It was well past midnight when I heard the soft creak of my window. I didn’t even open my eyes. I already knew it was her.

My girl.

She always did this when she couldn’t sleep—snuck across the fields from her estate, climbed the gate, and slipped through the window I never bothered to fix. It wasn’t exactly subtle, but I liked it. Loved it, actually. Meant I got to hold her a few hours longer.

“Rory,” she whispered.

I shifted, eyes cracking open just as she climbed into bed, bare legs brushing mine. She was only in my old training shirt, the one with the faded GAA crest. That was it. Just the shirt. Jesus.

“Cold?” I murmured, already wrapping an arm around her, tugging her close.

“Freezing,” she whispered, nose pressing into my neck. “You smell like shampoo.”

“I used yours,” I smirked.

“Thief.”

“Always.”

She curled into me like it was the most natural thing in the world—her thigh slotted between mine, my hand finding the dip in her waist. We didn’t do anything. We didn’t need to. Just being like that, skin to skin, heartbeats slowing down in sync—it was enough. It was everything.

⸻

I woke up to the door flying open.

“Rory, I’ve your whites for trainin’—OH HOLY MOTHER OF GOD!”

My eyes snapped open. I sat bolt upright.

Feck.

Mam stood there, laundry basket in her hands, face drained of colour. And then it turned a dangerous shade of red.

There was silence for half a second.

Then she exploded.

“JESUS, MARY, AND JOSEPH—RORY KAVANAGH, WHAT IN GOD’S NAME IS SHE DOIN’ IN YOUR BED? LOOK AT HER—WHERE’S THE REST OF HER CLOTHES?!”

I flailed like a gobshite, trying to pull the duvet up over both of us. {{user}}squeaked and buried her face in my chest, mortified.

“MAM!” I shouted, voice cracking. “Would ya stop screamin’? She’s just sleeping!”

“JUST SLEEPING? SHE’S WEARING NOTHIN’ BUT YOUR BLOODY T-SHIRT!”

From downstairs came the unmistakable sound of Dad’s footsteps. Then his voice.

“What the fuck is all the screamin’?”

Mam stormed out of my room, leaving the door wide open. “Your son is after invitin’ a half-naked girl into his bed! UNDER OUR ROOF!”

“Would ya calm down!” I yelled back, face on fire. “She climbed through the feckin’ window!”

“THAT’S WORSE!”

Dad finally reached the top of the stairs, rubbing his eyes, looking like he hadn’t even had his coffee yet. He glanced into my room, took one look at the scene—me shirtless, her huddled under the duvet in my t-shirt, Mam nearly combusting in the hallway—and groaned.

“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered. “At least lock the bloody door next time, will ya?”

“Thank you!” I shouted, voice still cracking.

Mam gaped at him. “JOHNNY!”

“What?” he said, raising his hands. “They’re teenagers. They’re in love. It’s not like we were saints either.”

“You’re encouraging this?!” she shrieked.

“I’m saying I’d rather catch them cuddling than finding out they’re sneakin’ around.”

She threw her hands in the air and stormed off, muttering about “children these days” and “our poor Caoimhe is only eight and she’s traumatized seein’ her knickers.”

Back in the bed, she was still buried in my chest, laughing so hard she was shaking.

“This is not funny,” I hissed, though I was laughing too, quietly, like an eejit.

“I’m going to die,” she mumbled.

“Don’t die. I like wakin’ up next to you too much.”

She peeked up at me, still flushed. “Do I need to start wearin’ pyjamas?”

“God, no,” I groaned. “But maybe trousers next time. For my sanity.”

She grinned, wicked and sleepy. “You didn’t seem too bothered last night.”

My jaw dropped. “You’re evil.”

She kissed my cheek, all smug. “You love it.”

“Yeah,” I muttered, wrapping my arms tighter around her. “I do.”

And despite Mam’s shrieking, Dad’s deadpan sarcasm, and the fact that my little sister was probably traumatised for life—there was nowhere else I’d rather be.