “I’m serious." Pete blew out a breath, taking his hands out of his pocket before he let it out, " I'm serious about you. About us.”

Your stomach did that annoying flip again. You tried not to let your eyes widen and bug out of your head, keeping the look of surprise concealed. You put in effort to keep your tone even as you responded after a moment, “There is no us, Pete.”

“Not yet,” he said easily, some of the confidence slipping back in despite his earlier tone. “But there could be.”

You sighed, leaning back against the counter. “You never quit, do you?”

“Not when it comes to things worth fighting for.”

That threw you for a second, the honesty in it. No smirk, no bravado. Just his voice, steady and real. You looked up, meeting his eyes and inhaling shortly, quietly enough for him to hopefully not hear, at the earnest glint of his blue eyes. 

You hesitated. “Pete…”

He stepped closer but not too close, just enough for you to catch the faint smell of soap and cigarette smoke on his jacket. “Just hear me out, yeah? I know what you think of me - loudmouth, fighter, GSE, all that.”

“Well, you’re not wrong,” you muttered.

He just grinned at you in turn. “Yeah, but I’m more than that. You know I am. And I think you like me a bit more than you let on.”

You rolled your eyes, though you could feel the warmth creeping into your cheeks. A disbelieving chuckle escaped you, “You’re impossible, you know that?"

“Maybe,” he said, smiling faintly. “But I’m also askin’ you out.”

That pulled you up short.

You blinked. “You’re what?”

He cleared his throat, pretending to study a stain on the floor. “You heard me. A proper date. No pub, no GSE, no football. Just me takin’ you somewhere nice. Somewhere you deserve.”

You stared at him, caught between laughter and disbelief, but you still spoke, curiosity gnawing at you like a dog does a bone. “And where exactly is that?”

“Somewhere you don’t have to look over your shoulder,” he said, surprising you again with his sincerity. “Maybe the river. Maybe that little place up at the edge of the city with the lights. You said you like places with lights, didn’t you?”

You blinked, remembering a throwaway comment you’d made weeks ago. “You remember that?”

“’Course I do.”

You looked at him for a long moment. You found yourself biting the tip of your lip, completely thrown off by the genuine aspiration. “...You really want to go out with me that bad?”

He grinned quickly, and spoke just as fast, because he didn't have to think about the answer. “Bad enough I ironed my shirt.”

That made you laugh before you could stop yourself, your hand flying to your mouth to conceal it. “You ironed?”

“Yeah, don’t make it weird,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Matt said it’d make a good impression.”

You bit your lip, hiding your smile. “And what if I say no?”

He leaned in slightly, voice soft but sure. “Then I’ll wait. But I’ll still ask again.”

There was something about the way he said it that undid you - not cocky or pushy, just quiet determination. The kind that didn’t need proving. Your mouth opened, and a quiet breath escaped it instead. You stared at the floor for a moment, your thoughts a mess.

Pete didn't want to admit it, but he was getting nervous with each second. 

 “You really are stubborn.”

“Yeah,” he said gently, heartbeat stuttering. “Guess I am. So... what d’you say, then?”

The air between you felt charged, heavy with something unspoken. You wanted to say no - to tell him you didn’t have time for men like him, for fights and risk and noise. But you also remembered the way he’d smiled at your brother, the way he’d defended you that night at the pub without hesitation.

And you realized that maybe, just maybe, he was different when it came to you.

You met his gaze.

“Fine. One date.”

For a heartbeat, he didn’t move - as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. Then his whole face lit up, eyes wide, grin breaking across his face like a kid on Christmas morning.

“You’re serious?”

“Don’t make me change my mind.”

He threw his hands up, laughing. “Alright, alright! I’ll take it. You won’t regret it, I promise.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” you teased.

He looked at you then - really looked at you - and for once, there wasn’t a hint of jest in his eyes. “This one I can keep.”

The silence that followed was soft, full, almost fragile.

When he finally left, you watched from the window as he walked down the street, practically bouncing on his heels. You could see him pump a fist into the air once he thought he was out of sight, and despite yourself, you smiled, pressing a hand to your mouth.

You leaned your forehead against the glass, the faint echo of your own laugh still lingering in the room. But then it faded, and your eyes widened. 

"I gotta get an outfit."

You had no idea why you were nervous. It wasn’t like this was your first date, you’d been on a handful before, enough to know the drill, but none of them had ever made your stomach twist into this ridiculous tangle.

Maybe it was because it was Pete.

You told yourself it was just dinner, nothing serious. But that didn’t explain why you’d been standing in front of your wardrobe for nearly twenty minutes, frowning at a collection of clothes that suddenly all looked wrong. The dress was too long, the skirt was too much of a pattern, and don't even get started on your top options.

“Whatcha doing?” came a small voice behind you.

You turned to find Teddy leaning against the doorframe, hair sticking up, a half-eaten biscuit in his hand.

“Trying to find something to wear,” you sighed.

He grinned, crumbs on his cheek. “Why? You going somewhere fancy?”

“Not fancy,” you said, tugging a shirt from its hanger and shaking your head. “Just… out.”

"Don't tell me Mr. Dunham actually asked you out?"

Your eyes widened as you spun around, pinning him with a stare, “You’ve got too good an ear for gossip, you know that?”

"It's not gossip if he asked me," Teddy defended.

The statement made you pause, and your eyebrows furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"He asked me yesterday during P.E," he shrugged, biting into the biscuit once more.

You stared at your brother for a moment, your heart racing at his words. Pete had asked your little brother for permission to take you out on a date. You could imagine the exchange, some gruff yet soft scenario whilst Teddy tied his laces up or something like that. You felt yourself smile, head wandering. 

"Ugh, don't make that face." Your eyes snapped to him, and you leaned down, grabbing a pillow from your bed. You chucked it quickly, and it smacked Teddy square in the face, dropping his biscuit in the process, "OI!"

"Get dressed," you disregarded, "We're heading to the shops."

"When are we going to the food court?"

"When I find a dress or something to wear tonight," you answered, not even bothering to look at your little brother from over the change room door. He'd been dragging his feet ever since you'd gotten to the shops - twenty minutes ago, mind you. He swung his legs on the small stool outside of the fitting rooms, no doubt draped across the furniture like an animal.

So, you must really like him then?”

You made a sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “You’re eleven, not thirty.”

Teddy shrugged, “Still means I can tell when you like someone.”

