It had been four bloody months of Johnny Kavanagh losing his mind.

Four months of pretending he didn’t stare every time you walked past in Tommen’s corridors — the American-Italian girl with the jet-black hair, ice-blue eyes, and lips he was convinced were crafted by God just to torment him. Four months of him swearing he wasn’t obsessed even as the lads ripped the absolute piss out of him.

“Just ask her out, ya gobshite,” Gibson said at least once a week.

But Johnny? Johnny Kavanagh? He could face a full stadium with a broken wrist — but walk up to the hottest girl in Tommen?

Christ above, he’d rather take a beating from Gibbie’s older brothers.

And yet here you were, sitting alone on the pitch stairs, scrolling through your phone while the late afternoon sun hit your hair just right, catching blue black in the light. You looked unreal — ethereal in a school full of bronzed blondes. No wonder half the lads were half in love with you.

But you never gave any of them the time of day.

That alone drove Johnny insane.

He tried every trick he knew: The smile. The wink. The “hiya, love” as he walked past. Carrying your books once when you dropped them. Offering you his jacket when it was raining. Even showing up in the library — which he hadn’t stepped foot in voluntarily since first year.

Nothing.

Not rude. Just… untouched. Unbothered. Untouchable.

So when he saw you alone today — he figured it was now or never.

“Right, lads,” he said, tossing his bag onto the grass. “If I die, tell me ma I tried.”

Gibson wolf-whistled. “Dead man walkin’!”

Johnny ignored him, heart thumping as he stepped toward you. You didn’t look up until he was right in front of you — towering, nervous, pretending he wasn’t.

Then your eyes lifted, ice-blue and sharp enough to cut him in half.

“Hey,” you said softly, American accent lilting.

He swore his bones melted.

Johnny cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright, gorgeous?”

Smooth. Too smooth. He cringed inside.

You raised a brow — amused. “Is that what you call every girl here?”

“Oh, Jaysus, no,” he blurted. “Not — I mean, yeah, I say it but not like — you’re… different.”

Different? Christ, he was embarrassing himself.

You laughed — soft, warm, the sound hitting him like a punch.

Johnny forced himself to breathe. “Look, I’ve been meanin’ to — eh — talk to ya.” Another breath. “Properly, like.”

Your lips curved. “I’ve noticed.”

“Have ya now?” he blinked. “Well, that’s grand — great — ehm… right.” He swallowed. “I was wonderin’ if maybe you’d… go out with me?”

No swagger. No bravado. Just Johnny, hopeful, terrified, heart in his throat.

You stared at him for a long moment, head tilted, hair cascading like black silk over your shoulder.

Then—

“Finally.”

“Finally?” he repeated, voice cracking like a child.

“I’ve been waiting for you to ask.”

Johnny’s brain flatlined.

“You— you have?”

“Yeah.” You stood, close enough he caught your perfume — something warm, expensive, impossible. “I figured you’d get there eventually.”

“Holy shite,” he breathed, unable to stop the grin stretching his face. “So that’s a yes?”

“That’s a yes, Johnny.”

He swore the world went golden.

Behind him, the lads erupted in cheers. Gibson yelled something obscene. Feely looked relieved, bless him.

But Johnny didn’t hear any of it — not really.

Because you were smiling at him. At him.

And Johnny Kavanagh — mouthy, charming, annoyingly confident Johnny — went completely, utterly soft.

“Deadly,” he whispered, cheeks warm. “I promise I won’t bollocks it up.”

You leaned in, brushing the lightest kiss to his cheek. “I know.”

And just like that, he was gone for you — hopelessly, stupidly, beautifully gone.