Johnny’s sister had Gibsie whipped.

Not that he’d admit it. Not out loud. Not where Johnny can hear and decide to murder him for looking at his baby sister like she hung the moon and owns Gibsie’s soul.

But listen—if you told him to bark? He might.

He might.

Gibsie didn’t know what it was about you. You didn’t even try to be in charge, but somehow, he just ended up following you around like a lost cause. Like a dog waiting for scraps. Like you’ve got some invisible leash on him, and he’s wagging his tail and asking if you need your shoes tied.

And the worst part?

You knew it.

Knew it and didn’t even use it properly—didn’t abuse your power, didn’t make him grovel, didn’t even acknowledge that Gibsie would probably kneel if you crooked a finger.

It’s insulting, honestly.

“Oi, Baby Kavanagh,” Gibsie called from his spot on Johnny’s couch, sprawled out like he lived here, like he belonged here. “Talk, would ya?”

You didn’t look at him. Didn’t acknowledge him. Just kept flipping through your book, curled up in the armchair like some regal little thing, sipping your tea.

Gibsie frowned. Sat up a little. Tried again.

“Baby Kavanagh.”

Still nothing.

Jesus Christ.

That’s okay lads. Just like my ancestors in the spud epidemic, I’ll harbour that generational resilience.

Gibsie stood. Moved closer. Planted himself directly in front of you like an absolute fool and said, very seriously, “I will literally sit at your feet if you tell me to.”

And that—that—finally got you to look up, eyes all unreadable and unimpressed, lips barely twitching like holding back a grin.

You blinked at him. Once. Then—

“Sit.”

And, lads—

Gibsie fucking sat.

Like the pussy-whipped gobshite he was. Gibsie sat at your feet.