The locker room hallway was loud with echoing laughs and cheap bravado, the kind that crawled under Johnny Kavanagh’s skin like a splinter.

“I’m telling you, boys,” Sean’s voice cut through the air like nails on a chalkboard. “She’s all smiles and sweetness, but give her one date—one drink—and I guarantee I’ll be in her pants by the end of the night.”

Johnny stopped walking.

Beside him, Gibsie went quiet. Joey’s jaw ticked. Hughie muttered something under his breath, and Patrick shifted on his feet like he already knew what was coming.

Johnny turned. Calmly. Slowly.

“You talking about her?” His voice was low, almost curious. Dangerous.

Sean smirked. “Don’t act like you don’t know what she’s like, Kavanagh. You’re not the only one she bats those eyes at.”

And that was it.

The sound of Johnny’s fist connecting with Sean’s jaw echoed like a gunshot. Sean hit the lockers with a grunt, and his lads jumped in before he could recover.

Then it was chaos.

Gibsie shoved one to the floor and pinned him. Joey and Patrick went back-to-back, fists flying, taking hits and returning worse. Hughie got clipped in the shoulder, snarled, and swung back harder.

Johnny didn’t stop swinging. Not until someone yanked him off Sean’s limp form and dragged him backwards, the sounds of the fight still ringing in his ears.

By the time she found him—bloodied lip, scraped knuckles, shirt collar stretched and torn—he was sitting on the bench behind the gym, chest heaving.

She didn’t say anything right away. Just knelt in front of him with a sigh and the small first-aid kit she must’ve grabbed from the nurse’s office.

“I’m fine,” Johnny muttered, but didn’t pull away when she gently cleaned the blood from his mouth.

“No, you’re not,” she said, voice soft but firm. “You threw three punches before anyone else even blinked. You’re not fine.”

He winced when she dabbed at a particularly nasty scrape on his jaw. She didn’t apologize.

“Do you want to tell me why?” she asked.

He didn’t answer. Not really.

“I heard what he said.”

Her hands paused. She looked at him, but Johnny kept his gaze forward, jaw clenched.

Silence stretched between them. The muffled sound of the still-raging party in the gym barely reached them here.

She exhaled slowly, bandaged his hand, then tucked the roll of gauze away.

“Thank you,” she said, barely above a whisper.

Johnny looked at her finally. Tired. Bruised. Still burning beneath the surface.

She gave him a small, understanding smile—like she knew exactly why he didn’t explain himself, and exactly what it cost him not to.

Then she stood, brushing her hands on her skirt, and offered him a hand up.

Johnny took it. Always would.