The music was loud, the kind that shook in your chest, bass rattling glasses and laughter bouncing off the walls. The lads were in full swing—pints in hand, cheeks flushed, every one of them loud enough to get them thrown out if the bouncer was in a mood.

Gibsie was the first to start, leaning back with a grin that could light up Cork. “Swear to God, lads, Claire walked into the club earlier, and I nearly fell off my chair. Couldn’t think of a word. Her tits were practically—”

He didn’t get to finish because Hughie drove an elbow straight into his ribs. “Don't fecking talk about my sister like that, gobshite.”

Joey, already leaning into his pint, smirked. “Wet dreams. All the time. Can’t fecking help it when it’s Aoife.”

The table erupted with cackles, groans of disgust, and a couple of pint glasses nearly spilling from how hard the lads were pounding the table. Even Patrick—quiet, guarded Feely—just smiled to himself, eyes flicking almost unconsciously across the room to where Katie was dancing.

Johnny caught that look. He wasn’t surprised—he’d always suspected Patrick had something soft tucked away for her.

But while the others bragged and laughed and painted their girls in half-drunken praise, Johnny only smiled to himself. He didn’t need to speak up. Didn’t need to tell them what they already knew: that he was ruined for anyone else.

Because when he thought of you, it wasn’t just the body that came to mind—though Christ, you were a dream. Petite, soft curves, breasts just enough to fill his hands, the kind of beauty that made his throat tighten when you weren’t even trying.

No, the best part wasn’t your body. It was your eyes. Those ocean-blue, wide doe eyes that looked at him like he was worth something. That undid him faster than anything else.

He was still smiling to himself when it happened.

You walked in.

And suddenly, the club didn’t matter. The noise, the lads, the smell of beer and sweat—it all blurred out of focus. His chest locked tight, his pint forgotten in his hand.

“Feck me,” Gibsie muttered, grinning wide. “Look at {{user}}—”

The table erupted again, whoops and elbows knocking into Johnny, teasing him about the way your dress clung to you, about how he was staring too openly.

But Johnny couldn’t hear a word of it. Not really. Because all he could see was you—face soft, hair shining under the neon, those blue eyes scanning the room like you were searching for something. For someone.

For him.

His body moved before his head caught up, legs carrying him away from the table, away from the lads’ laughter. And for the first time in years, Johnny Kavanagh felt like a schoolboy again—heart hammering, palms sweating, chest rising and falling too fast.

Because you were here. You were looking for him. And he’d never get used to the way that felt.

And then your eyes found his.

Those ocean-blue eyes, soft but sharp, locking onto him across the haze of smoke and strobe lights. You didn’t smile, not right away—you just stared. And Johnny swore he forgot how to breathe.

By the time he reached you, the noise of the party was nothing but static.

“You came,” he managed, voice rough, trying for casual but falling short.

His hand brushed yours—just a touch, tentative, a question. And when you didn’t pull away, when your fingers curled slightly against his, Johnny swore he could’ve flown.

The music pulsed, lights flashing red and gold, but the world had narrowed to this: your hand in his, your eyes on him, the small shy laugh you let slip when he leaned down and said—

“Dance with me?”