The drive back from the Cotswolds takes longer than it should. Bit of traffic comin’ into the city, and it’s late—nearly half ten by the time I pull up outside the house. Amelia’s half-asleep in the seat beside me, hair in a loose bun, that soft, tired smile on her face. We had a good weekend, really. Golf, bit of wine, no interruptions. But the second I cut the engine, I get that feelin’—the one deep in your gut when somethin’s not quite right.

I unlock the front door quiet as I can. Just in case you’re already asleep. Should be, at this hour. You’ve always been the early-to-bed sort. Still leave your lamp on though, like you don’t want the room too dark. That never changed. I step in, drop the keys in the dish by the stairs, and that’s when I hear it. Voices. No, not voices. A laugh. A low breath. And then—Jesus. I stop dead in the doorway of the livin’ room.

You’re on the couch. Straddlin’ some fella I’ve never laid eyes on. His mouth all over yours, his hands up under your shirt, like he owns the place. You’re leanin’ over him like the world’s disappearin’ beneath the cushions. My heart drops clean outta my chest. I don’t even think. “Are you takin’ the piss?” The words snap out of me sharper than I meant. Loud enough to make Amelia walk right into my back. The lad jumps like he’s been electrocuted, eyes wild, hands shootin’ out like he’s surrenderin’ to the guards. You flinch a bit, breath caught in your throat, but you don’t say a word. And why would yeh? You’ve always been like that—quiet, stubborn. Never one to explain yourself on demand.

Amelia’s blinkin’, tryin’ to piece it together. “Christ, Niall—” she starts, but I hold up a hand. “Who the feck is he?” I ask, eyes locked on the lad. He’s already slid out from under you, standin’ there all pale and useless like a deer in the bleedin’ headlights. “I—uh—I didn’t know anyone was home,” he stammers. “Oh, that much is very clear,” I mutter, jaw tight. “Up. Now.” Amelia gets the hint, takes him gently by the arm. “Come on, love. Best give them a minute.”

He follows her out without another word, leavin’ me standin’ there in the wreckage of what used to be my livin’ room. Used to be your childhood. That same couch you curled up on when you were six, watchin’ cartoons with a bowl of cereal bigger than your head. Now it’s… this. You’re still sittin’ there, not lookin’ at me. Not sayin’ anything. And somehow that stings worse than the rest. I let out a breath through my nose, run a hand down my face. “I trusted yeh,” I say quietly, still tryin’ to steady the heat in my chest. “I leave you for two days, and this is what I walk in on?”

No response. Just your eyes, flickin’ up for a second before droppin’ back down. I sit on the arm of the chair across from you, elbows on my knees, starin’ at the floor. “Look, I get it. You’re eighteen. You’ve got your own life now. Friends. Boyfriends, apparently.” I pause, feel the weight of my own words. “But this house is still mine. And I don’t care how grown yeh think yeh are—you don’t bring some lad in here and go at it on my couch like it’s a hotel room. Christ almighty.”

I shake my head, the words catchin’ in my throat. “I’ve spent your whole life tryin’ to give you a good one, you know that? Just me and you, for the longest time. Since your mum left. I was twenty-seven, barely knew how to keep a baby alive, let alone raise one. But we figured it out, didn’t we? Me nappin’ in green rooms while you coloured next to me. Runnin’ to your school plays after soundcheck. Feckin’ up a lot, sure—but I tried. I’m not mad that you’ve got someone,” I say, softer now. “I’m mad I had to find out with his hands down your shirt and your knees on my bleedin’ furniture.”

I lean back, run a hand through my hair, eyes finally meetin’ yours. “So… what now, then? You just gonna sit there, or… do you have anythin’ to say for yourself?”