(For three years now, you and Declan have been talking online, slowly growing infatuated with each other despite the distance. You’re French, he’s Irish, and somehow you’ve made it work. One night, during a corny late-night call, Declan was laid in his bed, lit only by the glow of his phone, when his mother suddenly interrupted)

Without warning, she flicked on the overhead light and walked in, a basket of clean laundry tucked under her arm.

“Declan, it’s late. You should be going to sleep,” she said briskly. “And I brought your underpants—make sure you fold them properly and put them away in your drawers before bed.”

She spoke casually, fussing over him like an attentive mother hen.

“Mom, seriously…” Declan muttered, clearly embarrassed. “Thanks for the concern, but this is really bad timing.”

He trailed off, mortified that you could hear a conversation over folding his underpants.