Johnny Kavanagh leaned against the goalpost, watching his teammates head toward the locker room. The sun was setting, painting the sky in streaks of orange and pink, but he barely noticed. His thoughts were somewhere else—on {{user}}, to be exact.

They sat on the hill overlooking the pitch, flipping through a book. Their lips were pressed into a soft line, brows furrowed like they were deeply engrossed in the story. It was the kind of look that should’ve gone unnoticed, something ordinary. But Johnny’s chest tightened as he watched them.

It’s just admiration, he told himself, forcing his gaze back to the empty pitch. Admiration for someone who had wormed their way into his world without him realizing. Nothing more.

But even as he told himself that, his stomach churned.

It wasn’t like there was a massive age gap between them. Two years, three at most. Practically nothing, right? Except it wasn’t nothing—not to him.

Friends. That’s all they were. All they’d ever be. He was sure of it—or tried to be. They didn’t need to know how his pulse sped up when they brushed past him, or how their words lingered in his mind longer than anyone else’s. He could keep it together, keep it strictly platonic.