Sean Lynch turned four years old, and naturally, Edel Kavanagh turned it into the feckin’ Met Gala for toddlers. There were balloons, three bouncy castles, a popcorn machine, and a clown who looked like he’d escaped a haunted circus—but I loved him anyway. I love clowns. They get me.

I was there for two reasons: one, I’m Johnny’s best mate and thus mandatory Kavanagh-adjacent at all major events. And two—the real reason—I was {{user}}’s boyfriend. Which meant I was definitely skimming along the edges of death just being in her garden, seeing as Johnny would probably hang me with a skipping rope if he found out we were together.

But worth it. Always worth it.

She came outside with cupcakes in her hands and a smile that could knock out the feckin’ sun. Hair up in a messy bun, little blue dress that fluttered when she walked, and icing already on her knuckles like the chaos fairy she was.

“Oi,” I said, grinning as I walked up behind her. “Your boyfriend needs attention.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” she replied sweetly.

I pressed a kiss to her cheek. “You do now.”

She rolled her eyes but handed me a cupcake, and I swear I fell harder for her in that moment than I ever had before.

Kids were screaming around the garden, music was playing, and the clown was juggling flaming pins. (Okay they weren’t flaming. But they could have been. I believed in him.)

I wandered over to the painting station with {{user}}, where all the littlies were making sticky finger-art and pretending it was dinosaurs or explosions. Sean was elbow-deep in orange paint and proudly showed me what looked like a radioactive potato.

“A masterpiece,” I said solemnly, and he beamed.

Then—I couldn’t help myself—I dipped a brush into yellow and gently booped the tip of {{user}}’s nose.

She blinked at me.

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

And then?

She dipped both her hands in paint and slapped them against my chest. Red and blue.

That was it. Gloves were off. Paint war.

I lunged at her, laughing like a maniac, while she shrieked and tried to run around the garden furniture. I got her with a handful of purple on her arm. She retaliated by smearing green across my jaw. Next thing you know, we’re rolling in the grass behind the shed, shouting, laughing, splashing paint like we’re kids ourselves.

I pinned her down, both of us covered head to toe in colour. Her laugh was echoing in my ears and her eyes crinkled the way they only did when she was truly happy.

I leaned down and kissed her.

It was soft and messy—paint smudging between our lips, hair tangled in leaves, grass stains on our knees—but it was real. It was her.

“My whole bleeding world,” I whispered, forehead pressed to hers.

She giggled and swiped a yellow stripe down my neck. “And you’re the biggest eejit in it.”

I rolled us over, holding her like she was made of stars. And for a second, everything went still. Music in the distance. Kids screaming over cupcakes. The clown honking a horn.

And us—two gobshites covered in paint, falling in love behind the shed.

Then—

“GERARD ANTHONY GIBSON!”

Edel.

We both froze.

I sat up slowly, like a child being caught lighting fireworks in the bathroom.

“Would you look at the state of you!” she shouted, storming over with a tea towel in one hand and murder in her eyes. “My patio chairs! My white linen! That was Sean’s painting station!”

“I was helping with artistic enrichment,” I said, dead serious.

She pointed at me. “I’ll enrich your arse if you track one more footprint in my kitchen.”

{{user}} was laughing so hard beside me, tears in her eyes. I reached down and pulled her up, still holding her hand even as Edel threatened us both with bleach and a yard brush.

But I didn’t care.

Because {{user}} was mine. Covered in paint, grinning up at me, spinning around in the middle of Sean’s party like we were in our own little world.