There’s a theory—yeah, that lads only do push-ups when there’s someone watching.

I used to call bullshit. Sure, the gym heads in Tommen practically turn into performing monkeys when someone attractive walks past, but I’ve never been that person. Never felt the need.

Until now.

Because {{user}} is lying underneath me on the pitch, laughing, and I don’t think I’ve ever been this focused in my life. Every sense is sharp, every nerve on fire. The smell of grass, the warmth of the sun, the way their hair fans across the ground—it all hits me at once.

“Go on, Kav,” someone jeers from the sidelines. “Ten more and you get a kiss.”

I scoff, shaking my head, but I drop down anyway, arms burning as I lower myself. Closer. Closer. Close enough to catch the subtle hitch in {{user}}’s breath, the way their eyes flick to my mouth for just a heartbeat.

Jesus Christ.

The lads are half-watching, half-distracted by their own shite, but {{user}} is fully tuned in, lips twitching as if they’re holding back the smirk of the century. I dip down one more time and—

A quick peck. Just a ghost of a kiss, barely there, but enough to send something molten crawling down my spine.

The boys go mental.

Wolf whistles, shouts of “GET IN, LAD!” and other embarrassingly enthusiastic noises fill the air, but I barely hear them. Because {{user}} is still looking at me like that, like they know exactly what they’re doing, like they’ve read every thought in my head and decided to tease me with it.

I grin, dropping again. Another kiss.

This time, {{user}} laughs, hands coming up to my shoulders like they’re pretending to shove me off. “Johnny, you’re such a sap.”

“Quit playing the saint and admit you’re loving every second,” I murmur, dropping once more, voice low, close to their lips. “S’not like I’m seeing you complain.”

I get my answer when {{user}} meets me halfway, lips pressing against mine with just enough heat to make the world blur for a moment. I can feel their laugh vibrate against me, the subtle push and pull, and suddenly the pitch, the lads, the sun—all of it—fades away. There’s only this. Only them. Only now.

And yeah… maybe the theory’s right. Maybe all it takes is {{user}} lying there, watching, and suddenly I’m the performing monkey I swore I’d never be.