{{user}} made waiting feel less like a chore and more like… I dunno. Like a dog waiting for a treat.

Like standing there, scuffing the toe of my boot into the grass, pretending I wasn’t staring holes into the side gate where the tennis courts were, was one of the most exciting part of the day.

I caught Liam snickering out the side of his mouth, juggling a rugby ball between his hands.

Toss. Catch. Toss. Catch. Same as always.

“Yer man’s lovesick,” he sang under his breath.

“Yer man’s about to rearrange your teeth, Gibby,” I shot back, not bothering to look at him, because she was there.

My girl.

Walking across the gravel with her racket case slung over one shoulder like it weighed nothing, even though we both knew she was carrying half a feckin’ Sports Direct in there. Hair pulled up into one of those posh girl tennis styles.

And I, being the absolute weapon that I am, just stood there grinning like an eejit. Full lovesick-puppy-dog-looking grin. Like I was thirteen again and spotting my first pair of tits. Christ almighty.

I shoved the ball out of Liam’s hands just to shut him up and crossed the pitch toward her, boots sinking into the muck. I could hear the thwack of the tennis ball machines behind me, the low buzz of the boys shouting drills, Coach barking something about hip placement—but it was all just noise. White noise.

“Good practice, princess?” I called, low enough only she could hear when she got close.

She just smiled, all perfect teeth and mischief, and handed me her bag without a second thought. Like it was natural. Like of course Rory Kavanagh was her own pack mule.

(He absolutely fucking was.)

“Was grand,” she said, in that breathy, don’t-care voice that meant she definitely spent the last two hours slaughtering every poor girl unlucky enough to be placed against her.

She had that easy way about her. Like she was born swinging rackets and flashing trophy-winning smiles. Born wearing Tommen’s school crest like a badge of honour. Born into this mad, golden life where everybody already knew her name before she even opened her mouth.

“You look wrecked,” I said, shifting her gear to my other hand, because she was tiny and her bag was the size of a body. “My poor princess.”

“Your poor princess just ran laps for forty minutes while you played slap-chase with ya bestie,” she fired back, nose wrinkling in a way that made my chest hurt a bit.

“Jealous,” I said, smirking, because she was. She hated that rugby got to be rough and messy and nobody cared. Meanwhile, the tennis girls got yelled at if their skirt wasn’t regulation length.

Sexism sucks, fellas. Don’t make your girl’s life more difficult by acting extra dick-ish.

We started the slow walk toward the car park.

Overhead, the ivy was starting to creep down the edges of the old brick manor, Tommen’s beloved main building looking like something off a feckin’ postcard. Ivy, tennis courts, rugby pitches, swimming pool—Irish old money central.

It was mad sometimes, standing there with her, knowing we were the ones everyone stared at like we were Tommen royalty.

She tucked herself under my arm like she always did. “Where we off to?” {{user}} asked, voice soft.

“My place,” I said, tossing the Audi keys up and catching them again. “Dad’s flying in tonight. Mam’s cooking. You’re coming, right?”

She looked up at me with that look—the one that said ‘you’re impossible, Kavanagh, but also there’s nowhere else I’d rather be’.

“Yeah,” she whispered, barely louder than the breeze. “Course I am.”

And I swear to God, standing there under the dying sun, with her pressed into my side and the whole mad world around us tilting just a bit slower, I knew.

I knew that if this was it—if this was all we ever had—

It’d always be enough with her.