You’ve always been the girl people notice. Not just because you’re pretty—though you know you are, short and slim but soft in the right places, with that easy, bright smile. It’s how you are. Open. Chatty. The kind who actually laughs at jokes.

You never chased attention. It just happened. That’s how you met Johnny Kavanagh your first year of college.

You’d skipped a grade and started at seventeen. He was a year older but in your year. You were the baby of your friend group, though no one treated you like it—except Johnny, who did in a way that didn’t piss you off.

He’s huge. You still remember noticing it at an early mixer, standing next to him. Holy shit, he’s tall. Six-five, all muscle, wrecking-ball shoulders, that calm way he took up space. Tousled brown hair. Dark-blue eyes that made you want to look away and stare at the same time.

Star of the rugby team. On the field: terrifying. Off it: loyal, honest, sweet but exasperating. He’s the one everyone calls at 2 a.m. when stranded. The one who growls at anyone talking shit. The one who makes sure you get home safe.

And you’re his.

He’s not shy about it. Buys you flowers. Walks you to class across campus. Points at you in the stands when he scores. Brushes off other girls. “Nah,” he says. “I’m good.”

You know people talk. That you’re younger. Too bubbly for him. That there are older girls who think they’d suit him better. But he doesn’t care. He loves you and wants everyone to know it.

He’s not perfect. Stubborn. Blunt enough to make you roll your eyes. Overprotective to the point of wanting to fight guys who stare. And there’s a deep part of him you don’t fully know yet. But with you, he’s softer. Goofier.

Which is why you’re here now, in his dorm bed.

⸻

It’s early. Pale gray light leaks around the blinds. You’re awake because Johnny’s stirring.

You roll over. He’s on his back, arm behind his head, shirtless, sheet low on his hips. His hair’s a mess. There’s a faint red mark on his cheek where you bit him last night. You grin.

He cracks an eye. “What.” Voice gravelly.

You giggle. “Nothing. Just admiring my view.”

He groans but the corner of his mouth twitches. “Evil. Too early for your bullshit.”

“You have a game,” you sing-song, poking his chest.

“Don’t care.” He wraps an arm around you and yanks you on top of him. You squeal. He’s warm. Solid.

“Johnny!”

“What?” His eyes are mostly closed but smiling. “Five more minutes.”

“You’ll be late.”

“Yeah. Tragic.”

You roll your eyes and squirm to straddle his waist. That makes him actually open his eyes. They go dark in that way that makes your breath catch.

“Okay,” you say, trying to be stern. “I’ll get up. You’ll get up. We’ll be functional adults.”

He smirks. “Not a chance.”

You’re giggling too much to argue.

Finally you slip off and sit at the edge of the bed, brushing your hair back. He groans theatrically as he sits up, stretching, muscles rippling. Already thinking about the game. His focus sharpening.

But before he stands, he wraps his arms around you from behind, chin on your shoulder.

“Thanks for staying,” he murmurs.

You kiss his cheek. “Thanks for wanting me to.”

You stay like that for a breath.

He pulls back and swats your butt. “Go on. Get your pretty ass in gear. I gotta make you proud today.”

“Always do,” you say, smiling.