SKYFALL, Johnny Kavanagh

I'm not leaving

Johnny's Point of View

I couldn't feel my fingers.
Maybe it was the cold.
Maybe it was the way Maeve had just dropped the truth like it was nothing – like telling me she took fentanyl almost every day was the same as saying it might rain tomorrow.

She didn't flinch.
Didn't try to soften the blow.
Didn't make a show of it.

She just handed it over – like it was fact.
Like it had always been there, waiting.

And maybe it had.

My mouth opened before I knew what I was saying.
"I'm trying to keep you alive."

It came out quieter than I meant, and heavier than I could handle.
But I didn't take it back.

Because that was the truth of it.
All of it.
That was why I'd kept showing up with tea and stupid grins and patient silences that cost me more than I'd ever admit out loud.

Maeve didn't say anything.
She just stared ahead, eyes fixed on some far-off point like she could blink this all away. Like maybe if she didn't look at me, none of it would be real.

But I was done pretending.
Done sitting beside her like the things we didn't say weren't choking both of us.

"You think I'd ever use that against you?" I asked, voice rough from the tightness in my throat.

She glanced at me, just once, then looked away again. "I don't know."

That hurt more than it should have.
But I didn't let it show.

"I wouldn't." I said simply. "Not ever."

The silence that followed wasn't sharp.
It was hollow.
Like all the air between us had been drained out and replaced with something heavier.

I hated that quiet.
Not because it was uncomfortable – Maeve and I had lived in uncomfortable silences for months – but because it meant she was pulling away again.

Bracing.
Fortifying.

But she didn't run.
She just sat there, still as anything, the wind tugging at her hair, her fingers curled in her lap like she was trying to keep them from shaking.

"Is it bad?"

"You already know it is." She said softly.

I nodded. "Anyone else know?"

"Niamh. That's it." She shifted slightly, shoulders curling in.

"She tried to help?" I asked.

"She tried. I said no."

"Why?"

"Because." She said. "When I stop, everything gets worse."

"And Joey?" I asked.

"I think he suspects. But he doesn't know it's fentanyl. I don't think he wants to."

I swallowed hard.
It felt like she'd handed me a grenade and dared me to hold it.

No pin.
No warning.
Just here – this is what I am.
Good luck.

"You're not a junkie." I said quietly.

Maeve gave a small, bitter laugh. "You don't get to decide that."

"No," I said. "But I get to decide what I see."

"And what do you see?" She asked finally, voice too steady to be casual.

I turned, met her eyes. "Someone who's hurting and doesn't think she's allowed to ask for help."

She scoffed, eyes flicking away. "You sound like a pamphlet."

I didn't blink. "You sound like someone who wants me to stop caring so it's easier to leave."

That silenced her.

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, head in my hands for a second.
Breathed.
Tried to piece myself together enough to say the next thing right.

"You told me because you wanted to make things even." I said.

Maeve nodded, not looking at me.

I looked at her anyway. "Then that's the last time we do that."

Her brow furrowed. "What?"

"No more trading secrets like currency." I said. "You don't have to tell me something just because I told you something. You tell me because you want me to know. Not because you think I'll disappear if you don't."

She looked at me then – not angry.
Just wary.

"You don't need to earn me, Maeve." I said. "I'm already here."

Her throat bobbed. "Johnny—"

"I'm not going anywhere." I said it again, slower. "So stop bracing for it."

Something shifted in her face.

"I'm not good at this." She whispered. "Letting people in."

"I know."

"I ruin things."

"You haven't ruined anything."

"Yet."

I let out a breath. "Then let me be the one thing you don't."

She didn't answer right away.
But she didn't pull away either.

And sometimes that was as close to trust as someone like Maeve could get.

We sat there for a while.
Long enough for the wind to sting my ears and my knees to start stiffening from the cold.

Eventually, someone shouted from the bus.
"Ten minutes, you muppets!"

I stood slowly, stretching out the ache in my back.

"You alright?" I asked.

Maeve nodded, still staring at the ground. "Yeah. Just needed to sit still for a bit."

I held out a hand.

She hesitated.

Then she took it.

Didn't let go.

And when we walked back to the bus, fingers still tangled, she didn't say a word.
She didn't have to.

Because I knew – for now – she was letting me stay.