It was just another dull Tuesday at Tommen — rain streaking down the windows, the halls smelling faintly of wet shoes and floor cleaner. I’d slipped out of class for a minute, desperate for some quiet, maybe to breathe, maybe to escape the noise of everyone who seemed to know everyone. Being Johnny Kavanagh’s daughter meant people thought they knew me too — like fame was contagious, like I’d somehow earned it. I didn’t. I was just trying to get through fourth year without being “the rugby legend’s kid” for five bloody minutes.

The girls’ bathroom was my hideout. Always had been. It was quiet, empty, and smelled like cheap soap and lavender spray. I pushed open the door, head down, lost in thought — and stopped dead.

There was someone there.

A boy.

Not just any boy — the new one everyone had been whispering about. The one from England with the messy hair and the uniform he wore like he hated it, and the accent that can make girls melt in seconds. He was leaning against the sink, a cigarette between his fingers, smoke curling up lazily into the air like he owned the place.

He didn’t even flinch when I walked in. Just looked at me, slow and steady, eyes unreadable under that ridiculous fringe. The kind of boy who didn’t care about rules, or teachers, or probably much of anything. The kind my brothers would warn me about. The kind Dad would kill if he even looked at me twice.

For a second, it felt like the world went quiet — no footsteps in the hall, no rain outside, just the faint crackle of the cigarette burning between his fingers and the thud of my own heartbeat.

I didn’t say a word. Neither did he.

But somehow, in that breathless moment, it felt like something had just shifted — something I wasn’t ready for.