You looked at the outfit you had tied together - an off-shoulder sweater with a short skirt and tights - and frowned at it before immediately taking it off. “You’re imagining things.”

As you hopped out of the skirt, you heard from behind the door, “He looks at you funny.”

That made you pause. Your eyebrows furrowed as you looked at yourself in the mirror for a moment. “Funny?”

“Yeah. Like you’re the telly and he doesn’t wanna miss the show.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “That’s ridiculous.”

“I bet you're blushing.”

“Teddy,” you said, raising your hand to the sky and over the changing room, flipping him, but laughing despite yourself. “Be quiet, or else no sandwiches.”

But Teddy didn’t budge. Instead, he rolled onto his stomach and rested his chin in his hands, watching the fitting room curtain. “You never smile like this when you talk about anyone else.”

He said it so simply, like it was obvious, and it made you freeze. And maybe, to him, it was. For a moment, you didn’t know what to say. So you sighed, and turned to the door as if you could see him. “You’re meant to be my little brother, not my therapist.”

He grinned, proud of himself and imagining your stern face. “I’m just saying - you look happy.”

That stopped you cold once again. Because when was the last time you’d let yourself feel happy without second-guessing it? You sighed, biting your lip, “Since when did you get so analytical?"

“I don't even know what that means, but I'm goin' to say I got it from you.”

“Flattery won’t save you from me still needing to find something,” you said, smiling softly.

Teddy wrinkled his nose and rolled his eyes, “Can I pick you something then?

You hesitated, a short laugh escaping you. You leaned against the wall of the fitting room as you spoke, “Alright, fashion expert. What should I wear, then?”

He hopped up and immediately took off across the shop with the seriousness of a general preparing for battle. His little voice could be heard in the distance as he spoke to himself, “Not that one, too boring. Not that one either, looks like you’re going to church.”

You laughed as you finally heard his light footfalls approaching. All of a sudden, something was tossed over the curtain and you grunted from the impact. You unravelled the fabric, eyes widening slightly when you found a beautiful dress in your hands. It was a pretty blue thing, with a halter neck and a matching cardigan. 

“That one. You would look nice in it.”

You raised an eyebrow, glancing at the door, “Would I now?”

He nodded solemnly, and traipsed back towards the sofa, “Pete’ll like it.”

You let out a sigh, a pitiful excuse escaping you, “It’s not about Pete.”

“It’s a little about Pete,” he teased.

You couldn’t argue with that.

By the time evening rolled around, you were ready, or as ready as you were ever going to be. Teddy had given his final nod of approval before you’d sent him off to a friend’s house for the night, and now the house felt strangely quiet without him. You moved around the house, avoiding mirrors or any type of reflective surface really, only wanting to take another look at yourself just as you left.

Knock, knock.

Your heart stopped, you swore it. You glanced at the door, hands shaking slightly as you touched yourself over, fixing your hair and patting down the dress before stopping in front of the mirror. Your hair was loose, makeup was light, the faintest trace of nerves in your eyes. You almost didn’t recognise the person looking back as you tried to calm your breathing. 

The walk to the door felt like the slowest walk of your life. The rusting gold handle was cool to the touch as you held it for a moment, before cursing yourself and opening the door. 

The light from the porch hit Pete in the most beautiful way. His golden hair, although buzzed, glinted in the light as he turned his head to look at you. He looked… different. Not in a dramatic way, but enough that it made your heart skip. His shirt was clean, his jacket neat, and his eyes softer than usual - like he was trying not to scare off a skittish bird. You were just glad he wasn't dressed in one of those stupid track suits.

And - oh, my God - the way he looked at you.

Pete was quiet for a moment as he looked at you, and his lips parted for a moment before he quickly snapped them shut. He blinked slowly, before breathing out, “You look-” he started, then stopped, shaking his head. “... Bloody hell, you're beautiful.”

You nearly smiled, and it showed, but you rolled your eyes lightly to hide the way your chest tightened. “Don’t overdo it.”

“Not overdoing anything,” he said quietly. “Just telling the truth.”

He offered his arm, and after a moment’s hesitation, you took it. His skin was warm beneath the fabric of his jacket. Locking the door, he led you down the path and onto the Main Street. You clutched closer to him with the breeze, enjoying the warmth he radiated. “Where are we going then?” you asked as your shoes clicked on the damp path.

He grinned boyishly, head held high. “Can’t tell you. It’s a surprise.”

“I hate surprises," you said, looking up at him.

“Yeah, but you’ll like this one.”

You arched a brow. “You sound awfully sure of yourself.”

“Spent years around blokes who only fight and shout,” he said. “’Bout time I did something different.”

You smiled faintly, unable to help yourself. “I’m holding you to that.”

He looked down at you then, the streetlights painting gold over his features. “You can hold me to anything you want.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head as you glanced away, “You really don’t stop, do you?”

He grinned, dipping his head close, “Wouldn’t know how to if I tried.”

He took you to a little restaurant tucked between old brick buildings - candlelight, small tables, the faint sound of jazz spilling through the open door. It wasn’t fancy, not really, but it was thoughtful. And for Pete, that meant everything.

“You did all this?” you asked as he held the door open for you, stepping into the warmly lit room.

“Told you I’d take you somewhere nice.”

The warmth of the room enveloped you both, paired with the murmur of quiet conversation, the flicker of candles reflecting in the window glass. Pete fidgeted slightly as you sat down, drumming his fingers on the table like he was trying to contain all his energy.

“You’re nervous,” you said with amusement, placing your bag on the floor.

“No, I’m not," he scoffed with a blink.

“You are.”

“... Alright, maybe a bit,” Pete admitted with a sheepish grin. “It’s not every day I get to sit across from someone like you.”

“Someone like me?”

“Yeah,” he said softly. When you raised your eyebrows with a prompting lift and picked at the menu, he continued, “Someone I’ve wanted to take out since the first time I saw her.”

You met his gaze and for the first time, didn’t look away. Instead, you held it firmly, feeling yourself tilt your head at the realisation. “... You’ve been waiting a while then.”

He nodded only once. “Worth every second.”

Something shifted in your chest then, a quiet and heavy realisation that this wasn’t just banter to him. This meant something. You felt the walls you’d built start to tremble, just a little. You blew out a breath, proceeding to inspect the menu and to not meet his gorgeous blue eyes for they would blind you.

