There are ways to die young, and then there’s this.

I walk into the kitchen expecting peace — toast, maybe, the sound of the kettle clicking off, her hair tied up like she’s barely conscious. Something soft. Harmless.

What I get instead is divine punishment.

There she is — dead center on the tiles, barefoot, wearing my hoodie. Hood up, sleeves too long, hem barely covering the curve of her thighs. And she’s moving. Dancing.

Not just dancing — swaying. Hips rolling slow, head tipped back, lips mouthing words I don’t even register until I realize what’s playing. Sabrina bloody Carpenter. Manchild.

And the moment she sings — “Oh, I like my boys playing hard to get…” I swear on me mother’s sanity, my soul vacates my body. Gone. Ascended. Straight to whatever version of heaven plays this scene on repeat.

She doesn’t even notice me at first. She’s too busy twirling around, hair a mess of soft curls, smile lazy and smug. But then she catches me standing there — hand still on the cupboard handle, eyes wide, heart thundering — and she has the gall to smirk.

And then it happens. The lyric. The dagger. “…and I like my men all incompetent.”

She points — playful, harmless — but my treacherous brain goes, Yeah, that’s you, Kavanagh.

I know it’s not. I know. But the way she says it? The way her hips keep moving to that rhythm? Suddenly I’m begging to be the man she’s insulting.

“Jesus Christ,” I croak, voice cracking like a thirteen-year-old. “What the actual fuck are you doing?”

She spins on her heel, humming along, eyes glittering. “Dancing,” she says, like that explains everything.

“Dancing? You call that dancing? You’re in my hoodie—barefoot—singing to that—and you expect me to stay calm?”

She grins wider, shoulders shaking as she keeps mouthing the words. I swear, she’s enjoying this. Enjoying my suffering.

“Stop it,” I warn, stepping forward, heart hammering in my chest. “I’m warning you, this is emotional terrorism. Do you want me institutionalized before breakfast?”

She giggles — giggles — and bites her lip, still moving those bloody hips like she’s trying to kill me.

That’s it. I snap. I’m gone.

I march across the kitchen, grab her by the waist, and before she can blink, I’ve hoisted her clean off the ground. She lets out a startled yelp, dissolving into laughter, arms wrapping around my neck as her legs cling to my sides like she’s trying not to fall.

“Rory!” she squeals between breaths, laughter shaking through her. “Put me down!”

“Not a chance,” I growl, voice low against her skin. “You’re far too dangerous at ground level, sweetheart.”

She’s gasping now, still laughing, trying to shove at my shoulder but every push just pulls us closer. Her hair’s fallen across her face, her cheeks are flushed, and I can’t tell if it’s from laughter or the fact that she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.

“God, you’re impossible,” she says, voice softening into a whisper.

“And you,” I murmur, brushing my nose against her jaw, “are guilty as sin. Woke up and chose violence, didn’t ya?”

Her breath catches, laughter fading into something quieter. Her fingers twist in my hoodie. The music hums low behind us, fading into the background.

I tilt my head, close enough to taste the warmth of her breath. “You know,” I say softly, “if this is how you plan to torture me every morning, I’ll start sleepin’ in the kitchen.”

She smiles — small, crooked, devastating — and whispers, “You’re ridiculous.”

I grin back, heart pounding. “Maybe. But you’re the one dancing like a goddess in my clothes, so I reckon we’re even.”

And when I kiss her, it’s not slow or sweet — it’s the inevitable crash after too many close calls. Her laughter melts against my mouth, her hands curl in my hair, and the world outside ceases to exist.

When we finally break apart, she’s breathless, grinning, eyes bright.

“You’re trouble,” she whispers.

“Yeah,” I admit, brushing my thumb along her cheek. “But I’m yours, aren’t I?”

She rolls her eyes, pretending to think it over, but the way she smiles when she kisses me again? Yeah— jury’s in. She’s guilty.