SKYFALL, Johnny Kavanagh

It's a date

Maeve's Point of View

The first thing I noticed was warmth.

The second thing was the sound of breathing.

For half a second, my body tensed.
My brain reached for panic before it even registered where I was.
But then the rest of me caught up – the scent of laundry detergent that wasn't mine, the weight of the blanket pulled over my shoulder, the soft exhale from the floor where Sookie had shifted in her sleep.

Johnny.

I exhaled, pressing my forehead against the pillow.
I was in Johnny's room.
Not there.

I flexed my fingers against the fabric of the hoodie I'd slept in.
I'd spent half the night curled into it without thinking.

But there was nothing to brace for here.

No whiskey-stained threats waiting in the dark.
No footsteps creeping down the hall.
Just quiet.

I rolled onto my side.
Johnny was still asleep, facing the other way, one arm tucked under his pillow.

I watched the way his shoulders rose and fell, the way the early morning light traced across his back.

It was strange, being here.

I turned my head slightly, staring at the ceiling.

I should get up.
Should get out of bed, grab my stuff, figure out what time the first bus back to the house was.

But my body didn't move.
I let myself take one more breath.
Then another.

Just a little longer.

I didn't mean to fall asleep again.

But the warmth, the quiet, the steady rhythm of Johnny's breathing – it pulled me under before I even realized it.

No dreams.
No restless tossing.
Just sleep.

When I woke again, the light in the room had shifted.
It was brighter now, spilling through the curtains, stretching long shadows across the floor.

And something was wrong.
Not wrong, exactly.
Just different.

The blanket was still draped over me.
Sookie was still curled up in her spot.

But the steady rise and fall of breathing beside me was gone.

I sat up too fast, my pulse spiking before I could stop it.
The bed was empty.

Johnny was gone.

I pushed the blanket off, swinging my legs over the edge.
My hands curled into fists, nails pressing into my palms as I tried to think.

Where had he gone?
How long had I been asleep?
Had I overstayed?
Should I have left earlier?
Was he mad?
Was this the part where the kindness ran out?

I stepped into the hallway, heartbeat hammering.
But then the smell hit me.

Warm.
Sweet.

Pancakes.

Then I heard it – the soft clatter of a pan, the scrape of something against a plate.

I followed the sound, my feet moving before my brain fully caught up.
And then I saw him.

Johnny stood in the kitchen, back to me, flipping a pancake onto a plate.
He was wearing an old t-shirt, his hair still messy from sleep, moving with that easy, unhurried confidence he always had.