“I’ll give you one thing,” you said after a moment, smiling faintly to yourself. “You’ve got persistence.”

“Persistence,” he repeated, grinning. “That’s a nice way of sayin’ I’m a pain in the arse.”

“You said it, not me.”

He laughed, that rough, genuine laugh that always made you want to smile, and it made you look up at him again. “So does that mean I get a second date?”

"We've been here five minutes," you chuckled, shaking your head at the audacity. But he merely smiled more at you, which made you scoff and speak, “Let's just see how this one goes.”

“Right then,” he said, leaning back with a grin and tossing his hands behind his head. “Guess I’d better not mess it up.”

For the rest of the evening, you forgot about everything - the fights, the noise, the parts of his world that terrified you. It was just the two of you, talking about anything and everything, the candlelight catching in his eyes every time he looked at you like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. Why you'd never had a conversation with Pete that lasted longer then five minutes and involved more then yelling or jabs was beyond you. He was one of the best conversationalists you'd ever met.

Everything he said, every gesture and movement he made, was enigmatic and drew you closer. You found yourself laughing the entire time, completely amused by his endearingly obnoxious attitude. The evening was perfect in every sense of the word. When it came to an end, he slapped a hand over the cook's shoulder and paid without a care, opening the door for you once more. You breathed in the cool air, embracing the breeze and glancing shyly up at Pete.

"I'm stuffed," he said as you began walking. 

"It was amazing," you murmured. Somehow, Pete could tell you weren't just talking about the food. The walk was slow for a few moments as your mind rushed with wonder. Your fingers curled and unfurled, begging to reach for the man's beside you. You pursed your lips, glancing to the side, before you just -

Your hand shot out and grabbed Pete's hand. He immediately looked down at you, watching how you curled your fingers through his own, the warmth combining making you feel fuzzy all over. Pete was in a trance as he watched you move closer to his, your other hand flying up to his arm and grasping it softly. When your head made contact on the skin where shoulder met chest, he was thankful his heart was on the other side of his body for it was beating far too loudly. 

Pete hoped you didn't see his other hand clench in a victory punch.

By the time he walked you home, the night air had turned cool and still, a soft silence. He stopped outside your door, and glanced down at your conjoined hands - you refused to let go during the entire walk. 

“Thanks for comin’ out with me,” he said quietly. “I know you didn’t have to.”

You smiled softly with a soft chuckle. “You’re welcome.”

He hesitated, eyes flicking between you and the ground. “I meant what I said earlier. You deserve good things. And I’ll do my best to be one of them.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the tenderness in his voice. “... You’re full of surprises tonight.”

He smiled with a tilt of his head. “Maybe I’m just full of honesty.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. Then he leaned in, slow and careful, and kissed your cheek.

“Goodnight,” he murmured.

You stood there for a moment, and Pete let out the quietest hum before turning away. He moved down the cobble pathway and towards the white gate of the house, shoulders squared and battered for the cold. Your hand was pressed to your cheek, and your heart was racing the fastest it ever had. You couldn't look away from his retreating figure, and you felt a tug in your chest. 

You moved before you could react. You traipsed down the small step and across the stone path, reaching him in a single second. "Pete, wait."

He turned at the sound, eyes widening upon seeing you so close, head tilting forward as he asked, "Forgot something?"

"Yeah, you."

And before the doubt can creep in, before you could talk yourself out of it, you crossed the space between you.

You reached for him - not gently, not like some hesitant fairytale moment - but like you’d been meaning to for weeks. Your hands curled into his jacket, tugging him down, and you kissed him.

It was quick at first, a startled collision of warmth and breath and disbelief. You could feel the rough stubble on his jaw scrape your chin, the way his breath caught against your lips like he didn't quite believe it’s happening. But then he reacted, slow, cautious at first, then deeper, more certain. His hand came up to your waist, pulling you flush against him, fingers trembling just slightly before his other hand held you at the base of your neck. His touch was so rough and warm and eliciting.

You could taste the faint salt of rain on his lips, the hint of beer from earlier, the steady rhythm of his pulse when he pressed his forehead to yours after pulling back just a fraction.

“Bloody hell,” he murmured, voice rough and eyes half-closed like he'd taken a drug. “You’ve got no idea how long I’ve wanted that.”

You let out a shaky laugh, chest rising and falling against his. “You’re not the only one, Dunham.”

That earned you a crooked grin, the kind that started small and took over his whole face. He brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, thumb grazing your cheekbone like he was memorising it. For a moment, it was just you two - the soft hum of the city outside, the faint hiss of passing cars, and the heartbeat that refused to slow between you.

"You feel that?"

He gently pressed your palm to his chest, and you couldn't stop yourself from chuckling softly, pressing your forehead to his chest as he matched your quiet laughter. He held you close as you felt his heart beating erratically.

"It's nice to know I have this effect on you, coach."

Pete grinned at the nickname, "Always have, darlin."

You were in a daze, and you didn't even really care about it. Teddy watched you as he awaited his breakfast, smiling with raised eyebrows as you hummed to yourself, hips swaying and practically dancing around the kitchen as you made a batch of fresh pancakes, something you hadn't made in months. The drive to school was filled with loud tunes, singing back and forth with Teddy before he left for the day. 

It should’ve felt golden - light, full, maybe even a bit giddy. But your day turned still. There was a faint hum in your chest as the morning turned to afternoon, that whisper of memory with Pete’s grin, his voice low and thick when he called you that pet name, the taste of rain and adrenaline still ghosting your lips. You moved through the house in a dreamlike rhythm, making tea, a stupid smile on your face that just wouldn't go away.

Dinner came quickly, and Teddy requested to play outside as the sun had just set, an activity you allowed. You stood at the sink in the kitchen, scrubbing away at the plates and bowls used, glancing out the window every now and then at your little brother. The sound coming from the front garden was rhythmic - thump... thump... thump! as Teddy kicked the ball. You smiled once more to yourself as you popped a glass away. He was a beast in the sport, even in your small front lawn. 

Thump...!

Thump...!

...

...

Your eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly, and you turned away from the cupboard, venturing back towards the sink. The sound had cut off so quickly. No muttering, no scuff of sneakers, no laugh.

You froze.

“...Teddy?” you called through the open window, the word catching a little too high in your throat.

Nothing.

