Johnny Kavanagh isn’t the kind of person you can just walk past. Not when they’re leaning against the goalpost, that easy grin tugging at the corners of their mouth, sweat still glistening from practice, eyes flickering with something you can’t quite name—something electric, almost dangerous. They’re your partner’s teammate, one of the star players at Tommen, infuriatingly confident, but with a charm that’s hard to resist.

They hate it, the way you light up for someone who barely notices you. Every time your partner brushes you off, cancels plans, or shows up late, Johnny’s jaw tightens, fists clenching just slightly at their sides. They tell themselves it’s not their business, that you’re off-limits, that getting involved would be crossing a line. But there’s a pull, a stubborn, unignorable part of them that aches to step in—to show you the attention and respect you deserve, to make sure no one ever makes you feel small.

It all comes to a head one chilly evening after rugby practice. The sky is bruised purple, the field quiet except for the occasional echo of laughter or the distant thump of a stray ball. You’re standing by the edge, arms crossed, scanning the players as they filter off one by one, impatience and irritation simmering beneath your calm exterior.

Johnny approaches from the side, hands in their pockets, tossing their head back in that infuriatingly casual way, hair damp and sticking slightly to their forehead. There’s a mix of apology and satisfaction in their tone as they speak.

“Your boyfriend left early,” they say, voice low, just enough for you to hear over the gentle rustle of the grass. “Didn’t even tell you?”

You roll your eyes, muttering under your breath about how you were supposed to get a ride, and for a split second, you almost wish they’d just leave you to it. But something about the way Johnny is standing there—patient, steady, impossible to ignore—makes you pause.

They hesitate, flicking a glance toward the empty parking lot, then back at you. “Look… I can drive you,” they offer finally, tone softer now, almost careful. “It’s getting late, and… you shouldn’t have to wait.”

There’s a weight in the air, something unspoken stretching between you, a moment suspended, electric with possibility. And despite yourself, you feel your chest loosen a little, the tight knot of frustration from the evening starting to untangle.

Johnny doesn’t push, doesn’t smirk, doesn’t try to charm you—yet. They just stand there, letting you decide, giving you the choice, and for the first time all week, it feels like someone sees you. Really sees you.