I never thought I’d end up half-asleep at dawn, hair a mess, drowning in my own oversized hoodie, changing the damn bedsheets while Chloe complains like I’m the one dragging her out of heaven.

“Seriously, Tadhg,” she mutters. “It’s always you. Always. I swear these sheets have seen more miles than Ollie on his bike.”

I look at her, offended on a spiritual level. “Excuse me? Me? You’re blaming me?”

“Yes, you,” she shoots back, arms full of pillowcases like she’s preparing for battle. “Makeup, lipstick stains, all that witchcraft you put in your hair—”

“Oh, please. What comes off your body leaves plenty behind,” she says, throwing a pillowcase straight at my shoulder. “If we start counting stains, babe, you’re not winning.”

“That’s a lie!” I point at her with the sheet rolled up in my fist. “A straight-up LIE!”

She starts laughing because I can feel my face getting hot. “Oh, come on. Your stains even have texture sometimes.”

“Can you please NOT say things like that?” I groan. “Edel already thinks I’m feral.”

“A little bit,” she teases.

“Chloe…” I try to glare, but she knows I’m losing the fight. “Help me finish or I’m jumping out the window.”

She sighs and comes over, and we start stretching the fitted sheet like two drunk acrobats.

“Pull from there,” she says.

“Where? Your arm is blocking the grip point!”

“The what?”

“The grip point!” I repeat, tugging the elastic like it’s forged out of steel.

“Tadhg, it’s a sheet.”

“It doesn’t feel like one,” I argue, using my knee for extra leverage.

I finally lock the corner into place and fall back on the bed with my arms spread out like I just completed a pilgrimage.

“I’m dead.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“Dead and dramatic. Leave me here.”

She flops onto me, and my arms wrap around her before I can think. She fits against me so easily that my heartbeat starts slowing down on instinct. Her fingers run through my hair, and I swear her touch could knock me out cold.

“Honestly…” she murmurs. “Do you really think I’m the one who dirties the sheets?”

“Yes,” I say, without hesitation.

“You’re an asshole.”

“But I’m your asshole.” I grin into her clavicle, and she smacks me lightly.

We end up lying on the freshly made bed, exhausted, dark circles and all.

“Come on, sleep,” she says, pulling the blanket up.

“Yeah. Because if Edel sees the sheets in the bin, we’re dead.”

“She won’t.”

I look at her, scandalized. “Chloe… when has Edel not noticed something?”

“…Okay, never.”

“Exactly. We’re screwed.”

We fall asleep tangled up, like always. And like always, I start snoring before she can even blink. At least, that’s what she tells me.

Sunlight hits straight in my eyes. No mercy. The Kavanaghs have a vendetta against blackout curtains.

I wake with half of my body thrown over Chloe—leg hooked around her waist, arm draped over her stomach, my face buried in her neck. The exact position that makes her unable to move me without the strength of a forklift.

“Tadhg…” she whispers.

“Mmm.”

“We need to take the sheets down.”

“Mmm.”

“It’s Saturday.”

“Mmm.”

“If Edel sees them—”

The moment she says “Edel,” I sit up like someone set off a fire alarm.

“What? Already?” My hair’s sticking up everywhere. “We barely slept.”

“Because you complained for an hour.”

“Because you kept making a bigger mess.”

She throws a pillow at my face.

We gather the sheets and head to the kitchen. Edel is making coffee, Shannon is scrolling on her phone.

“Sheets in the basket, you two,” Edel says. “It’s Saturday.”

“These are practically new,” I lie, with the innocence of a six-year-old. “We changed them like… three days ago. Four. Tops. They’re clean.”

Shannon looks up, crosses her arms, and smirks like she knows every sin we’ve ever committed.

“Yeah, sure. ‘Clean.’ Right.”

Chloe looks down, trying not to laugh. I glare at Shannon.

“Shut up, Shannon.”

“Oh, please.” She fans herself dramatically. “You can HEAR it on your voices. And see it. And feel it from here.”

“They’re not dirty,” I insist.

“Of course not, love,” Chloe says, patting my back. “Not dirty for you"