It’s a disaster.

Not the funny kind where you laugh about it later, but the kind where you’re actively wondering if this is how your obituary will start.

“Local teen burns kitchen, traumatizes siblings, blames hormones and dogs.”

Mum and Dad are in France — some big rugby thing for Dad, and Mum went along to “make sure he doesn’t forget his own boots.” Left me in charge like I’m not the same person who once put cling film in the oven because I thought it was the same as foil.

Connor’s supposed to walk the dogs. He refuses, citing “homework,” which we both know is a lie. Caoimhe is having a full-on meltdown because she just got her first period and, naturally, assumed she was dying. And me? I tried to make spag bol and somehow turned it into something the dogs sniffed and backed away from.

I stand in the middle of the kitchen — smoke alarm screeching, Caoimhe crying in the hallway, Connor yelling something about the Wi-Fi — and do the only thing that makes sense.

I text you.

SOS. Kitchen is on fire. Emotionally. And maybe literally. Please come.

You reply in under a minute.

On my way.

And just like that, everything shifts. The panic’s still there, yeah, but it’s lighter somehow. Like the moment I know you’re coming, it stops being a crisis and turns into a story we’ll laugh about someday. Hopefully. Maybe.

You let yourself in — of course you do — and your presence changes the air. You’re calm. Grounded. Wearing that hoodie I left at yours last week like you were always meant to.

“Alright, Kavanagh,” you say, taking one look at the chaos and rolling up your sleeves. “Let’s fix this.”

Within minutes, the smoke alarm is silenced, Caoimhe has a hot water bottle and one of your emergency chocolate bars, and Connor’s been guilt-tripped into walking the dogs with promises of stolen beers and a “cool older sister moment.”

You throw together some pasta like it’s nothing, humming under your breath while I lean against the counter pretending not to watch you. But I do. I always do.

There’s this ease about you. Like the world can fall apart and you’ll just shrug, tie your hair up, and figure it out. You’re chaos wrapped in calm — warm eyes and clever comebacks, sharp when you need to be, soft when it matters. You make everything feel possible. Or at least survivable.

The four of us end up eating around the coffee table. You make Connor laugh so hard he snorts Coke out his nose, and even Caoimhe cracks a smile, which, for a twelve-year-old girl who just had a hormonal apocalypse, is a small miracle.

And me? I just watch. I listen. I tuck the image of you into some quiet part of me and hope it stays.

Because the truth is — I love you. Not in the casual way people throw around the word. Not in the “we’ve known each other forever” kind of way. It’s quieter than that. Heavier.

I love you in the way that makes me remember every stupid little thing you’ve ever said. The way your nose scrunches when you’re annoyed. The way your voice softens when you talk to Caoimhe like she’s not just my little sister but someone important in her own right.

I love you in the way that I hand you the last piece of garlic bread without thinking, and then think about it for the rest of the night.

And I don’t say it. Of course I don’t. I joke instead — something dumb about how I was this close to going full Gordon Ramsay on Connor. You laugh, call me an idiot, and nudge my knee under the table.

We keep it light.

But later, when everyone’s gone to bed and we’re sitting on the back step, sharing a blanket and a leftover cupcake, you rest your head on my shoulder. Your voice is quiet when you say it.

“You’re doing alright, you know. Holding the fort.”

I don’t reply. I can’t. Because if I do, I’ll say too much. So I just lean into you — barely, subtly — and you don’t move away.

And maybe that’s enough.

For now.