SKYFALL, Johnny Kavanagh

I'm in love with you

Johnny's Point of View

The front door clicked shut behind her, and it might as well have been a gunshot.

I stood there, frozen, still breathing like I hadn't been punched in the chest three fucking times in a row.
The taste of her was still on my mouth.
Her voice still in my head.

I'm falling in love with you.

Fuck.

My hands were still hanging uselessly at my sides, fingertips tingling like they hadn't gotten the message that she was already gone.
I stared at the door like I could will it open again.
Like she'd walk back in and say she didn't mean it – or worse, that she did mean it but wanted to try anyway.

But she didn't come back.
Of course she didn't.

I should've gone after her.
I should've stopped her.
I should've said something – anything – before she disappeared out that door and took my fucking sanity with her.

But I didn't.

Because I couldn't move.
Because I'd never felt anything like that kiss before.

Nothing even close.

It wasn't perfect.
It wasn't clean or practiced.

It was a crash.
A detonation.
A moment where something inside me completely fucking gave out.

And it terrified me.

Because for the first time in a long time, I hadn't felt like I was playing a part.
Like I was the rugby lad with a bright future and a strict routine and a body being pushed toward the edge of burnout for the sake of a sport.

I'd just felt like me.

And she'd kissed me.
And now she was gone.

I turned in a slow circle, like the room might explain what the fuck had just happened.

The couch looked the same.
The half-empty mug of tea she'd left behind was still sitting on the coffee table.

The film was still paused on the screen.

"Fuck." I muttered to no one, scrubbing a hand over my face.

The air was too heavy.
And my chest still ached in a way I didn't know how to fix.

I walked back to the couch, sat down hard, elbows on my knees, head in my hands.

What the hell had we done?
What the hell had I done?

I replayed the fight over in my head, like torture.

The way she'd looked at me, wild and furious and aching.
The way she'd said it, "I hate that you make me feel safe. I hate that you make me feel anything."
The way she'd broken, just before the kiss.

God, that kiss.

I felt like I was still trying to crawl out of it, like it had branded itself into my mouth, my skin, my fucking bones.

And it hadn't been just her.

I'd wanted it too.
I'd needed it.

Like air.
Like blood.
Like something I didn't even know I was starved for until it was right in front of me.

I'd kissed her like I was afraid she'd vanish mid-breath, like I was afraid that if I didn't hold her close enough, she'd dissolve.
But she still did.
She still walked away.

Because Maeve didn't believe in good things.
Didn't believe she could have them.
And I didn't know how to make her believe it.

I couldn't chase her.
Not like this.
Not when she was already halfway out the door in her mind before her body followed.

She needed space.
That was what I told myself, anyway.

It sounded better than she doesn't want you.
Better than you're not enough to make her stay.
Better than the truth.

Because if I started believing the truth – that she didn't want anything more – then I didn't know what the fuck I'd do.

She'd seen me.
That was the worst part.
She'd seen me.

Seen through every wall, every mask, every layer of bullshit I thought I'd kept up.

Called me a coward for pushing through the pain.
For pretending like my body wasn't falling apart.
For treating my career like it was the only thing that mattered, like I didn't matter outside of it.

And fuck, maybe she was right.

Maybe I was a coward.
Maybe I was just as scared as she was — only better at pretending I wasn't.
But she was scared too.

That much was obvious now.

She'd kissed me like she wanted to burn it into her memory and run at the same time.
She'd looked at me like she wanted to believe I was real.

And when she left, she looked like she was punishing herself for even feeling something at all.

I swallowed hard, throat tight.
I couldn't shake the look in her eyes when she said it.
I'm falling in love with you.

No one had ever said that to me before.

And now I didn't know what to do with it.
Didn't know how to breathe through it.
Didn't know how to hold it without dropping it.

She was in love with me.

And the worst part?

I was in love with her too.

Maybe I'd known it for a while.
Maybe I'd been trying to shove it down, bury it under banter and distance and distraction.

But I'd never stood a chance.

Not from the moment she walked into my life and looked at me like I wasn't the person everyone else saw.
Not from the moment she snapped at me in the corridor and called me Jimmy.
Not from the moment she let me in – just a little – and I'd clung to it like it was air.

I leaned forward again, pressing my elbows to my knees, head bowed.
She was in love with me.

And she didn't think she deserved it.
And now she was out there, alone, carrying that weight like it was punishment for daring to feel something good.

I should've gone after her.
But I didn't.
I couldn't.

Not until I figured out how to stop being a coward myself.
Not until I figured out how to hold onto her without scaring her away.
Not until I was ready to tell her that I was already hers – whether she wanted me or not.

Because she might not believe in good things.
But I did.

And I believed in her.
Even if she didn't believe in herself.
Not yet.

But maybe someday.
Maybe soon.
Maybe the next time she walked through that door.

Because I wasn't letting go.
Not of her.
Not of us.

Not now.
Not ever.