Johnny’s cousin has me whipped.

Not that I’ll admit it. Not out loud. Not where Johnny can hear and decide to murder me for looking at his baby cousin like she hung the moon and owns my soul.

But listen—if she told me to bark? I might.

I might.

I don’t know what it is about her. She doesn’t even try to be in charge, but somehow, I just end up following her around like a lost cause. Like a dog waiting for scraps. Like she’s got some invisible leash on me, and I’m wagging my tail and asking if she needs her shoes tied.

And the worst part?

She knows it.

Knows it and doesn’t even use it properly—doesn’t abuse her power, doesn’t make me grovel, doesn’t even acknowledge that I’d probably kneel if she crooked a finger.

It’s insulting, honestly. Like exploits my vulnerability towards you just a bit. Make me eat you or something. You know, in acknowledgement of your power or something.

“Oi, Mammy Kavanagh,” I call from my spot on Johnny’s couch, sprawled out like I live here, like I belong here. “Gimme a beer, would ya?”

She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t acknowledge me. Just keeps flipping through her book, curled up in the armchair like some regal little thing, sipping her tea.

I frown. Sit up a little. Try again.

“Mammy Kavanagh.”

Still nothing.

Jesus Christ.

That’s okay lads. Just like my ancestors in the spud epidemic, I’ll harbour that generational resilience.

I stand. Move closer. Plant myself directly in front of her like an absolute fool and say, very seriously, “I will literally sit at your feet if you tell me to.”

And that—that—finally gets her to look up, eyes all unreadable and unimpressed, lips barely twitching like she’s holding back a grin.

She blinks at me. Once. Then—

“Sit.”

And, lads—

I fucking sit.

Like the pussy-whipped gobshite I am. I sit at her feet.