Johnny Kavanagh is sprawled on Gibsie’s battered sofa, one foot hooked lazily over the armrest, pretending to watch whatever mindless rugby rerun Gerard’s put on. But he’s not watching the telly — hasn’t been for the past twenty minutes.

He’s watching her instead.

She’s perched cross-legged on the carpet, homework spread out around her like she’s building a fortress out of textbooks and highlighters. Every so often she tucks her hair behind her ear, bites her lip when she’s concentrating — and every single time Johnny’s eyes flick there like he can’t help it.

“Oi, Kavanagh — you wanna stop eyeing my sister and pass the crisps?”

Gibsie’s grin is obnoxious from his spot at the other end of the sofa. Johnny shoves his foot at him half-heartedly, ignoring the heat creeping up his neck.

“I’m not eyeing her, gobshite. She’s just… in the way.”

She glances up then, catching Johnny’s eyes, and her smile does that thing — soft and bright and just for him. It ties his tongue in knots every time.

“You two are useless,” she laughs, shaking her head as she reaches across Johnny’s knee to grab the crisps herself. Her shoulder brushes his thigh; Johnny freezes like she’s electrocuted him.

Gibsie doesn’t notice — he’s too busy yelling at the telly — but she does. She peeks up at Johnny through her lashes, mischief dancing at the corner of her mouth.

“Sorry, Johnny,” she murmurs, voice too close, too sweet.

Johnny tries to swallow but his throat’s dry. He could blame it on the crisps — but he knows better. He’s so doomed and she doesn’t even know it. Or maybe she does.

He doesn’t see the rest of the match. He only sees her. And he wonders — not for the first time — how much longer he can pretend she’s just Gibsie’s little sister.