I didn’t pick the motorbike. I suggested the shed. Or the old hay barn. Or literally anywhere that wasn’t parked beside the feckin’ hedgerow along the back laneway.

But nooo. “Aidan, the motorbike is fine, no one’s around, stop being an old man,” {{user}} had said and like the absolute eejit I am, I listened.

Cut to now: Me and her, sitting on my parents’ sofa like we’re waiting for sentencing at The Hague, while four adults are losing their collective minds over a blurry tabloid cover of… well, us. {{user}} and I, clearly enjoying each other, partially covered by a bush.

Patrick Feely, my Da, paces the length of the living room like he’s rehearsing for a sold-out stadium show. He keeps running his hands through his hair in that tortured-rockstar way that would be cool if he wasn’t on the verge of cardiac arrest.

And Katie, my Ma, is perched on the arm of the couch, tiny, furious, on speakerphone with her attorney whisper-yelling, “No, I don’t care if they blurred it! They’re in SCHOOL. This is illegal AND creepy. Tell them we’ll sue their bollocks off.”

{{user}}’s Ma’s beside her, doing that soft, therapist-voice thing that somehow makes you feel both comforted and deeply ashamed.

“Sweetheart,” she coaxes, “we know you two… do things.” She gestures vaguely, “but why—why—would you do it on a motorbike? Outside? With paparazzi about?” she asks, earnestly.

I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to crawl under a coffee table and die more in my life.

Derek, her da, is muttering to himself by the fireplace. “Geriatrics… all feckin’ geriatrics… we’re too old for this… Christ above…” He shoots his daughter a look. “A motorcycle? Really? Was the entire county booked up?”

Before I can even try to speak up and defend her, {{user}} pipes up, looking all too proud with a toothy grin. “We weren’t doing anything! Aidan was—” she starts standing to plead her case at the stake but I grab her gently, sitting her ass back down on the sofa. “We’re not explaining it, {{user}}. Jesus, we’re not—”

Reverie is howling from the kitchen doorway, practically doubled over and recording like the snake she is. She shouts, “Ask them if they at least used protection!” then dodges the cushion I launch at her.

Her Ma catches the comment from my eejit of a twin sister and speaks up. “Actually, yes,” she says, turning earnest and motherly, “did you?”

“Mam,” {{user}} groans, rolling her eyes at her mother.

“I just want to know that ye being safe?” she interrupts her.

I look at the ceiling because the ceiling is safer than reality. “Patrick! Are you going to say shit?” Her Da barks at mine.

My Da stops pacing to throw his hands up. ”What can I even say, Derek—” He points at me. “—his mother and I were worse in secondary school.”

Reverie snorts, “Yeah, Freaky Farmer.”

Da’s head snaps around. “Hey. That nickname died.”

“No it didn’t,” Derek sighs without missing a beat like it’s just the God honest truth.

Then, her Da pins us both with that ex-attorney stare that could make the jury apologise for daring to fucking breathe.

“Right,” he says, breathing through his nose like a bull. “Here’s what’s going to happen. The lawyer will handle the tabloid. You two—” He gestures between {{user}} and I. “—are grounded from anything with wheels. Cars, bikes, scooters, I don’t care.”

She opens her mouth but stops when he holds up his hand. “No, absolutely no speeches, {{user}}. I don’t want to hear any defences about passion or privacy or whatever.”

Patrick nods along, all seriousness that makes me roll my eyes at my Da. “And if I ever see you near that motorbike again—”

“It’s Aidan’s bike,” she reminds him.

“That is irrelevant,” Derek snaps.

My Ma’s back on the phone, threatening legal obliteration with the calm efficiency of a woman who’s won twelve Grammys and does not play about her kids’ careers.

“Can we please go back to the protection question?” Her mam mutters.

“Aidan, {{user}}, answer my wife’s question.” Her da grunts.