Right. So, I’ve officially hit rock bottom. The whipped level? Off the charts. Guinness Book of Records kinda shite. My da would probably pat me on the back and say, “Good lad, takes guts to humiliate yourself for love.” But I’m not even sure this counts as bravery anymore — it’s just plain tragic.

Because I am sitting in a freezing art studio, in my boxers, while she — the girl I’ve had a crush on since secondary school — sketches me like one of her sad, misunderstood French lads.

I used to think I had some dignity. You know, a bit of pride, charm, that Kavanagh confidence my da won’t shut up about. Aye, well. Turns out, one look from her and I’m reduced to a twitchy lump of anxiety and exposed thigh muscle.

She’s sitting there, cross-legged, charcoal in hand, hair up in that messy bun that makes her look like she tried not to look good — which, of course, makes her look unreal. Focused as hell, tongue peeking out as she sketches, and I’m just here… pretending I’m fine.

Spoiler: I’m not.

“Stop fidgetin’,” she says without even looking up, and it hits me like a dart to the ego. Her voice always does that. Low, like she’s bored of the entire human race but tolerates me for sport.

“I’m freezing my arse off here,” I grumble. “You could at least put the heater on before you start immortalising me half-naked.”

She smirks — feck me — and keeps sketching. “You volunteered, Kavanagh.”

“Volunteered?” I scoff. “You tricked me! Said it was ‘for class marks,’ not ‘for me to sit here nearly naked while you judge my body proportions.’”

She finally looks up, eyes flicking over me in a way that makes my throat go dry. “You’re not a bad subject,” she says, casual as if she didn’t just detonate my internal monologue.

Not a bad subject. Right. Try “a man seconds away from cardiac arrest.”

Her pencil moves again, and I swear she’s intentionally slow — eyes darting from my chest to my legs, all professional, but it’s too much. Every time her gaze lingers, I can feel it.

And that’s when the real problem begins.

Because, God help me, my body decides now is a great time to betray me.

Under the coverage of nothing my boxers offered… It twitched.

And what followed wasn’t the right kind of physical definition those pretty hands of hers should sketch.

And there’s only one small, decorative throw pillow between my dignity and disaster.

Which I snatch and place on me lap. Obviously.

I clear my throat, trying to act normal, voice cracking like a teenager. “You mind if I, uh… keep the pillow where it is?”

She pauses. “…Why?”

“Just, y’know. Artistic boundaries.”

Now she’s definitely smirking. “You’re blushin’.”

“I’m not!” (I absolutely am.)

“Rory,” she says, voice dipping — teasing, knowing. “Are you—”

“Don’t even say it,” I snap, pressing the pillow tighter to my lap. “You’re sittin’ there lookin’ like that, concentratin’, hair everywhere, talkin’ all soft—what d’ye expect me to do? Recite the rosary?”

She laughs — full-on, head-thrown-back, beautiful chaos — and I can’t even be mad. That sound’s been haunting me since school.

She shakes her head, biting her lip to stop smiling. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” I mutter. “But at least I’m honest.” I grumbled, shifting a bit and the bloody pillow chose to slip off a bit enough to flash her the outline of the goods.

With embarrassing speed I snatched it back.

But judging by how she looks back down at her sketchbook, cheeks pink, and says quietly, “Keep the pillow, Kavanagh.”

“Would ya look at that,” I say, voice low. “You’re blushin’, love. Thought I was the one meant to be mortified here, not you.”

Her pencil freezes mid-line, and that blush deepens — bright, real, devastating.

And just like that, I realise rock bottom doesn’t even feel that bad — not when she’s looking at me like that.