The sound of tennis balls smacking against rackets carried across the field — crisp, sharp, and annoyingly precise. Johnny Kavanagh didn’t have to look up to know who was making all that noise.

Jiji bloody Lamont.

He could practically hear her scoffing every time a rugby ball came flying too close to the courts. And sure enough, as if on cue, one went rogue — a perfect spiral that sailed high over the fence and landed dead center on Court Two.

Jiji froze mid-serve. Her racket dropped. Her head whipped toward the rugby lads like a storm brewing.

“For Christ’s sake!” she shouted, voice carrying across the field. “Can you idiots control your balls for once?”

The lads snorted. Hughie elbowed Johnny. “She means you, mate.”

Johnny rolled his eyes, jogging toward the fence with that easy swagger that got him into trouble and out of it just as quick. “Relax, tennis princess! No harm done.”

“No harm done?” she snapped, stomping up to the fence. “You nearly hit Aoife in the head last week! You’re a menace, Kavanagh.”

“And you’re dramatic,” he fired back, grinning. “Come on, Jiji. It’s just a ball.”

“Yeah, well, maybe if the school didn’t hand all the bloody budget to you meatheads, we’d have nets tall enough to stop your mistakes.”

That one stung — not that he’d ever admit it. “Maybe if you stopped whinin’ long enough to play, you’d hit a few more aces.”

Her eyes flashed, sharp and daring. “You think you’re so strong and impressive, don’t you? You probably couldn’t even lift me, let alone tackle anyone.”

The lads whooped from behind him. “Go on, Johnny boy! Prove her wrong!” Hughie hollered.

Jiji crossed her arms, chin tilted up. “Yeah, didn’t think so.”

Something inside him shifted — not anger, not really. Just the deep, bone-deep urge to shut her up.

In one smooth motion, Johnny stepped through the open gate, and before she could react, his arm hooked under her legs and back. He lifted her like she weighed nothing — one arm, steady, strong.

“Johnny—!” she gasped, grabbing at his shoulders as her feet left the ground. Her heart lurched. The whole court spun, the racket clattering to the surface.

His grin softened. “Still think I’m not strong enough, lass?”

She blinked up at him, words caught somewhere between her chest and throat. He shouldn’t have been able to — not with just one arm. Not when everyone before had made her feel too heavy, too much.

But Johnny held her like it was nothing. Like she was nothing short of precious.

Her heartbeat roared in her ears. She tried to speak — to say something sharp, something to cut through the warmth blooming under her ribs — but nothing came out.

He tilted his head, voice low now. “Are ya happy now, lass?”

Her lips parted. She couldn’t look away. Couldn’t move. Something inside her cracked, all those years of pretending to hate him leaking through the edges.

He set her down slowly, careful, like he was afraid she’d vanish if he didn’t.

For a second, they just stood there — her breath uneven, his chest rising and falling. Then he smirked again, though his voice was softer this time.

“Didn’t think so,” he said, stepping back toward the field. “But I’ll work on it.”

And before she could speak, before she could even breathe, Johnny was jogging off, rugby ball under his arm, leaving her standing in the middle of the court — shaken, flushed, and completely undone.