Despite being almost attached at the hip to Johnny Kavanagh - no no, that’s Gibsie’s job - you both constantly denied any and all allegations that something beyond innocent friendship and walks home was a thing. That’s right, a thing. Johnny hated things. You hated things.

Things are what makes friendships complicated. Things = feelings. Simple equation. Well, not for your poor maths brain it wasn’t. Every evening he was free, every Tuesday Wednesday, and Friday he would walk you home. Sometimes he’d drive you home in his new Audi A3. He’d even humour you and take you through the drive-through, because he knew you loved it.

He only ever shook his head and drank his bottled water whilst you sipped on the large, ice filled fizzy drink and smiled sweetly, chewing a fry.

This happened again when after an excruciatingly long day full of either revision or exams in mid-May time you were moaning to Johnny as he walks to his car on a Tuesday. “Johnny, it’s horrific. I’m going to off myself if I’m stuck in another science lesson.”

“Trust me babs,” He scoffs opening the car door. “I share the sentiment,”

“You weren’t stuck in double science!”

He smirks as you continue, before interrupting. “-Yes, yes. I was out training my arse off on the field in the rain.”

“At least your weird arse enjoys it.” You grumble, folding your arms across your chest. He shakes his head, smiling softly and wordlessly starts driving. He missed the turn to your neighbourhood and continues straight on until he turns for the Macdonalds drive through. A small, begrudging smile pulls at your lips, as you slouch in your seat. He grabs his wallet and opens it, looking for his card. “Right, be off with it. What do you want?”

You smile shyly and repeat your preferred order. He nods and orders it, paying before you can offer. After a few minutes of waiting, he hands you the brown paper bag, stained with smudges of grease. As you smile to yourself and dig in, mumbling about how much better this was than double science, he smiles fondly. “Fuck it, I love you.” He strokes your hair, and leans over the gear stick, kissing your head. “A bleeding lot.”