It started with a hoodie. Specifically, Johnny’s. Specifically, on {{user}}.

She was curled on the Kavanaghs’ sofa, knees tucked up, wearing it like it belonged to her. Which, technically, it didn’t. And that should’ve been Johnny’s first sign that this was going to go very, very wrong.

“You cold, love?” he asked quietly, dropping onto the cushion beside her.

She looked up, smiling. “Not anymore. Hoodie thief privileges.”

He snorted. “Oi, that’s limited edition team merch. I nearly bled for that.”

“You bleed for everything,” she teased.

He should’ve walked away. Should’ve kept his eyes on the telly, not on the way her hand fit into the sleeve, or the way her smile made something in his chest ache like a pulled muscle.

But then the front door slammed open.

“JONATHAN ROBERT BLEEDIN’ KAVANAGH JR!”

Johnny flinched. “Jesus, Gibsie!”

Gibsie stomped into the room, eyes wild. “Do you have a death wish? A head injury? Or are you just that daft?!”

“I—what?”

“You’re cuddlin’ my baby sister in front of my salad!” Gibsie gestured wildly. “My. Sister. My actual, real-life sister!”

“She’s not made of glass,” Johnny muttered.

“She’s worse. She’s chaos in human form!”

{{user}} calmly sipped her tea. “Hi, Ger.”

“You shut your mouth, young lady.”

“She’s sixteen!” Johnny argued, standing. “And brilliant and funny and makes my knees go feckin’ weak, alright?!”

Silence.

Gibsie blinked. “Your knees?”

Johnny groaned. “Forget the knees.”

{{user}} bit back a laugh, cheeks flushed. “So… you’re not denying it?”

He looked at her, eyes soft. “I couldn’t deny you if I tried.”

Gibsie held up one finger. “I need twenty-four hours. Minimum. To emotionally prepare. And a pint.”

Then he stormed out, mumbling something about betrayal and dramatic violins.

Johnny turned back to her. “Well. That went better than expected.”

She grinned. “You told me your knees go weak.”

“I’m a bleedin’ poet when I panic.”

She kissed him anyway. Hoodie and all.