You dropped the sponge, wiped your hands on a towel, and leaned further toward the window in an effort to see him. The sunlight outside had that strange, flat look, the kind that made everything too dull, too still. It was just dropping behind the houses now on the street, clouding the garden in a ready hum for the night.

And then you saw them.

Three of them, maybe four, stood just beyond the fence. Not GSE. You could tell by the colours, by the stance, by the smug look on the one in front. They looked like the kind of men who moved like they owned the street, like they'd been looking for trouble and had finally found it. From what you could see, one of them had Teddy’s football under his boot.

You felt your stomach turn to ice, completely dropping and your heart followed with it. 

You'd never moved quicker. Rushing out the kitchen, you practically ripped the front door from its hinges as you stepped outside. The sound alerted both your little brother and the group of men, the latter looking on with pleased scowls and smirks that made your skin crawl. 

"Teddy, get inside," you said immediately, a deep frown painting your features as the men stayed at the edge of the gate. A silly thing, it wouldn't protect you.

"But-"

"I said get inside!" you interrupted with much more bite in your tone. "Finish the dishes." Teddy glanced at the men once more, more specifically his soccer ball, before heading your call and running over to you. You brushed his hair as he shimmied past, and you closed the front door slightly as if to conceal the knowledge of him being there.  You stared at the men, and they stared back, watching you with sick smirks and twisted eyes. "You right, lads?" For a moment, none of them spoke, which only prompted you and your nerves to continue, "Pubs a few streets down. I'm sure you'll find your way there."

"You know a Pete Dunham by any chance, sweetheart?"

Your heart clenched and practically nearly stopped on the spot. You felt yourself gulp, hoping to God they didn't catch the nervous tick. "No, sorry. Don't know who you're talking about."

The man at the front, one you assumed to be the leader, took a step closer, and it made you clutch the doorknob. He laughed softly, nudging the ball forward with his boot as he spoke, “Well, that's funny. We heard you had dinner with the cunt last night.” He said the word so easily, it sent a foul taste down your throat. “Didn’t peg him for the type to wine and dine.”

You stepped back slightly, peeved by the wording. Shaking your head, you lied smoothly, "I don't know what you're talking about. Now, get off my property before I call the police."

That earned you another laugh, this time from one of the others. He looked younger, meaner, with a dark glint in his grey eyes. “Aw, she doesn’t know who we’re talkin’ about, lads! That right? You don’t know Pete, eh? Didn’t see you at that little Italian place, wearin’ that sweet blue dress?”

Something cold prickled down your spine. They know too much.

Suddenly, you felt a whisper of movement behind you, and a second later, a familiar touch. Teddy clutched your arm by the gap, and you could feel the fear radiating off of him like waves. You just hoped he couldn't feel yours. “Stay inside,” you murmured sharply, catching Teddy’s wide eyes as he stood frozen by the door. “Now, Teddy. Go.”

He hesitated - scared, confused, not wanting to leave you there - but you gave him a look that left no room for question. He bolted back inside just as quickly as he had arrived, and you noticed him standing by the telephone attached at the wall. 

“Cute kid,” the leader said, voice low, and it made your head snap quickly. “Be a shame if he got caught up in something he don’t understand.”

And that was when something in you snapped - that same fire that always makes Pete grin when you stood up to him. Your fear burned clean and vanished, leaving only anger.

You took a slow step forward, stepping down the small step and glaring directly at the man at the gate. “You listen to me,” you started evenly, voice steady and clear, impossible to miss. “You go back to whatever hole you crawled out of, because if you so much as breathe wrong near my brother again, the GSE won’t be your only problem. You’ll be mine.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, one of them snickered.

The leader smiled, a slow and cruel curl of his mouth. Suddenly, your eyes lingered on his hand as he pulled something from his jacket, the glint catching in the light. Your stomach twisted, and you took a step backwards. A knife, small and sharp, just enough to make a point.

“Sweetheart,” he drawled, voice lowering. “You’ve no idea what kind of world you’ve walked into.” The man twirled the knife once, casual, before sliding it back into his pocket. “Tell your boyfriend to watch his back. This ain't over.” He stepped back from the gate, but kept a hand on it for an effect. "You give Dunham a kiss for me, yeah?... Stupid tart..."

They left you without hurry, laughing as they went, that younger one making a vulgar gesture as he traipsed behind them. The gate slammed when one of them banged it, the sound echoing like a gunshot. You flinched, you couldn't help it.

It was 10:19pm when Pete knocked on your door. The kettle had gone cold hours ago. It sat untouched on the counter, steam long gone, the silence inside your little home thicker than it had ever been.

You were still in the clothes you’d worn earlier, sleeves rolled up with the dish towel draped over your shoulder. The house smelt faintly of soap and the dinner Teddy had helped you make - the smell of normalcy, of everything that shouldn’t feel so fragile.

Teddy was asleep in his room, hit football tucked beside him in the bed like some quiet act of reassurance, despite its earlier predicament.

You had checked the locks twice. Three times, actually. Even now, you glanced towards the door every minute or so, your purse quickening whenever you heard a noise on the street outside.

You kept telling yourself that it was over, that they had left and it would be fine - but you kew better. You'd seen it enough in Pete's eyes to understand what kind of world it was. Once you'd been seen by them, you can't just go unseen. 

You were drying your hands the knock came. A single, sharp rap on the door, screaming impatience. It made you freeze, your entire body still. Another knock, louder this time, followed by your name by that voice.

You closed your eyes and let out a shuddery exhale. You should have known he would come. You moved to the door and unlocked it, finding him there. Pete, standing at your doorway like a storm made human. He looked furious.

Not the casual kind of anger you'd seen him carry in fights, but the quiet and trembling kind that ran far too deep. His hair, despite its length, looked messy. His jaw was tight, and his voice was clipped when he spoke. 

"Why the fuck didn't you call me?"

You blinked, stunned by the venom in his tone. "Excuse me?"

"I said-" He took a step closer, but pointed back toward the street, and somehow, his voice raised only a tone, but it was louder then ever. "- Why didn't you bloody call me when they showed up here?"

"Pete-!"

"They could've hurt you!" His hands were shaking now by his sides, and his had cracked somewhere between the fury and the fear. "They could've hurt Teddy."

Your breath caught in your throat, his words striking that same nerve that had been thrumming all evening. "You think I don't know that?" you snapped. "You think I haven’t been sitting here for hours replaying it?”

