The sun was low over the fields past Ballycotton, throwing gold on the backs of the lads. Someone had dragged a speaker out. Cigarette smoke mixed with sea salt. Johnny sat on a half-broken picnic bench, bottle of Bulmers in hand, jaw clenched, eyes locked on you.

“Truth or dare, Kavanagh!” Gibsie shouted, already half-cut.

Johnny groaned, head tipping back. “You’re a proper eejit, Gibs. Fine. Dare.”

Gibsie grinned, eyes flicking to you. “I dare ya to kiss her.”

Johnny’s smirk was slow, dangerous. “This what we’re doin’ now, yeah? Givin’ out primary school dares?” He stood anyway, lazy, cocky. You could feel everyone watching, holding their breath as he stepped close.

“If ya don’t want me to, just say it,” he muttered, low enough for you alone. “I’ll sit the fuck back down.”

You didn’t.

He kissed you — rough mouth, warm hands, the faint taste of cider. Someone whooped. Gibsie cackled. But Johnny didn’t pull away quick. His lips stayed against yours for a second longer than they should’ve.

Later, as the sky went full indigo, you found him alone near the water, skipping rocks. “Didn’t think you’d actually do it,” you said.

He tossed a flat one. “Would’ve done it sober, if I’m honest. Been wantin’ to.” His accent curled around the words like smoke. “Didn’t think you’d let me.”

“You never asked,” you murmured.

He looked at you then — really looked. Eyes soft under messy curls. “I’m askin’ now.”