SKYFALL, Johnny Kavanagh

Complicated and unsustainable

Johnny's Point of View

As soon as Maeve disappeared down the hall and the bathroom door clicked shut, I sank into my chair again with a low sigh.

Which was, apparently, Gibsie's cue to pounce.

"So." He began, tone far too innocent to be genuine. "Want to tell me what the hell is going on?"

I blinked at him. "What?"

"Don't what me, Johnny. I'm not an idiot."

I sighed and leaned back in my chair, rubbing a hand over my face. "Nothing's going on."

Gibsie arched a brow so high it practically hit his hairline. "Nothing's going on? Right. So she's just been casually sleeping in your bed for two nights, making you pancakes in your kitchen, wearing your clothes, using your shower like she lives here."

"She doesn't live here."

"She basically does."

"She's been here since Friday."

"Since Friday." He echoed. "It's Sunday, Johnny! That's a weekend. A whole romantic-comedy-worthy weekend. I need answers."

"Not really your business, is it?"

"Not my." He looked personally offended. "It is exactly my business when you, the emotionally repressed, soon-to-be professional rugby player, suddenly decide to start playing house with the school's most untouchable scholarship student. Especially when you're both my friends."

I rolled my eyes. "We're not playing house."

"Then what are you playing? Because I refuse to believe nothing's happened."

"Nothing has happened." I said firmly.

"Yeah, right." Gibsie snorted. "You, who literally cannot keep your hands to yourself around her, have spent the last two nights sharing a bed with her, and you expect me to believe that absolutely nothing–" He made a vague, obscene gesture with his hands. "Happened?"

"Jesus, Gibsie!" I hissed.

"Well?" He pressed.

"Well what?"

"What the hell is going on?" Gibsie leaned in further. "Have you kissed her? I'm guessing you're still incapacitated in the other department."

"What? No."

"Have you wanted to?"

"I'm not answering that."

"Oh my God." He gasped. "You do."

I scrubbed a hand down my face again. "Can you stop?"

"I'm just trying to understand the situation." He said, way too pleased with himself. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're halfway to being completely in love with her and too chickenshit to do anything about it."

"I'm not in love with her."

"Sure." He drawled. "And I'm the Queen of England."

"Can we talk about something else?"

"No. This is important. You're clearly into her, she clearly doesn't hate you – which is saying something, considering she wanted to murder you that first week – and now you're just sitting here acting like this is all fine and casual and nothing's going on."

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "She needed somewhere to stay. It's complicated."

"Oh, complicated. Fantastic. That's always a great start."