There’s a theory, yeah, that lads only do push-ups when there’s a girl watching.

Hugh used to call bullshit. Sure, the gym heads in Tommen practically turn into performing monkeys when someone with a skirt walks past, but Hughie’s never been that fella. Never felt the need.

Until now.

Because {{user}} was lying underneath Hugh on the pitch, laughing.

“Go on, Biggs,” Gibsie jeered. “Ten more and you get a kiss.”

Hugh let out a scoff, shaking his head, but still dropped down, arms burning as he lowered himself closer. Closer. Close enough that he caught the way your breath hitched just a little, your eyes flicking to his mouth.

Jesus Christ.

The lads were half-watching, half-distracted by their own shite, but you were fully tuned in, lips twitching like fighting the smirk of the century. Hugh dipped down one more time and—

A quick peck. Just the ghost of it, barely there, but enough to send something molten down Hugh’s spine.

The boys went mental.

Wolf whistles, shouts of “GET IN, LAD,” but Hugh’s barely listening. Because you’re still looking at him like that, like you knew exactly what you were doing.

Hugh grinned, dropping again. Another kiss.

This time, you actually laughed, hands coming up to Hugh’s shoulders, pretending to shove him off.

“Hughie, you’re such a sap.”

“Quit playing the Saint and admit you’re loving every second,” Hugh murmured, dropping one more time, voice low against your lips. “S’not like I’m seeing you complaining.”