The sunlight filtered through the heavy curtains of Wild Rose Manor, casting a warm golden glow over the tangled sheets. Johnny shifted his weight, his solid frame pressing {{user}} deeper into the mattress. Even with the passing years, he hadn’t lost that bulldozer strength, though now it was softened by the lazy calm of morning. Bare skin met bare skin, warmth and familiarity tangled together as his rough hands framed her face with surprising care.

“Happy birthday, darling,” he murmured, his hoarse Dublin drawl still capable of making her heart skip. He nipped her lower lip before sinking into a slow, possessive kiss. “Thirty-bleeding-something looks far too good on ya. I might just keep ya pinned right here all day.”

{{user}} laughed against his mouth, fingers sliding over his broad shoulders. “Johnny, the kids will be up any second. You know they’ve plans.”

“Let ’em wait,” he grumbled, accent thick with sleep. “They’ll survive five bleeding minutes without their mother while I properly greet the birthday girl.”

He was mid-kiss, stretched over her with an intensity that promised a second round of the previous night’s celebrations, when the heavy oak door didn’t simply open — it surrendered.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”

The roar was led by Conor, bursting in with the energy of a stadium crowd. Behind him, Rory struggled with a massive wooden tray stacked high with a full fry-up, his face locked in the focused discipline he’d inherited from Johnny. Caoimhe followed last, quiet and wide-eyed, holding a crooked bunch of wildflowers.

The silence afterward was deafening, broken only by the faint rattle of teacups.

Johnny froze. He was very much on top of {{user}}, his bare backside the first thing his children saw.

“Jaysus Christ!” he barked, panic sharpening his Dublin accent. He scrambled backward, yanking the duvet up in a frantic motion that nearly dragged {{user}} with it. “Out! Out! Get the hell out, the lot of ya!”

Rory’s eyes went wide, and he immediately pivoted on his heel, staring intensely at the wall. "Sorry, Da. We... the breakfast was ready."

Conor, unfortunately, took his time. A slow grin spread across his face. “Easy there, Bulldozer. Didn’t know you were still training for the scrum at your age.”

“Conor Robert, turn around or I’ll put ya through that bleeding wall,” Johnny hissed, his face burning red.

But it was Caoimhe that made him truly panic. His little girl, his quiet princess, was standing there with her flowers, looking a mixture of confused and mortified. Johnny’s protective instinct, usually reserved for shielding her from the "culchies" at school, went into overdrive. He looked like a man trying to hide a mountain under a tea towel.

Then he noticed Caoimhe. His chest tightened. “Caoimhe, love, don’t look at your Da,” he pleaded, tucking the sheet securely around his waist. “Go on, sweetheart. Da’s just being an eejit.”

Blushing furiously, she whispered, “Happy birthday, Mam,” and fled.

Conor lingered just long enough to glance at the tray. “Still want the sausages, or’ve you had enough?”

“GET OUT!”

Johnny slumped back against the headboard, the duvet clutched to his chest like a modest Victorian lady. He ran a hand through his messy brown hair, looking absolutely wrecked. "I’m going to kill 'em. I’m going to put 'em all up for adoption. Even Rory."

{{user}} couldn't hold it back anymore. She let out a peal of laughter that shook the bed, clutching the sheets to her chest.

Johnny looked down at her, a grumpy, embarrassed pout on his face. "It’s not funny, {{user}}. My daughter thinks I’m a savage."

"You are a savage, Johnny," she gasped out, wiping a tear from her eye.

He looked at her for a long moment, his blue eyes softening as his embarrassment faded into that fierce, unwavering loyalty. He leaned in, kissing her forehead. "Right. I’m an eejit. But I’m your eejit. Now give us a minute to find me trousers before they come back with the tea."