“Then why the hell didn’t you call me?” His voice softened at the edges now, breaking under the weight of it. “You don’t get it - if anything happened to you, I’d-”

“What was I supposed to do, Pete?" you interrupted, voice trembling with your own anger. "Ring you up so you could bring the rest of the GSE 'round here? Start another fight? That’s exactly what they want!” He opened his mouth, but you cut him off before he can speak again. “Don’t you dare look at me like that,” you warned. “Like this is somehow my fault.”

He stared at you, chest rising and falling hard, the fire in his eyes dimming just slightly. “I’m not blaming you,” he said quietly. “I’m blaming them. And I’m gonna sort it.”

“Sort it how?” you demanded, stepping closer now, challenging him. “With fists and bottles? Pete, you can’t punch your way out of every problem!”

He laughed, the sound bitter and hollow. “That’s all you think I am, innit? Just 'fists and bottles'. That’s what you see when you look at me.”

“Don’t twist this-”

“I’m not twisting anything!” he exclaimed. “You think I don’t know what people say about me? That I’m some brainless thug with a temper? You think I don’t hear it every time someone says your name, every time they look at you like you’re too bloody good for me?”

Your throat tightened. “Pete-”

“No,” he cut in, stepping closer, close enough that you can smell the faint tang of smoke on his jacket, the rain in his hair. His voice dropped low. “You think I don’t see it in your eyes sometimes, too? You’re scared of me. And you hate that you are.”

The words hit like a slap. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” His jaw flexed, catching the light. “You don’t like what I do, you don’t like what I am - but you still kissed me.”

You glared at him, fire rising in your chest at his words. “Yeah, because for one night, I thought I could forget all of this. Forget the fights, the gangs, the blood. I thought for once maybe I could just see you.”

Pete swallowed hard, eyes softening, a flicker of guilt, regret, and something close to heartbreak. “And now you don’t.”

You shook your head, turning away from him, pacing toward the kitchen just to keep yourself from crying. “Pete, I can’t live like this. Not with Teddy here. Not wondering if someone’s gonna show up again. This isn’t a life - it’s a bloody time bomb.”

He followed you, his voice breaking as he spoke, “You think I wanted to drag you into it? You think I wanted them to know who you are?”

You turned on him then, tears in your eyes now - not angry ones, but desperate. “Then what did you want, Pete? You told me to trust you. You told me I’d be safe. You kissed me and made me believe there was something outside all this chaos. But it doesn’t matter how sweet you are when it’s just us. The second I’m in your world, I’m a target.”

He looked like he’d been hit. “I’d never let anyone hurt you.”

“You can’t promise that!” you yelled, voice cracking. “You don’t have that kind of control, Pete! You can protect me from a fight, but you can’t protect me from the life that comes with you. Look at what bloody happened tonight.”

Pete was quiet, that silence you’ve seen from him only once before, when someone lands a hit he doesn’t recover from right away. His eyes were glassy, his lips pressed tight, every word he wanted to say sitting heavy on his tongue.

"I'm on their radar now, because of you. Those men... You shoulda seen them."

He looked at you, how you cowered at the mention of them. Pete glanced down at that, heart clenching. You looked so... different. So terrified, so tired. That fire, not even 24 hours ago, that blossomed in you, was fading. Fading fast. 

When he finally spoke, his voice is barely a whisper.

“I’d give it up. The firm, the fights - all of it. I’d walk away if it meant keepin’ you safe.”

You blink, startled at the statement. “Don't... Don’t say that.”

“I mean it,” he insisted, stepping forward. “You’re it for me. Always have been. I can’t stand the thought of them comin’ near you. I’d walk if that’s what it takes.”

You stared at him, heart aching. Because you can see he meant it. You can see the truth of it written all over him: the loyalty, the heartbreak, the desperation to be better. But you also know what leaving the GSE meant.

It’s not that simple. It’s never that simple.

“Pete…” you whispered. “You don’t just walk away from something like that. You know that.”

He exhaled, frustrated, running a hand through over his head. “Then tell me what I’m supposed to do.”

You looked at him, eyes shining with unshed tears. “You're supposed to let this stop."

The silence that followed was brutal. Pete laughed once, a hollow and broken sound. “You don’t mean that.”

You bite your lip hard enough to taste blood. “I do.”

His jaw flexed, his whole body tense, like he was trying to hold himself together by sheer force of will. “After everything last night… you’re really gonna stand there and tell me that meant nothing?”

You looked down, unable to meet his eyes. “It meant everything. That’s why this hurts.”

He was quiet for a long time. You could hear the clock ticking on the wall, the faint murmur of a car somewhere outside. You don't know what to do, what to make of yourself.

Then his voice came again - low, raw.

“You’ll never understand what you’ve done to me.”

Your throat tightened, and you looked to the side. “Pete-”

“You’ve ruined me,” he said softly. “Every fight I’ve been in, every scar I’ve got - none of it ever scared me. But you? You bloody terrify me.”

The tears came before you could stop them. “Then go, Pete. Please. Before I change my mind.”

He stared at you, heartbreak carved deep into every line of his face. For a second, you think he might try and argue again. But then he just nodded, a slow, defeated movement.

“Alright,” Pete said hoarsely. “If that’s what you want.” He walked to the door, his boots heavy on the floorboards. But before he got to the door, he turned, eyes burning, voice unsteady. “You can shut me out, but I’m not stoppin’ watchin’ your back. I don’t care if you hate me for it.”

You couldn't bring yourself to reply. You just stood there, tears streaking your cheeks as he opened the door and stepped into the cold night. When it closed, the silence felt deafening. The warmth from last night feels like a distant dream - replaced by the cold truth of what it means to love someone like Pete Dunham.

You leaned against the counter, pressing your palms to your eyes, and let the tears fall. Because for all the fire and fury between you, the cruelest part is this:

You love him. And it’s killing you.

It had been a week since you had seen Pete. Since that night. Seven long and hollow days since you'd told Pete Dunham that you didn't want to see him anymore.

The words had left your mouth sharp as glass, each one splintering something inside you as you’d said them. You had replayed them a hundred times since, lying in bed at night, or standing in front of the sink, or hearing Teddy laugh outside with his friends.

You had told yourself that you meant it - that Pete’s world was too violent, too unpredictable. That he’d brought danger right to your doorstep. But no matter how many times you told yourself that, you couldn’t scrub out the memory of his face, the heartbreak in his eyes before he had turned and walked out your door.

