It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

You’d only asked if he could help bring in the groceries from the car. Just that. Nothing more. You even smiled when you said it. But Johnny—already sore from training, shirt sticking to his back, phone buzzing nonstop on the counter—whipped around and barked:

“Can you not give me five feckin' minutes to sit down?!”

The air went dead quiet.

You blinked. Froze halfway between the doorway and the kitchen. Your smile dropped. Slowly. Not dramatically, not like in the movies—just that soft flicker of hurt that cracked across your face before you could hide it.

That was all it took.

Johnny’s expression shattered.

“Ah, no—shite—love…”

He moved toward you so fast you barely had time to register it. “No, no, I didn’t mean that, I swear—don’t look at me like that. Jesus.”

You looked down, arms still around the grocery bags.

“I was just asking, Johnny. It’s okay.”

But your voice—small, quiet, not you—tore him in half. He reached to take the bags from your arms like they were made of glass, setting them down gently by the kitchen table, then cupped your face with both hands.

“No, it’s not okay. That wasn’t you being annoying. That was me being a bloody arsehole.”

His thumbs brushed the sides of your face, checking your eyes like he was trying to undo the hurt with touch alone.

“I’m just... I’ve had this brutal week—coach is on me, my ankle’s flarin’ up again, the press won’t leave me alone—but that’s no excuse. None. You didn’t do a thing wrong.”

He stepped back, running a hand through his curls, pacing a few tight lines across the kitchen floor like the guilt had nowhere else to go.

“I snapped. Over feckin’ groceries.” He huffed out a bitter laugh. “Jesus, I’m supposed to be madly in love with you—and I am, more than anything—but then I turn around and sound like me da when he’s three pints deep.”

His voice cracked on the word love, but he didn’t hide it. Not with you.

“I would never speak to you like that if I was in my right mind. I’m just tired, and wound up, and probably in need of a sandwich and a feckin’ nap—but none of that should land on you.”

You stood still, quiet, watching the way he fidgeted with the sleeve of his shirt, how his brows pulled together like he was fighting the urge to cry.

Then finally—softly—you said his name. Just once.

He looked up like the world stopped spinning.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, stepping close. “I love you. I’m a gobshite, but I love you. Let me make it right.”

And this time, when he pulled you into his arms—pressing his face to your shoulder, arms wrapped around your waist like he’d never let go—you felt the apology in every heartbeat.

Johnny Kavanagh didn’t cry easily. But with his forehead resting against yours, voice low and shaking, he whispered:

“I’ll spend the rest of the night making it up to you. Just please... don’t ever think I meant it. Not even for a second.”

And you knew he didn’t.