After telling Johnny you’d be going out that night, he stood by you, watching you get dressed with his brows furrowed.

“Who’ll make me supper?” He asks, leaning further against the doorframe and when you told him to make his dinner, he groaned dramatically.

“Yer heid’s full o’ mince,” John responded exasperatedly as his stomach growled, he stood like a child, sheepishly waiting for you to cave to his needs.

“You always make the best food, m'eudail.” He added, attempting to sweeten the pot.