Now, a week later, the bruise of it still sat beneath your ribs.

You tried to act normal. You went to work. You cooked dinner. You laughed at Teddy’s dumb jokes when he tried to cheer you up, and you did it all like it was routine, like pretending meant healing. But it didn’t. It just made the silence louder when you stopped moving.

It was Saturday, which meant gameday for the boys. You knew it, of course. Everyone in this part of London did. You caught flashes of green scarves on street corners, loud chants echoing from the pubs down the block. Even in your own neighbourhood, you could hear it - the low rumble of GSE pride in the air, like thunder gathering somewhere in the distance. You tried to ignore it. Turned up the radio. Washed the dishes. Focused on anything else.

You hadn’t gone near the pubs. You hadn’t gone near anything that might make you think of him more then you already were.

“Can I go out, just for a bit?” Teddy asked, kicking at the carpet with his sneaker.

You smiled faintly as he met your eyes, “Where d’you want to go?”

“Just down to the park. Some of the lads are there.”

“Fine,” you said softly, your voice distant. “Don’t be long, okay?”

“Promise,” he said, already halfway out the door.

The house felt too quiet again. The hum of the fridge, the soft drip from the faucet. You leaned against the counter and closed your eyes, letting the sound fill the emptiness. Somewhere down the street, someone shouted a cheer. It pulled your mind instantly - unwillingly - to Pete. You imagined him there, in his green jacket, his grin quick and bright under the pub lights, his laugh echoing between his mates.

You had always liked that laugh. Even now, you hated that you could still hear it so clearly.

You tried to shake it off. You picked up your cup of tea. You even sat on the couch and turned on the TV, letting some old sitcom fill the room with artificial warmth. But it didn’t last.

Not when your phone buzzed against the table. You didn’t recognise the number. But something about the tone of it - the odd, hesitant pause when you answered - made your stomach twist.

“Is this… Pete’s girl?” the voice asked. A man’s thick accent, roughened by drink and something worse.

You froze, and the answer came. “Who’s asking?”

“It’s Benjamin,” the voice said. “From the GSE. You don’t know me, love, but - listen, I thought you should know. Pete… he’s in hospital.”

Your breath hitched. “What?” you whispered.

“He - there was a fight after the game. Proper bad one. He- he got caught, alright? They jumped him after. Matt said you’d wanna know.”

The sound of your heartbeat drowned out everything else. God no, surely not.“Is he-?”

He’s alive,” Benjamin said quickly. “But it’s bad. They took him to St. Thomas’. He ain’t woken up yet.”

You didn’t even remember hanging up. You didn’t remember grabbing your coat, or shouting for Teddy to come home. All you knew was that you were outside suddenly, cold air slicing through you, your shoes slapping the pavement as you ran.

You didn’t stop until you reached the bus. Didn’t stop when the world blurred past the window, your breath fogging the glass. Didn’t stop when your hands began to shake so badly that you had to hold them in your lap to keep them still.

St. Thomas’ was buzzing when you arrived, the quiet chaos of a hospital on a Saturday afternoon. The fluorescent lights, the low murmur of nurses. You stood there for a moment, not sure if your legs would carry you any further.

Then you saw Matt.

He was standing by the vending machines, his face pale, a bruise spreading across his jaw. He looked up when he saw you, his expression tightening - to see you like this, it somehow hurt him more than the bruise.

You stepped towards him, a numbing walk, and just as he spoke, you interrupted with a hard swallow, "Where is he?"

“Down the hall. ICU. He’s stable, but…” Matt trailed off, running a hand through his hair. “He took a bad beating. They went for him after the match. He was tryin’ to stop them from jumping my sister... His brother's wife.”

Your mind swirled with the random news, but your heart swelled. Of course, he had. That was Pete. Always stepping in, always protecting someone. Even when it got him fucking hurt.

“Matt,” your voice cracked, and his eyes shut for a moment at the sound. “Why didn’t you call sooner?”

He looked away. “Didn’t think you’d want to hear it. After what happened last week.”

You blinked, the weight of guilt crashing into you so hard you could barely stand. You wanted to tell him he was wrong - that you’d thought about Pete every single day since that night. That the last thing you’d said to him was I don’t want to see you anymore, and now he was lying in a hospital bed, broken.

“Can I see him?” you managed to finally say.

Matt hesitated, but then he nodded. “Yeah. But… brace yourself, alright?”

The corridor felt endless. Every step echoed. Every sound, the hum of lights, the soft squeak of shoes on linoleum, pressed down on you like pressure in your chest.

When you reached his room, you had to stop at the doorway. Because there he was - Pete Dunham, usually so loud and full of life - lying silent and still.

Your hand slapped against your mouth as a gasp escaped you, shocked at the sight. His head was bandaged. There was dark and red bruising along his haw, paired with a cut over his eyebrow. One of his arms was strapped up, an IV threaded into the other. The monitor beside him seeped steadily, indifferent and cold.

His face was swollen from the fight, and you noticed upon walking towards him, that he had a cut over his lip. 

You didn't even realise you were talking out loud when you stopped at the bed. “Hey,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “You look awful, you idiot.”

It was a pathetic attempt at levity - the kind of thing he would’ve teased you for - but it cracked halfway through. You reached out, fingers shaking, brushing the back of your hand against his. His skin was warm. Alive. And that alone nearly undid you.

“I told you not to get caught up in this shit,” you whispered. “I told you.”

Tears stung your eyes, hot and sudden. You hated yourself for crying, but you couldn’t stop. The memory of your last fight replayed in your head - the anger, the shouting, the way you’d shoved him away when he’d tried to hold you. And now, looking at him, all you wanted was that touch again.

“I didn’t mean it,” you said softly, voice breaking. “When I said I didn’t want to see you anymore. God, Pete… I didn’t mean it.”

The machine kept beeping. The steady, cruel rhythm of it filled the silence that followed.

You sank into the chair beside his bed, covering your face with your hands as you sobbed. You sat there for a long time - listening, waiting, hoping he’d stir. That he’d open his eyes and make some stupid joke about how dramatic you looked sitting there crying over him.

But he didn’t. Not yet.

You didn't care if Matt could hear you. You let yourself whisper the truth you’d been running from.

“I think I love you, Pete. Please… just wake up.”

