2:03 AM

It’s a miracle, really—falling asleep before 2 AM in a complex packed with caffeine-addicted uni students, vape clouds, and someone on the third floor who plays acoustic guitar like it’s their God-given mission to murder “Wonderwall” nightly.

So naturally, just as I’m hitting REM, the shriek happens.

Like, full-volume horror movie shriek. Bloodcurdling. Enough to make me shoot upright like I’ve been drafted into war.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, dragging my duvet off and rubbing at my face like I can wipe the sound out of existence.

For a second I debate ignoring it—maybe it was someone watching a scary movie, or maybe someone just realised they left their vape at a lad’s house and the emotional fallout was too much.

But then there’s the slam of a door. A proper one. With intent.

And I sigh. Loudly. The kind of sigh you let out when you know you’re about to get dragged into nonsense that isn’t technically your problem but will be if it escalates.

I throw on a hoodie, shorts, and step into the hallway barefoot like the unprepared civilian I technically am.

“Oi,” I call down the corridor, voice still half-asleep, “If someone’s being murdered, can you do it quieter?”

A head peeks out from the door across the hall. Brown eyes. Flushed cheeks. Messy bun. Someone who clearly just moved in and has never battled the Irish nightlife—or Irish bugs.

“Oh thank God,” she says, hand on her chest like I’m the emergency services. I mean—okay, technically I am, but not right now.

“I need help.”

“You’ve got about five seconds to convince me this isn’t over a boyfriend or a dying houseplant.”

“It’s a cockroach.”

I blink. “A what?”

“A cockroach! Big. Like, mutant-size. I tried to kill it but I dropped the broom and screamed. It ran under the bed. It looked at me.”

“Right,” I mutter, already turning around. “Good luck with that.”

“No—wait!” she scrambles out of her flat, grabbing my arm like I’m about to be deployed. “Please. I can’t go back in. What if it crawls on my face in my sleep?”

“Not to be dramatic, but I did get out of bed for this,” I say, eyebrows raised. “You better not be exaggerating how big this bastard is.”

“I’m not.” Her lip wobbles, only slightly. Then she adds, “I’m new here. Just moved to Ireland. I didn’t know this country had roaches.”

“We don’t, usually,” I mumble, already walking in. “You probably brought it with you in your suitcase.”

Her horrified gasp almost makes me laugh. Almost.

Her flat’s a disaster of moving boxes, a toppled broom, and a trail of digestive biscuit crumbs leading to the bed like she tried to negotiate with the insect.

“You fed it?”

“I panicked.”

I crouch. “If it charges at me, I’m suing you.”

After a few quiet seconds of shuffling and tactical slipper warfare, I squash the thing with a textbook that was tragically lying on the floor. Probably psych 101.

“It’s done,” I announce, standing and stretching like a war veteran. “RIP to your houseguest.”

She claps her hands together like I’ve delivered a child. “You’re a hero.”

“I’m just an ordinary guy.”

“You didn’t have to help.”

“You shrieked loud enough to wake the entire block. Felt like I didn’t have much of a choice.”

She laughs, finally. And it’s warm. Loud. Bright. The kind of laugh that softens you before you realise what’s happening.

Ah, shit.