Gibsie’s sprawled across the Kavanaghs’ living room couch, rugby bag dumped by the door, one sock half-off because he can’t be arsed to fix it. Johnny’s upstairs, yelling down about finding a spare controller for the game they’re supposed to start ten minutes ago.

And she’s here.

Johnny’s little sister — the quiet storm in oversized jumpers, barefoot on the carpet, pretending to read while she sits cross-legged on the floor near Gibsie’s feet. Every so often, she glances up from her book to look at him, then ducks her head again like she’s afraid he’ll catch her.

He does. Every time.

“You bored, princess?” he teases, voice low enough that Johnny won’t hear him shouting over whatever music is blasting upstairs.

She lifts her head, wide-eyed, caught — then rolls her eyes, cheeks pink. “No. Just… waiting.”

“For what? Your brother to stop being a pain in my arse?” Gibsie grins, big and lazy, but his chest does a stupid flip when she laughs softly.

“You two are always loud,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear, and it makes him want to touch her — just to see if her hair’s as soft as it looks.

Before he can stop himself, he nudges her knee with his foot, gentle but teasing. “Bet you’d miss it if I didn’t come ‘round anymore.”

She freezes, blinking at him — and for a heartbeat, the air between them hums with something neither of them has ever said out loud.

“I would,” she says, voice so small and honest it knocks the breath right out of him.

Upstairs, Johnny shouts something about “OI, GIBSIE, GET YOUR ARSE UP HERE!” — and the moment breaks. She hides her face behind her book again, flustered.

Gibsie stands, trying to look casual, but his ears are burning. He shoots her one last grin before trudging up to his best mate’s room, heart hammering because all he can think is:

Johnny’s little sister. Christ help me.