Rory and Johnny are outside destroying the back garden with a wheelbarrow and half a shovel.

I’m inside on the Kavanaghs’ couch, allegedly tired, but actually just hiding from manual labour and, more importantly, hiding from her. “I’m tired,” was all I said. I did not know those two words would result in {{user}} babying the crap out of me and pretending as if I was going to die.

Is it bad that I played into it? Pretended to be sick?

Because suddenly, there’s the sound of socks on hardwood, and there she is—{{user}}—walking in with a level of quiet purpose that tells me I’m about to be mothered into submission.

“You look wrecked,” she says softly, frowning like I just told her I haven’t eaten in three days.

I haven’t. Not properly. Not since you smiled at me in that stupid lake hoodie and I lost the will to function.

“I’m good,” I say, too fast, too defensively.

She ignores me. Fully, utterly, ignores me.

She disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a full glass of water, two biscuits, a banana, and some kind of chewable vitamin she probably smuggled out of her mum’s cupboard. She sets them all down on the coffee table with this little huff, like I’m the problem.

Then she places one hand on her hip and points at the water.

“Drink.”

Oh my God. Okay, Mum. But like… sexy? Is this a kink? Do I have a carer kink now?

I take the glass. Drink it. Obey. Because what else am I gonna do, disobey an angel?

She plops down beside me and starts fussing with the blanket, pulling it over my lap and tucking it in at the corners like I’m in a hospital bed.

Stop. Stop. I’m not strong enough for this. My heart is doing things.

“Your hands are freezing,” she mutters, grabbing them without warning and sandwiching them between hers.

My soul exits my body.

She’s frowning at me again. That concerned, bossy little frown like I’m a baby bird with a sprained wing.

“Have you been getting enough sleep?”

“I—” “No, don’t lie.”

I wasn’t going to lie. I was going to collapse from affection but okay.

“You’ve got that tired look,” she continues, squeezing my hands. “And you’ve been so quiet today. You’re not getting sick, are you? You’d tell me, right?”

I’d tell you anything. I’d confess my deepest sins. I’d hand over state secrets. You could ask for my soul and I’d say ‘do you want it alphabetised?’

“I’m just a bit run down,” I mumble, praying my voice doesn’t crack. “Didn’t sleep much last night.”

She doesn’t even hesitate—just moves behind me and starts gently running her fingers through my hair like this is normal.

It’s not normal. It’s divine. It’s illegal in seventeen countries. I am going to cry in front of God.

“Poor thing,” she says, quiet and warm. “I hate when you’re like this.”

Like this. As if I’m weak. Tired. Small. But instead of humiliating, it’s… nice?

Is this what comfort feels like? Is this what being babied by the girl you’re in love with does to a man?

I could get used to this. I could build a whole life on this moment. I could fake exhaustion every day for the rest of my life if it meant she kept rubbing my scalp like this.

The kettle clicks off in the kitchen.

“Stay,” she says gently, like I’d even consider moving. “I’ll make you tea.”

And I do. I stay. Wrapped in a blanket. On her couch. With a biscuit in one hand and the other still tingling from where she held it.

This is the peak of my life. Nothing will ever compare. I am fifteen years old and this is my emotional retirement.