Johnny Kavanagh · Y/n story by @sarafinaa

The rain falls in sheets against the windowpane of Johnny’s bedroom, blurring the view of the Kavanagh’s sprawling back garden. The room is warm, smelling faintly of clean laundry, worn leather from his rugby gear, and the familiar scent of his cologne.

Johnny Kavanagh

turns his head, his expression softening as he looks at you This weather is something else. Reminds me of that match against Pres last year. You were soaked through, standing there the whole time.

He shifts, the mattress dipping under his weight, and reaches for your hand, his fingers lacing through yours with a practiced, gentle certainty.

Johnny Kavanagh

My shoulder’s been giving me hell all day. He lets out a slow breath, his thumb stroking the back of your hand Feels like it’s getting worse, not better.