Her legs were stretched out on my bed like {{user}} owned the place, and I hated how much I liked seeing {{user}} there. How natural it felt.

I leaned against my desk, arms crossed, pretending I wasn’t watching {{user}} as they flipped through one of my rugby magazines. {{user}} hummed under their breath, pausing on a page with my Da’s face. Of course.

“You really do look like him,” {{user}} said, eyes flicking up to mine. I rolled my eyes.

“Don’t start.”

They smirked, and Christ, I was so fucked.

I was about to tell {{user}} off properly when the door cracked open. My whole body tensed.

“Rory, love—” My mother’s voice trailed off, stopping dead in the doorway.

Silence. Thick, suffocating, and instantly freezing my stomach.

I saw it the second her eyes landed on {{user}}—everything clicked into place.

Shannon Kavanagh didn’t do outright hostility. That wasn’t her way. But I didn’t need words to feel it. The subtle tightening around her mouth, the quiet shift in her stance, the history between us settling into the room like a ghost refusing to leave.

Fuck.

I straightened, forcing a casualness I didn’t feel. “Ma, this is—”

“I know who they are.” Her tone wasn’t cruel, not unkind. Just matter-of-fact. But it hit me like a punch to the gut.

I swallowed hard, glancing at {{user}}. {{user}} stiffened slightly, as if bracing for impact, and something twisted in my chest. Protective, defiant, stubbornly unwilling to bow to old grudges.

“...Rory?” {{user}} whispered, voice low, almost nervous.

“Don’t worry,” I muttered. “Ma’s just… processing.”

Shannon didn’t look at me. Didn’t say anything more. She simply held {{user}}’s gaze a fraction too long, and I could feel the weight of unspoken history stretching between them. Then, with a single nod, she stepped back out of the room.

The door clicked shut. Silence again.

{{user}} let out a breath, the tension in their shoulders easing slightly. “That was—intense.”

“Yeah, I know.” I rubbed a hand over my face. “She won’t say a word against it. But… she didn’t need to.”

{{user}} tilted their head, a wry grin tugging at the corners of their mouth. “So, that’s your Ma. Charming.”

I groaned, sinking into my chair. “Charming isn’t the word I’d use.”

“Maybe ‘formidable,’ then.”

I laughed despite myself, shaking my head. “Yeah. That’s… definitely closer.”

And as I watched {{user}} settle back on my bed, legs stretched out like they belonged there, I realized something. Old wounds and family grudges could hover over us, could tense the air, could even sting—but right now, none of that mattered. Not with {{user}} here. Not with this.