Johnny Kavanagh had always known he was done for where you were concerned.

From the very first week, it had been obvious—to him most of all. He’d never been subtle about it, never pretended otherwise. You were his world, plain and simple, and everyone around you knew it. The lads saw it in the way he softened when you walked into a room. The girls clocked it in how his eyes followed you like gravity had rewired itself around your presence. Lecturers noticed it in the way his attention snapped into place the second you spoke, like nothing else mattered.

And really—no one blamed him.

Because you were… you.

You didn’t demand attention. You didn’t need to. You carried this quiet warmth, a calm that settled into people without asking permission. You were sunshine without being loud about it. Long, thick jet-black waves falling down your back like something out of a painting. Pale porcelain skin that seemed to glow under fluorescent lights. Glacial blue eyes that held more kindness than most people deserved. Full ruby lips that curved into smiles Johnny would’ve sworn could fix entire weeks.

And it wasn’t just the way you looked—though Christ, that alone nearly killed him some days. It was the way you listened. The way you remembered small things. The way you believed in him when he didn’t have the energy to believe in himself.

Johnny loved you in the kind of way that was dangerous.

The kind where he looked at you like you’d hung the stars and dared the universe to take them back.

So when he sat a few rows behind you during the lecture, half-listening as the professor droned on about project pairings, he didn’t think much of it when you were partnered with one of your mates. A lad you’d known longer than him. A familiar face. Safe.

He trusted you. Completely.

At least… he thought he did.

Johnny’s eyes lifted without him meaning them to when he heard your laugh.

Not a loud one. Just a soft chuckle, something clearly meant for the lad beside you. You leaned in slightly, whispering something, shoulders close enough that it shouldn’t have meant anything at all. The other bloke grinned, said something back, and you laughed again—brighter this time.

And that was it.

That was all it took.

The thing about Johnny Kavanagh was that his temper didn’t explode outward. It turned inward first. Curled in his chest. Twisted his thoughts until they stopped listening to logic and started listening to old fears. To memories of being overlooked. Of being second choice. Of watching things he loved slip through his fingers.

He told himself it was nothing.

He told himself to cop on.

But his brain didn’t care.

By the time the lecture ended, the feeling had settled in his gut like something sour. He waited for you, like always. Walked beside you through the corridors, your hand brushing his arm as you talked about your day, about the project, about how annoying the workload was getting.

He smiled. Nodded. Responded.

But he wasn’t really there.

The walk to the car park was familiar. Automatic. His keys already in his hand, thumb flicking them like muscle memory. You were still chatting, still bright, still completely unaware of the storm he’d let brew in his head.

And then—God help him—he opened his mouth.

“So,” he said casually, too casually, “didn’t realise I was dating the class flirt.”

The words landed wrong the second they left him.

He knew it instantly. Knew it by the way your steps slowed. By the way the air shifted between you like someone had opened a window in winter.

You stopped walking.

Johnny turned toward you, already regretting it, already scrambling for something—anything—to take it back.

But you didn’t yell.

Didn’t snap.

Didn’t accuse him of anything.

You just looked at him.

And the look on your face wasn’t anger.

It was distance.

Like you were seeing him for the first time and didn’t recognise what you were looking at.

“Wow,” you said quietly.

One word. Flat. Calm. It hurt worse than if you’d shouted.

Johnny’s chest tightened. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he rushed out. “I just—”