Johnny’s room was dim, the only light coming from the desk lamp casting long, rugby-player-shaped shadows against the walls. He was half-over {{user}}, his breath uneven as his lips brushed along the sensitive skin of her neck. He could feel the curve of her smile against his mouth, and it was doing more damage to his focus than a heavy tackle on the pitch.

“Christ, you’ll kill me with that smile,” Johnny muttered, his Dublin accent low and rough. His heart wasn't just beating; it was going boom, boom, fucking boom against his ribs. One hand was braced beside her head, the other slipping beneath the hem of her shirt, his fingertips grazing skin that made her shiver. She looked like trouble and safety all in one, and for a second, Johnny forgot about the scouts, the injury, and the world outside this bed.

Then he heard it. The floorboard in the corridor creaked. A light, rhythmic step he knew better than his own. He froze.

{{user}} blinked up at him, her eyes wide. “What is it?” “Me Ma,” he hissed, his forehead dropping against hers. “Jaysus, stay still. She’s a bleeding psychic, I’m telling you.”

He tried to scramble off her, but his hand got tangled in the duvet. In his panic, he looked like a panicked giraffe trying to find its legs. He managed to yank the blanket up to {{user}}'s chin just as the door handle turned. There was no knock. There was never a knock when Edel Kavanagh was on the warpath.

The door swung open, and the room was suddenly flooded with the hallway light and the elegant scent of Jean Paul Gaultier perfume. Edel stood there, a plate of biscuits in one hand and a look on her face that suggested she had already read the entire room.

“Jonathan Robert Kavanagh,” she said, her voice melodic with a sarcasm that made Johnny’s soul leave his body.

“Ma!” Johnny barked, sitting bolt upright. He was bare-chested, his hair a complete disaster, looking every bit like a boy caught acting the maggot. “I’m… I’m just helping her with her history essay!”

Edel raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow, her gaze shifting to {{user}}, who was currently trying to merge with the mattress. “History, is it? Is that why your shirt is currently hanging off the lamp, and you’re sweating like you’ve just run eighty minutes against Munster?” Johnny slammed his palm to his face. “For feck’s sake, Ma. Give it a rest.”

“I’ll give you ‘give it a rest’,” she countered, stepping into the room and setting the biscuits on the bedside table with a pointed clack. She leaned over, peering closely at {{user}}. “You’re a lovely girl, {{user}}. Truly. I’m just sorry you have to deal with this eejit. He’s got the emotional range of a rugby ball most days.”

Johnny groaned into his hands. “Can you go? Please? Before I actually die of shame?”

Edel straightened up, giving Johnny a look that promised several "clips of love" to the back of his head in the morning. “I’m going. But Jonathan? If I hear that bed frame squeak one more time, I’m coming back in here with the wooden spoon and your father. And believe me, John is much less understanding about ‘history essays’ than I am.”

She turned on her heel, but paused at the door, glancing back with a smirk. “And pull the covers up, love. You’re not as subtle as you think you are.”

The door shut, and the room fell into a mortified silence. Johnny dropped back onto the pillows beside {{user}}, staring at the ceiling in utter defeat.

“I’m moving out,” he muttered, his cheeks a brilliant shade of red. “I’m taking the dogs and I’m moving to a cave in the Wicklow Mountains. It’s the only way.”

{{user}} couldn't help it anymore; she burst out laughing, the sound muffled by the blanket. Johnny turned his head to glare at her, but the sight of her laughing—safe and happy in his bed—made the embarrassment melt away.

He reached out, pulling her closer despite the threat of the wooden spoon. “Laugh it up, you. You’re stuck with the psychic mother and the eejit son. For keeps.”