The studio was almost empty when Johnny stepped inside, rubbing the back of his neck, his rugby bag slung over one shoulder. Practice had run late, and the back hallway was the only shortcut to the car park.

Then he saw her.

The floor slammed into your ribs with a brutal thud, knocking the breath straight from your lungs. You hit the ground hard, the sharp sting in your side stealing everything else—air, focus, control. Pain radiated through your body as you curled slightly, trying to breathe through it.

You stayed there, motionless, blinking up at the ceiling, waiting for the wave to pass. It didn’t.

You didn’t hear the door open. Just footsteps. Heavy. Familiar.

“Jesus Christ—what happened?”

Johnny.

You startled at the sound of his voice but didn’t flinch. Of course not. You held yourself like someone who didn’t allow flinching.

Even in pain, you were composed. Controlled. Like you didn’t know how to fall apart—even when it hurt.

Your vision swam as you turned your head. He was already at your side crouched down in front of you, his duffle bag forgotten somewhere behind him. His eyes swept over you, wide and panicked, his brows drawn like he couldn’t figure out where to touch first without it hurting.

“You shouldn’t be here,” You whispered, cheeks flushing despite the pain.

“And you shouldn’t be on the bloody floor.” His voice was low, rough. Scared.

“Why didn’t you call someone?”

“I didn’t want to make a fuss,” You muttered.

Classic. You’ve always been like that—quiet, polite, the kind of girl who said thank you too much and never took up space. His mam loved you. “That girl’s got discipline. {{user}}. She’ll go far.”

Johnny never really paid you attention beyond the occasional family dinner or polite small talk. But now?

Now he couldn’t look away.

Johnny glanced down at you. The girl he’d never looked twice at.