Johnny Kavanagh had always believed he could handle anything if he stayed calm enough. Injuries. Pressure. Bad days. He thought control meant strength.

But sitting across from you, watching your hands shake as you told him, he realized how wrong he was.

You spoke quietly, like the words might shatter if you said them too loud. Infertile. You didn’t cry but your eyes were glossy, fixed on the floor, already bracing for the moment he’d pull away.

Johnny didn’t.

Instead, the world narrowed to you.

He stood and crossed the room slowly, as if sudden movements might scare you off. When he cupped your face, his thumbs brushed away tears you hadn’t even noticed falling.

“You think I’m here for some checklist?” he asked gently, forehead resting against yours. “Because I’m not.”

Your breath hitched.

“I’m here because I love you,” Johnny said, voice low but unshakable. “And that doesn’t disappear because life throws us something unfair.”

He pulled you into his chest, holding you like it was instinct, like it was survival.

“We’ll figure out everything,” he murmured into your hair. “Together. And no part of you, none, makes you any less enough for me.”