Johnny Kavanagh had a thing for curves. Disgustingly, hopelessly, embarrassingly had a thing for them.

And your ass… oh, holy God.

It was his Roman Empire. He was hopelessly, catastrophically weak for it.

He’d been trying to behave for years. Ever since childhood, back when you, Johnny, and Gibsie were a chaotic trio tearing through primary school hallways, he’d always liked you. But it was the kind of soft, harmless liking boys have when they don’t understand hormones.

That changed. Oh, it changed fast.

Somewhere between you turning fifteen and today — sitting in his room, books spread over the desk, your spine arched as you leaned over the project — Johnny’s sanity simply… left the building.

You were curves and sunshine and temptation disguised as his best friend. Which made it infinitely worse.

Because now? Now he was seventeen, tall, built from sport, and suffering from injuries in the most painful possible place — the universe’s personal joke — and here you were, leaning over his bed to look at his laptop screen, your body brushing his thigh in a way that made him want to sink into the mattress and die.

Or maybe explode. Either would work.

“Does this look like a good opening paragraph?” you asked casually.

Casually. As if you weren’t five seconds away from ending his final brain cell.

Johnny swallowed, eyes flicking immediately — wrongly — before he dragged them back up to your face. He couldn’t get hard, he couldn’t. Injury.

“Yeah,” he croaked. “Yeah, it’s… perfect.”