The days bled together in that sterile white room.

You’d lost track of time somewhere between the sound of the heart monitor and the low hum of hospital lights. The chair by Pete’s bed had long gone stiff beneath you, your legs numb, your mind drifting in and out of quiet panic. Every now and then on the hours you were there, a nurse would come in - check the drip, write something down, whisper words that didn’t really register.

Once you came into the room after a long day of work, you couldn't move.

Matt stood outside for a moment, gazing at you through the window. You were wrapped up on the old and pilled armchair, your work boots sitting to the side as your legs curled into you, your cellphone pressed to your ear. You looked tired, but a gentle, barely noticeable smile tugged at your lips as he heard you speak, "I'm fine, Teddy. How's it going with Mrs. Dunham? You been' a proper gentlemen?"

The man smiled slightly - his sister and Pete's brother had offered to watch over Teddy with how much you were visiting the hospital. Something to ease your mind, giving you freedom of worry and doubt about having to find someone to babysit the young boy. Matt entered the room slowly, and the movement caught your eye, a silent nod as a greeting as he carried in two cups of coffee.

You took it gently from his pale hand when he held it out to you. "And you've been up to date with your homework?"

A grainy groan followed, "Yes."

"Don't make me reach through this phone, Ted," you sighed, but a huff of a chuckle escaped you. You glanced at Matt once more, finding him watching Pete with a wrecked expression, something that mirrored how you felt. "I've got to go, but I'll call you later, alright? Tell Mrs. Dunham a big thank you again, okay?"

A moment later, you ended the call, a quiet sigh escaping you.

“Thought you could use it.” He glanced back at you, eyeing the cup. 

“Thanks," you murmured, voice small and curled just like you. You looked down at the coffee, the dark liquid swirling as you whispered, "I can't leave."

Matt exhaled, leaning back in the chair, his gaze falling to Pete. “He’s a stubborn bastard,” he murmured. “Its a fact... You know -... he wouldn’t stop talking about you that night. Before the fight.”

That pulled your gaze up, eyebrows furrowing. “What did he say?”

Matt hesitated for a moment, seeing the look in your eyes.  “Said you told him to stay away. That he deserved it. But… that he couldn’t. That you’d gotten under his skin or somethin’. He laughed when he said it. Like it was the worst thing that’d ever happened to him and he still didn’t care.”

You swallowed hard, staring at Pete’s still hand beneath the sheets. “He shouldn’t have been there.”

“Yeah, well,” Matt said, voice soft but edged, “That’s Pete. Never could sit still when someone else was bleeding.”

You let out a broken breath, “And now look at him.”

The words hung there between you - the bitter truth of it, the weight neither of you could shake. Matt didn’t argue. He just looked at you, eyes softening despite the icy blue colour. “He’ll pull through. You know he will.”

You nodded, but the motion was empty. “...I told him I didn’t want to see him again.”

“Yeah,” Matt said quietly. “But you’re here. That’s what matters.”

You wanted to believe that. You wanted to think that somehow it balanced out, that showing up meant something. But the guilt was heavier than that. It sank into you, deep and relentless. Matt finally got you out of the room, claiming you needed some fresh air. You stood outside in the cold, the air thick and cold with the afternoon sun trying to filter through the clouds.

You didn’t realize how long you’d been out there in silence until a nurse appeared at the entry. The woman glanced around outside, but calmed when she saw you. She was middle-aged, kind-eyed, with that calm tone nurses get when they’re used to holding bad news like glass.

“Miss?” she said gently. “You’re here for Peter Dunham, right?”

You shot forward from the wall where you were leaning, your heart stumbling in your chest. “Yes- yes, that’s me.”

Her smile was small but real. “He’s awake.”

For a moment, you couldn’t breathe. It was as though the world had just gone quiet. Then it hit you all at once - the relief, the disbelief, the sheer and absolutely shattering joy of it. Tears welled instantly, spilling over before you could stop them. “He’s- he’s really awake?” you asked shakily.

The nurse nodded, a soft smile pulling at her lips. “He’s asking for you, actually. Said your name when he came to. Over and over, soft as anything.” She paused for a moment, tilting her head at you as she watched you scramble forward. “You must mean a lot to him.”

You pressed a shaking hand over your mouth, the air leaving your lungs in a small, broken laugh. “God,” you whispered, “he’s impossible.”

Your steps down the corridor felt unsteady, your body moving before your mind could catch up. The world around you blurred: nurses, monitors, the faint smell of antiseptic. All you could focus on was the hallways you had to navigate, the slow ascend of the elevator, and the door at the end of the corridor. The small, flickering hope that you’d see him alive, really alive, not just a still body beneath white sheets.

When you opened the door, the breath hitched right out of you.

Pete was awake. Barely, but enough.

His eyes fluttered open, heavy-lidded, unfocused until they found you. And then his whole face changed.

"Hey,” he rasped out, voice rough and faintly slurred from the sleep and pain. “You look… knackered.”

A laugh escaped you, a part sob, part disbelief. You crossed the room quickly, sinking onto the edge of the bed beside him, tears spilling freely now. “You absolute idiot,” you whispered sharply, reaching for his hand. “You scared me half to death.”

He squeezed your fingers weakly, his skin still warm under the bandages, and it was so incredibly relieving to feel him thriving at your touch. “Didn’t mean to,” he murmured slowly. “You know me. Always got to make an entrance.”

You sniffled again with a barely-there smile, wiping at your cheeks with your other hand. “An entrance? Pete, you almost died.”

He winced slightly, a flicker of pain crossing his features. “Yeah, well. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been told I take things too far.”

“Don’t joke about that,” you said, your voice cracking. “Not now.”

He blinked slowly, studying you, really studying you. Pete took in all your features, remembering everything that he had admired for so long. “You’ve been crying.”

“You were in a hospital bed for a week,” you snapped immediately, albeit softly. “Of course I’ve been crying.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The beeping of the monitor filled the quiet between you, steady and maddening. Your eyes remained downcast, focusing completely on the skin-to-skin contact of your hands. Your thump measured over his skin, and his fingers twitched as if they wanted to reciprocate but couldn't.

Then Pete’s expression shifted, something raw flickering beneath his exhaustion.

“You came back,” he said quietly.

You glanced up at that, finding his eyes solely on your own. You slowly nodded, feeling your throat tighten. "I couldn't stay away."

