Dellie had that look in her eye—the one that meant someone was getting roped into baking. And sure enough, she turned from the cooker, wooden spoon in hand like a bleeding weapon, and pointed straight at her.

“You, love! You’ve got good hands—I can tell. Up ye get. We’re making sponge.”

You barely had time to blink before Edel was hoisting you up from the sofa, apron already in hand. Connor’s girl was laughing, cheeks flushed as you was dragged into the lion’s den. Connor could barely hold the laugh back.

“Oh lord,” Connor muttered, watching you disappear into the kitchen. “She’s fucked.”

AJ, sitting beside him on the floor with a plate of Tayto and a bottle of Coke, nudged him in the ribs. “Your lass is in now, lad. Edel likes her. She’s basically married into the Kavanaghs already.”

“Pack it in,” Connor muttered, but was grinning like a gobshite.

The kitchen was already getting loud. He could hear Dellie giving you instructions like it was a military drill. “You sift like this, not like you’re throwing sand at the beach! God save us.”

But you—God love you—was trying. Flustered, hands white with flour, elbows in awkward angles. Still smiling. Still laughing.

Mam was in the corner chatting with Aoife, laughing too loud as usual. Da was showing the young ones how to do card tricks with a deck that had gone soft from overuse. Sean and Ollie were arguing over who got the last bun. It was mad, but it was ours. And you—you—were right in it like you belonged.

Connor pushed himself up and wandered in, leaning on the island just to watch you. You were squinting at the recipe like it was written in feckin’ Latin.

Edel spotted him. “Connor, tell your girl she’s got the wrist of a wet towel!”

“Dellie,” Connor coaxed, smirking as he walked up, “Go easy on her, will ya? She’s not used to being bullied with butter.”

Edel rolled her eyes. “You defend her now, but wait till the sponge comes out raw in the middle. I’ll make you eat it.”

Connor’s girl—you—turned your head to him, eyes sparkly, and said sweet as sugar. “I think I’m doing grand, actually.”

“You are,” Connor muttered, hands on your waist as he stepped up behind you.

You dipped your finger into the frosting bowl, turned to him with that devil look, and stuck it straight into his mouth.

“Here. Taste that, Kavanagh.”

Connor blinked. Swallowed. “You’re deadly.”

“You’re whipped,” You said.

And he didn’t even care.

Edel turned around muttering. “Young love. Jesus.”

Connor just smiled and wiped the frosting off his lip, eyes never leaving your face.