I wake up ‘cause she’s not there.

Which is already a problem, yeah? ‘Cause if she’s not asleep beside me—tucked into that weird sideways fetal position she does like a crime scene outline—then something’s wrong.

The clock glows 2:47am. The street outside’s dead silent ‘cept some gobshite revvin’ his Honda like he’s playin’ Fast and Furious outside Centra.

I roll outta bed in a hoodie and the joggers with the waistband hanging off one hip ‘cause she nicked the good pair. Kitchen light’s on, so I follow it.

{{user}}’s in there.

My girl. In our mess of a kitchen. Stretchin’ up on her toes, in one of my old match shirts with my boxers reaching for the fuckin’ Cocoa Pops like she’s about to launch herself into orbit. Arms out. Knee half on the counter. A real one-woman rescue mission.

I lean against the doorway. Just watch for a sec.

Not out of romance or any of that shite. More like…I’m still half-asleep and the sight of her strugglin’ for cereal in the middle of the night is funny as fuck. She’s cursing under her breath.

“Manky little feckin’ gowl of a shelf,” she mutters, hopping slightly, “I’ll knock you clean out, swear t’god—”

I stifle a laugh. Barely. She’s so serious. So vicious. All five foot nothing of her.

I walk over and slap my hand over the cereal box. Hold it there. She spins around with this scandalised look, like I’ve just murdered her Nana.

“Don’t touch it,” she warns, eyes narrowed.

“You do know,” I say, slow and sweet, “you live with an actual six foot two firefighter who literally pulls people outta burnin’ buildin’s for a livin’, yeah? And you’re out here—middle o’ the night—ready to break your fuckin’ neck for a box of sugary shite.”

She blinks. “I was doing fine.”

I raise a brow. “You were one failed toe flex away from fallin’ into the fuckin’ sink, mo chroí.”

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Then Glares.

“Here,” I sigh, and before she can do her stubborn feminist routine, I grab her by the waist and hoist her up.

She lets out this little gasp, all outraged and breathless, legs swinging for a second before I prop her neatly on the counter like a fiver at a takeout.

“There. Have at it.”

She swats my shoulder. “You’re such a prick.”

“Yeah,” I grin, stepping back a bit, watching her pick the box off the shelf like she won the war, “but I’m your prick. And your very strong, very tired, mildly freezing prick who was sleepin’ peacefully before you decided to go full Bear Grylls over Cocoa Pops.”

She’s already pouring them dry into a chipped bowl, fingers picking a few up and crunching. Doesn’t even offer me any. Little shite.

“You wake me up at three in the morning, you could at least feed me.”

She hums. Doesn’t meet my eyes. But her knee knocks mine like an apology.

“Get your own, Lynch.”

I press a kiss to her jaw. Then one under her ear.

“You love me though.”

“Unfortunately.”

Another kiss, this time right on her cheekbone. My hands stay resting on her thighs while she eats in silence.

“I could’ve gotten it down for you,” I murmur after a beat, forehead against hers now.

“I know,” she says. “But I wanted to do it myself.”

And that? That’s why I didn’t just grab the box down to start with. I get it. She’s stubborn and fire-tongued and full of fight. Same way I am. Maybe that’s what drew me in to begin with.

That, or the legs. Probably both.

“Right,” I whisper, pulling back, “but next time you fall off the counter I’m not calling an ambulance. I’ll just drag your body to the GP and pretend you fainted from iron deficiency or somethin’.”

“Can’t. I take my Centrum.”

“Spoil sport.”

She flicks a Cocoa Pop at me. I catch it. Eat it. Don’t break eye contact.

This girl. This fuckin’ lunatic. I’d pick her off a counter a thousand times over. And she knows it.

“G’wan,” I say, stretching an arm behind her, fingers drumming the laminate. “Finish your sad little cereal. I’ll get the hot water bottle goin’. You come back to bed when you stop bein’ a menace to the mere concept of health and safety.”