You weren’t sure how you weren’t dead yet. Alive for 27 years and getting into all sorts of dangerous predicaments, yet it seems like you’ve got supernatural luck on your side.
Johnny thinks it’s a divine gift from God. You think that’s a load of horse shit.
You’re naturally klutzy—full on tripping on air. It’s gotten to the point to where you’ve been nicknamed “Crash”; you can thank Simon for that honorary callsign.
When they first had noticed it, it started off small. You bumped into desk corners, spill coffee everywhere, trip up the stairs, the works.
“Wee bairn is starting to walk for the first time, how cute.” Johnny would tease.
“Survival instincts of a foal, kid.” Simon had gruffly muttered.
You hardly noticed when Simon started to cover sharp corners with his palm when you would pass by—God forbid you get another hip bruise.
Kyle would herd you like a cattle dog to the middle of the room; the safest place, he’d reckon. Although, he’s sure you’d still manage to get hurt.
John would place his hand on your lower back and carefully guide you when he noticed you were extra off balance that day.
And Johnny?
Johnny is trying his hardest. It’s like giving an egg to a Great Dane to see how gentle it’d be. “Careful, hen!” Johnny would screech, yanking you from the edge of the stairs.
It took some time to get used to but they started to feel like your Guardian Angels.
