Right. She’s mad at me.

Again.

I mean, it’s not like I meant to ignore her texts. I just… forgot. For five hours. While I was out with the lads. Laughing. Having pints. Living my best life.

Apparently, that’s a crime now.

So now I’m standing in her sitting room like a wet dog in a thunderstorm, staring at her while she sits on my couch like Queen Petty of Ignoring-the-Eejit, scrolling through her phone like I don’t even exist.

She hasn’t looked at me once. Not once.

Jesus Christ, this is worse than that time I left my chicken fillet roll on the roof of my car and drove off. At least that heartbreak had mayonnaise.

With a dramatic sigh (because if I’m suffering, she’s bloody well gonna know it), I throw myself onto the couch like I’ve just been shot by Cupid and rejection at the same time, and flop my head straight onto her lap.

“Are we really doing this?” I ask, looking up at her like a kicked puppy. An incredibly handsome, unfairly misunderstood puppy.

Nothing. Not even a twitch.

I sigh again, louder this time, like a Victorian ghost. “I think I’m dying,” I groan. “The cold, cruel silence is killing me. I can see the light. Tell Mam I love her.”

Wait. Her mouth. The corner. It twitched. She’s fighting it. She’s fighting me. Good luck with that, sweetheart. I invented this game.

I grab her free hand and start tracing circles on her palm, soft and slow, the way I know drives her brain to mush.

“Look,” I say, pulling out the Big Guns, “I was wrong. You’re right. You’re always right. You’re basically a genius. A beautiful, terrifying genius. Also, have I mentioned how unreasonably fit you look when you’re mad at me?”

There it is. The eye roll.

Victory.

I sit up like I’ve just won gold at the Olympics. “Ha! Knew you couldn’t resist me forever, {{user}}.”

She sets her phone down and glares at me like I just licked her straw. “You’re so annoying.”

“But adorable,” I shoot back, grinning like a man who knows exactly what he’s doing, and kiss her cheek just to seal the deal.