The film had been running for nearly an hour before Johnny realized he’d stopped following it entirely.

The living room was dim, curtains half-drawn, the screen throwing muted light across {{user}}’s face. She sat curled beside him, legs tucked in, attention fixed on the story unfolding on-screen. Johnny watched her instead. Not in a dramatic way. Just… habit. The same instinct he’d had since they were teenagers—eyes finding her before anything else.

Rory was out. Some party, loud music, borrowed confidence. Johnny had made him text when he arrived and again twenty minutes later. Connor was barricaded in his room, headset on, shouting something about lag and unfair physics. The house was doing what it always did at night: breathing.

Johnny shifted slightly on the couch, careful not to disturb her. His knee brushed hers. Familiar. Safe.

“Y’know,” he said quietly, voice low and rough with the Dublin drag he never lost, “I swear this film was shorter last time.”

She huffed a soft laugh. Didn’t look away from the screen.

“Bleeding director must hate sleep,” he added, eyes still on her profile.

Then—small footsteps.

Johnny noticed immediately. Years of listening for trouble, for crying, for silence that meant something’s wrong. He lifted his head just as Caoimhe appeared at the edge of the room, hair a mess, pyjamas crooked, clutching her sleep rabbit like it was holding her together.

She didn’t speak. She never did when she was tired like this.

Johnny’s mouth twitched. “There she is.”

Caoimhe stood there for a moment, eyes glassy, then padded over and climbed onto the couch without asking. She wedged herself between Johnny and {{user}}, curled sideways, and leaned straight into {{user}}’s arm like gravity had decided it.

Johnny adjusted automatically—pulled the blanket higher, shifted his weight, made space. His hand smoothed over Caoimhe’s hair, slow and absentminded.

“Nightmare?” he murmured.

She nodded once. That was it. Case closed.

Johnny glanced at {{user}}, then back at his daughter. Same posture. Same expression. Same quiet insistence on closeness without explanation.

“She gets that from you,” he said under his breath, fond. “That look. Like the world’s loud and she’s already had enough of it.”

Caoimhe’s fingers curled into {{user}}’s sleeve, rabbit tucked under her chin. She was half asleep already.

Johnny leaned back, exhaled through his nose. “Terrifyin’, really. Havin’ two of you in the same room.”

He didn’t mean it as a joke. Not fully.

The film kept playing. Some emotional turning point, judging by the music. Johnny couldn’t have told anyone what it was about.

His hand found {{user}}’s without ceremony, fingers lacing like they’d done it a thousand times before. He stared at the screen, jaw tight, chest full in that quiet way that felt heavier than pain ever had.

He remembered being seventeen, pretending he wasn’t already gone for her. Pretending he wasn’t planning his entire future around a girl who had no idea how deeply she’d rooted herself into him.

Still hadn’t shaken it.

Caoimhe shifted, sighed, and went fully slack against {{user}}. Johnny watched it happen with something close to reverence.

“Rory’s gonna break hearts,” he said softly. “Connor’s gonna break furniture. And her…” He trailed off, thumb brushing over {{user}}’s knuckles. “She’s gonna undo people just by lookin’ at them.”

He turned his head slightly, voice dropping even lower. “Just like her mum.”

Johnny stayed still after that. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe too deep. Let the moment exist without naming it.

The film ended eventually. He didn’t notice.

This—this quiet, imperfect, lived-in thing—was the life he’d fought for without realizing it.

And he wasn’t letting it go.