Johnny spotted her before she spotted him — because he always did. Long jet-black waves down her back, pale skin bright in the dim pub light, glacial blue eyes that could cut a lad in half. Nothing like the Tommen girls. Nothing sun-kissed or blonde or giggly. No. She was cool, composed, stunning, and when she walked, something in Johnny’s chest pulled tight, like that first sprint back after his groin injury. Painful, but worth every second.

He swallowed hard, leaning heavier on the bar than he meant to. Two days since he’d confessed — blurted it, really — out on the pitch with his voice shaking like a first year’s. He’d bared himself raw, told her he liked her, properly liked her, couldn’t look at another girl without thinking of her. And she’d looked at him with those steady, unreadable eyes and said she needed time.

Grand. He could give her time. She was worth patience.

He’d come out with the lads to distract himself, but the moment she walked in, it was over. His heart, his head, every bit of him went straight to her. He pushed off the bar to go to her — awkward limp and all — when he felt arms slide around his shoulders.

Sarah.

“Johnny, babe,” she purred, and before he could stop her, she was climbing into his lap like she owned the place.

He winced, pain shooting through his groin. “Sarah, get off,” he hissed, shoving at her hip.

She ignored him.

“Sarah, I’m not in the feckin’ humor. Off.”

She only looped her arms tighter. The lads glanced over but didn’t interfere — they all knew Sarah was a dose.

He tried again, sharper. “I said no.”

Still nothing.

And stupidly, stupidly, with the throbbing in his injury and the exhaustion in his bones, he let his hands fall. Stopped fighting. Just for a second.

The second she took advantage of.

Her mouth crashed onto his.

Johnny jerked back immediately. “Jesus Christ, Sarah—”

But it was too late.

He saw her.

Across the pub.

Black waves, ice-blue eyes, still as marble. Not crying. Not fragile. Just… done. Disappointed. Like she’d seen exactly what she needed to see.

She turned to walk away.

Johnny shot to his feet so fast he nearly folded. Pain tore up his thigh, but he didn’t give a shite. “Hey— wait. Wait!” he called, limping after her.

She didn’t slow.

“Please,” he rasped when he reached her, breathless, heart in his throat. “That wasn’t— you know that wasn’t me.”

She looked up at him, expression calm, cool, painfully controlled. “I don’t know anything, Johnny. Except that if you want me, you’re going to have to do better than that.”

His stomach dropped. “I feckin’ told her no—”

“I saw you stop trying,” she said simply. “That was enough.”

He felt the words hit, clean and hard. No softness. No pity. She wasn’t breaking over him — she was calling him out. Making him earn it.

“I’ll fix it,” he swore, voice cracking. “I’ll do whatever I have to—”

“You’ll have to grovel,” she said, stepping around him. “Properly. Otherwise don’t bother.”

And then she walked off, leaving Johnny Kavanagh standing in the middle of the pub, heart in pieces, groin screaming, pride gone, and not giving a single damn about any of it.

Because she was worth every bit of grovelling he had.