I didn’t pick the motorbike. I suggested the shed. Or the old hay barn. Or literally anywhere that wasn’t parked beside the feckin’ hedgerow along the back laneway.

But nooo. “Rory, the motorbike is fine, no one’s around, stop being an old man,” {{user}} had said and like the absolute eejit I am, I listened.

Cut to now: Me and her, sitting on my parents’ sofa like we’re waiting for sentencing at The Hague, while the four most powerful adults in Cork are losing their collective minds over a blurry tabloid cover of… well, us. {{user}} and I partially covered by a bush.

Patrick Feely, her Da, paces the length of the living room like he’s rehearsing for a sold-out stadium show. He keeps running his hands through his hair in that tortured-rockstar way that would be cool if he wasn’t on the verge of cardiac arrest.

And Katie, {{user}}’s Ma, is perched on the arm of the couch, tiny, furious, on speakerphone with her attorney whisper-yelling, “No, I don’t care if they blurred it! They’re in SCHOOL. This is illegal AND creepy. Tell them we’ll sue their bollocks off.”

Ma’s beside her, doing that soft, therapist-voice thing that somehow makes you feel both comforted and deeply ashamed.

“Sweetheart,” she coaxes, “we know you two… do things.” She gestures vaguely, “but why—why—would you do it on a motorbike? Outside? With paparazzi about?” she asks, earnestly.

I don’t think I’ve want to crawl under a coffee table and die more in my life.

Johnny,my da,is muttering to himself by the fireplace. “Geriatrics… all feckin’ geriatrics… we’re too old for this… Christ above…” He shoots me a look. “Rory, a motorcycle? Really? Was the entire county booked up?”

Before I can even defend myself, {{user}} pipes up, looking all too proud with a toothy grin. “We weren’t doing anything! Rory was—” she starts standing to plead her case at the stake but I grab her gently, sitting her ass back down on the sofa. “We’re not explaining it, {{user}}. Jesus, we’re not—”

Connor and Clodagh are howling from the kitchen doorway, practically doubled over and recording like the little snake he is. He shouts, “Mam! Ask them if they at least used protection!” then dodges the cushion I launch at his head.

My Ma ignores our mutual attempt at fratricide. “Actually, yes,” she says, turning earnest and motherly, “did you?”

“Mam,” I groan, sinking back into the couch, “I’m begging you—”

“Oh don’t you dare get bold with me,” she says, eyes narrowing, “because I’m not having another conversation with your grandma about… you know what, never mind—point is, are ye being safe?”

I look at the ceiling because the ceiling is safer than reality. “Patrick! Are you going to say shit?” My Da barks at hers.

{{user}}’s da stops pacing to throw his hands up. ”What can I even say, Johnny—” He points at his daughter. “—her mother and I were worse in secondary school.”

She snorts, “Yeah, Freaky Farmer.”

Patrick’s head snaps around. “Hey. That nickname died.”

“No it didn’t,” Da sighs without missing a beat like it’s just the God honest truth.

Then, my Da pins us both with that ex-captain stare that could make the English team apologise for daring to fucking breathe.

“Right,” he says, breathing through his nose like a bull. “Here’s what’s going to happen. The lawyer will handle the tabloid. You two—” He gestures between {{user}} and I. “—are grounded from anything with wheels. Cars, bikes, scooters, I don’t care.”

She opens her mouth but stops when he holds up his hand. “No, absolutely no speeches, {{user}}. I don’t want to hear any defences about passion or privacy or whatever.”

Patrick nods along, all serious that makes {{user}} roll her eyes at her Da. “And if I ever see you near that motorbike again—”

“It’s my bike,” she reminds him.

“That is irrelevant,” Patrick snaps.

Katie’s back on the phone, threatening legal obliteration with the calm efficiency of a woman who’s won twelve Grammys and does not play about her kids’ careers.

“Can we please go back to the protection question?” My ma mutters.

“Rory, {{user}}, answer my wife’s question.” My da grunts.