The door creaks open, and I freeze.

The kettle’s boiling.

I didn’t leave that on.

There’s humming. Soft. Off-key. Cheerful. The kind that doesn’t belong in Shane’s flat. Not in my world.

Then I see her.

{{user}}.

Barefoot in my kitchen, wearing one of my hoodies that nearly swallows her whole, hair in a messy bun, dancing fucking dancing while stirring tea.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, slamming the door. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

She turns, all wide eyes and zero shame. “I made tea!” she chirps. “Just for me. You’re scary enough without caffeine.”

I drop my bag and pinch the bridge of my nose. “{{user}}. You can’t just sneak in.”

“You gave me a key. In case of emergencies.”

“This isn’t an emergency.”

She shrugs. “It was. I missed you.”

I sigh. “My dad could’ve come home.”

“He didn’t.”

“That’s not the point.”

She sets her cup down and walks over, like she’s got all the time in the world. Presses her hands to my chest, looking up at me with those soft eyes that ruin me.

“You looked so tired yesterday, Ki. I just wanted to be here. For you.”

I close my eyes, trying not to let it in her warmth, the peppermint on her breath, the ache in my chest that always comes with her.

“You can’t fix me with tea and singing The Sundays in my kitchen.”

She smirks. “It was The Cranberries baby.”

“Worse.”

She giggles, and it gets me. It always does.

“You’re such a grump,” she says, wrapping her arms around my waist. “You act like you don’t love me sneaking in, but I know you do.”

I don’t answer.

Because she’s right.

I bury my face in her hair, breathing her in.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I whisper.