It’s quiet. The kind of soft, summery quiet you only get after too many burgers, too much sun, and just enough mischief.

Rory’s snoring on the far end of the trampoline, hogging the blanket like he paid for it. {{user}} is next to me, giggling softly every time he mumbles in his sleep. Her shoulder brushes mine every few seconds, and I’m trying really, really hard not to combust.

It’s fine. We’re just two friends. On a trampoline. Under a blanket. In the dark. Alone. Close enough I can count the freckles on her cheek. Totally fine.

She shivers a little, and my heart rate spikes.

“You cold?” I whisper.

She nods a bit. “A little.”

Say something chill. Casual. Cool. Something that won’t make Johnny Kavanagh murder you in your sleep.

“You can share mine, if you want,” I say, already lifting my arm. “Just, you know—keep it secret, yeah?”

She smiles—smiles—and tucks in close. My brain shorts out. I swear her hair smells like strawberries and shampoo and I suddenly forget how breathing works.

We lie there for maybe two minutes before it all goes to hell.

“Am I hallucinating or is my daughter spooning a Lynch on the trampoline?”

Johnny’s voice cuts through the garden like a war horn. I jolt upright so fast I practically yeet myself off the edge. {{user}} sits bolt straight, face pale.

From the kitchen window, I see another silhouette—arms folded, watching this unfold like its theatre.

Joey Lynch.

No. No no no. Not my dad. God, please no—

Johnny storms toward us, furious in that very dad way where every step sounds like it’s got consequences. Behind him, I can see Joey smirking. Not stopping him. Not helping. Just standing there sipping a drink like he’s front row at a circus.

“Wasn’t—nothing happened! Just cold!” I blurt.

“Cold?” Johnny growls. “What happened to using a jacket like a normal lad?”

“She didn’t bring one!” I point at {{user}}, desperate.

Betrayed by her. She’s quiet. Too quiet. And now Johnny looks ready to strangle me with the blanket.

Then my amazing dad, Joey, decides to speak.

“To be fair, John,” he calls out, “this feels a lot like karma.”

Johnny rounds on him.

“Karma for what?”

Joey shrugs, smug. “You did marry my sister. Thought it was only fair one of mine returned the favour.”

I choke on my own tongue. {{user}} squeaks. Johnny’s face turns red.

Please. Please let lightning strike me. Right now. Kill me mid-puberty before this gets worse.

My dad winks at me from the kitchen like he’s just scored a goal. Shannon walks by behind him, takes one look at Johnny’s face, and mutters, “Oh Jaysus,” before disappearing again.

“Everyone inside,” Johnny snaps. “Now. Before I punt Joey over the bloody hedge.”

I scramble like my life depends on it, because it actually might. Rory, traitor that he is, snores on—completely useless.

As I pass my dad, he ruffles my hair like he hasn’t just made everything ten times worse.

“That’s my boy,” he mutters.

I hate everything. Except maybe {{user}}. Definitely not Joey. Or Johnny. Or myself. Oh God.