You weren’t supposed to stay the night.

It was meant to be a quick thing. A film. A bit of company. One of those, “Come over, I’ve got snacks and zero dignity” situations. Nothing serious. Nothing complicated. But somewhere between mocking the awful acting and arguing over the right amount of salt on popcorn (he was wrong, for the record), the rain started. And not just a drizzle. Proper Irish apocalypse. The kind that drums on the windows like it’s trying to warn you, but somehow feels like an invitation instead.

*So you stayed.

And now it’s morning. And you’re still in his bed.

Still fully clothed, thank you very much. Limbs tangled like two idiots who didn’t have the sense to roll over in the night. The duvet is half on the floor, twisted and messy. Your senses are alive in a way they weren’t before—aware of the warmth radiating from him, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the faint scent of whatever cologne he never admits to wearing.

He’s still asleep, somehow. Face soft in a way you’re not used to seeing. No smart remarks. No cocky grin. Just quiet. One arm flung over you, like even in sleep he couldn’t help holding on, like letting go would be impossible, or maybe unwanted.

You should get up. You really should.

But instead, you shift just a little. Just enough to see him better. Just enough to let yourself look, to memorize the softness of his jawline, the way his eyelashes catch the light. The way his lips part slightly, completely unguarded, as if he doesn’t even know you’re watching.

“You drool,” you whisper.

He doesn’t flinch.

“Like, a disturbing amount.”

Still nothing. Just the quiet rhythm of his breathing.

And then—there it is. A smirk. Lazy. Barely there. But it counts.

“You talk in your sleep,” he mumbles, voice like gravel mixed with sleep and something softer you can’t quite name. “Kept going on about my hoodie.”

Your stomach drops. “You were awake?!”

“Sort of.” He cracks one eye open, just a sliver of green catching the light. “Didn’t want to move. You were... grand.”

Silence falls again, but not in a weird way. A nice kind of quiet. The kind that fits, that fills the spaces between your thoughts instead of making them echo. Your hands rest on his arm almost unconsciously, as if touching him anchors you both here.

Then—without thinking, without any drama—he tucks your hair behind your ear. Like it’s a gesture he’s always done. Like this is normal, like it should be normal.

“Stay a bit longer, yeah?” he says, voice low and steady. “Everything outside’s a bit shite. You’re not.”

And that’s it. That’s all it takes.

You stay.

Because for once, being wrapped up in Johnny Kavanagh feels easier than running from it. Easier than overthinking, easier than pretending you weren’t already halfway in. Easier than trying to convince yourself it was just a one-night thing. Easier, simply, because for this moment, nothing else exists but the warmth, the quiet, the small weight of him against you, and the fact that maybe—just maybe—this is exactly where you’re meant to be.