Pete smiled faintly, that same crooked grin that had always undone you in the best ways. "Knew you wouldn't... Not really."

You sniffled softly, tears welling once more, and he shifted forward, however much he could. "Don't you dare do that to me again," you whispered shortly. "Don't you ever make me think that you're gone."

Ever so slowly, with all the might he could muster, Pete raised his arm from the bed. His fingers twitched upon the cold, sterile air, but the second they made contact with your skin, it was fluid all over again. His fingers stroked at your cheek, and he felt his heart clutch at the way you sought it out, tilting your head into the touch.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere, love. Not if I can help it.”

You lifted your gaze, meeting his, catching the faint light in his eyes, tired but alive.

“I was so angry,” you said softly. “And I said things I didn’t mean.”

“I know,” he murmured. “So did I.”

“I told you I didn’t want to see you anymore.”

He gave a small, pained laugh, as if suddenly reliving the moment. “Yeah. Didn’t listen, did I?”

You let out a shaky breath, a terrible mix of a laugh and a sob. “You never do.”

Pete's eyes softened again. “Hey,” he said quietly, “look at me.” You did. And the sight of him made your lip quiver, eyes closing for a moment to try and conceal the next round of tears. “I’m alright,” he whispered. “Hurts like hell, but I’m here. You can stop worryin’.”

You shook your head, tears sliding silently down your cheeks. “You don’t get it. I thought I’d lost you, Pete.”

He reached out as far as he could again,  his hand trembling, and furthermore cupped your face. “Nah,” he said softly. “Takes more than a few blokes to get rid of me. I told you before, didn’t I? You’re stuck with me now.”

You covered his hand with both of yours, closing your eyes as the tears fell. “Good,” you whispered. “Because I don’t think I could do this without you.”

His voice dropped, barely above a breath. “You won’t have to.”

You sat like that for a while - your fingers tangled with his, his breathing steady but shallow, the world narrowing to the sound of the monitor and the quiet rhythm of his pulse beneath your palm. It wasn’t peace, not exactly - but it was something close. A moment suspended between what you’d almost lost and what you still had.

Finally, he broke the silence, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “So,” he said hoarsely, “do I still get that second date or what?”

You let out a laugh, pressing your hand to his face and shoving it softly, the man smiling at your touch “You’ll be lucky if you get anything but soup for the next month.”

He grinned weakly, catching your hand when you made another hit. “Soup with you sounds pretty good, though.”

You grinned, the motion trembling but real, and whispered, “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” he breathed, eyes closing as he drifted back toward sleep. “But you love me anyway.”

You didn’t argue. You just held his hand a little tighter - because for the first time in what felt like forever, he was right there, and you weren’t letting go.

It was strange how quiet life could get. Stranger still that Pete Dunham didn’t hate it.

A month ago, the world had been nothing but fists, noise, adrenaline, and blood. Now the loudest thing in his life  was the soft thump of Teddy’s shoes in Steve and Shannon's home as the kid chased their son around the living room, laughing so hard he nearly toppled into the Christmas tree.

Pete watched the scene from the doorway, one hand resting absently on his wrapped ribs. He wasn’t fully better yet - not close - but he could walk without wincing, breathe without gasping, and sleep without waking in panic to the phantom sound of boots hitting pavement.

Progress.

The flat smelled like pine and cinnamon from the candles you had insisted on bringing. Christmas lights blinked lazily, casting golden flickers over the room where everyone had gathered - Matt by the window, trying to calm the two youngest boys of the house; Steve refilling drinks on the dining table; Shannon speaking freely through the living room as she made her way to you in the kitchen. 

It was warm. Soft. Safe. Words that had never once applied to Pete’s life before now.

He still wasn’t used to it.

Matt drifted over, nudging him with his elbow. “You alright, mate?”

Pete snorted. “Yeah. Just makin’ sure those two knuckleheads don't knock each other out.”

Matt grinned. “Bit rich comin’ from you.”

"Oi," he glanced sideways with a short frown, something that made Matt chuckle because he knew why Pete kept quiet with a retort.

Not with you just a few feet away. Not with your laughter drifting into the room from the kitchen like it belonged there. 

Pete glanced at his older brother, who was ruffling Tommy's hair when he tried to steal a cup of eggnog. He hadn’t seen Steve much since the hospital. His brother kept his distance, not in a cold way - in a respectful one. Like he didn’t want to push until Pete was steady on his feet again.

He appreciated that more than he’d ever admit.

Pete remembered the early days - being king of the fucking GSE, adrenaline burning through his veins like fuel. Back then, he thought he knew everything. Thought he owned something. Meant something. Thought people stayed because they had to.

Then Steve left. Just walked away from the fights, the pride, the violence — all of it. And Pete hadn’t understood. Not even a little.

Pete never understood why his brother had given up this life. 

He just didn't get it. Not until now.

Not until he realised that someone loving you was the most frightening thing in the world - and the bravest.

Pete's eyes, as always, wondered back to you. He smiled unconsciously as he watched you enter the living room, a bright smile on your face as you carried the ham, Shannon trailing behind you with the pot of gravy as you shared a last minute joke with her. Matt and Steve cheered, arms wrapped around each other at the sight of food.

Teddy danced around your legs, and you lifted the ham over his head to place it on the table with a teasing scold. 

Finn beamed up at you as you kissed his cheeks, raising him up by the arms and slotting him on your hip to take him to the table, handing him over to Sharron with such ease, it somehow melted Pete's heart.

And when you looked at him, catching his gaze from across the room, as if you could sense where his head had gone, Pete smiled softly. You tilted your head, eyebrows lifting in gentle question:

You okay?

You walked towards him to aid the question, a curious grin pulling at your lips. Your hands raised when you close, one pressing softly to his stomach at the bandages, and the other carding through his fingers.

"Didn't know Pete Dunham got this sappy with Christmas tunes," you half-joked, and Pete smiled softly, pulling you closer.

He didn't speak for a moment, happy to merely stare at you in all your enchantment. "You're happy?" 

Your eyebrows furrowed at the question, lips parting as if to speak. Because as simple as the question was, you knew why Pete would ask such. "How could I not be?" The answer was perfect, just like you. You smiled together, and you hooked a finger under the chain he wore, and he grinned even more. "Now, come on. I snuck more cloves on the ham for you and Teddy."

"Fuck, I love you."

"Yeah, yeah."