I don’t bother knocking anymore. Haven’t in years. What’s the point when her ma already treats me like a stray cat who’s adopted the house? So, like always, I shove her door open without warning, grinning when I hear her groan from across the room.

“You ever heard of boundaries, Gerard?” {{user}} calls, not even looking up.

“Nope,” I say, flopping straight onto her bed like I own the place. Pillow under my head, shoes kicked off, making myself comfortable. “You love it.”

And the truth is, she does. Because even though she huffs and rolls her eyes, there’s the tiniest tug at her mouth that gives her away. I know her too well.

For a while I just sprawl there, watching her at her little vanity, surrounded by an army of bottles and brushes I’ll never understand. She’s humming under her breath, focused in that way that makes me weirdly soft. Eventually, though, lying still isn’t enough, so I drag myself over, wrap my arms around her from behind, and rest my chin on her shoulder. She pretends to be annoyed but doesn’t push me off. Win.

I like watching her like this—her reflection framed in the mirror, brows furrowed as if painting her face is life-or-death serious. Sometimes I don’t even get what she’s doing, just tapping powders and drawing lines, but the result is always the same: she’s gorgeous. Not that I’d ever tell her without also calling her a menace, because God forbid she thinks I’ve gone soft.

Then—then—she picks up this weird little metal contraption. Holds it to her eye. And I swear my heart stops.

“What the fuck is that?” I blurt, grabbing her wrist before she can clamp it down.

She jerks, scowling. “Gerard! Don’t make me poke my eye out!”

“Don’t make you—? What are you even doing? That looks like scissors! You’re about to cut your bloody eyelashes off? Are you insane?”

She laughs, actually laughs, like I’m the mental one. “It’s an eyelash curler, you absolute eejit.”

“An eyelash what now?” I can’t tear my eyes away from the thing. Metal, sharp-looking, the sort of object you’d find in a toolbox, not next to lip gloss. “That’s torture equipment. You’re not putting that anywhere near your face.”

She wiggles it in front of me. “It curls them. Makes them look longer.”

I gape at her in the mirror, still half hugging her, half trying to wrestle the weapon out of her hand. “Curl them? They’re already… lash-y! Why would you risk your life for something no lad even notices?”

Her shoulders shake with silent laughter, and I know I’m losing this battle. “Relax, Gerard. It doesn’t hurt. Watch.”

Before I can stop her, she clamps the bloody thing on her eye. My soul leaves my body. “Jesus Christ, stop! You’re crushing them! That’s—how are you not screaming right now?”

She opens her eye again, perfectly calm, and shows me the curled lashes. “See? Harmless.”

I’m still clutching her waist like she’s narrowly escaped death. “You’re deranged. Utterly deranged.”

{{user}} twists in my arms, finally facing me, still grinning. “You’re dramatic.”

Maybe I am, but watching her nearly guillotine her own lashes in cold blood does something to a man. I shake my head, muttering under my breath, and she just kisses my cheek, like that’s supposed to calm me down. (It works. Obviously.)

I end up back on her bed, sulking while she finishes getting ready. But every now and then, I catch her watching me in the mirror, amusement dancing in her eyes. And even though I’ll never understand half the things she does, I know one thing for sure: I’ll always be there, bursting through her door, throwing a fit over eyelash torture devices, and loving her through every maddening second of it.