Rory Kavanagh, age seven, was objectively the most beautiful boy in Cork. Everyone said so. With his Ma’s ocean-blue eyes and hair that tumbled in glossy chestnut waves like something straight out of a storybook prince, he looked more like he belonged on the cover of a fairytale than in a muddy back garden in Ballylaggin.

And Rory knew it. Not in a vain way (well, maybe a little), but because everyone was always telling him. His Ma fussed over brushing his hair, his Da called him “the little prince,” and even the old women at church pinched his cheeks and sighed, “A stunner, that one.”

So Rory took pride in being well-mannered, neat, and good. He was a Kavanagh after all. A good boy.

Which is exactly why he was sitting cross-legged on the carpet in his Ma’s sitting room, looking like a very wet, very miserable cat while you — the most annoying girl in all of Cork, in Rory’s very important opinion — tugged at his hair like it was your God-given right.

“You’re supposed to mind her, Rory,” Ma had said sweetly, already halfway out the door. “Be nice.”

Be nice, Rory thought miserably as your sticky little hands divided his glossy hair into uneven sections. This is child labour. Cruel and unusual punishment.

Another sharp tug made his whole body jolt. “Ow! Careful!” Rory yelped, twisting to glare at you over his shoulder.

But then you blinked up at him with those wide, doe-like eyes—eyes that looked exactly like the ones on the Disney princesses his little sister Caoimhe made him watch on telly.

And Rory froze. Because what kind of monster yelled at a baby princess? Not him. He was a gentleman.

So he swallowed the groan, straightened his back, and puffed out his little chest like the noble prince everyone said he was. “Fine,” he muttered, pouting. “But don’t pull so hard.”

You giggled, showing off a gap where your front tooth was missing, and tugged again. Harder.

“OW!” Rory yelped, eyes watering as you tugged another chunk into a crooked braid. He slapped his little palms on his knees, looking skyward like he was asking God himself for patience. “This is cruel! I’m gonna be bald before I’m eight!”

But when you giggled again, Rory’s scowl faltered. Something in his chest squirmed, like maybe — maybe — he didn’t actually hate you as much as he said he did.

Still, he huffed dramatically, crossing his arms. “You’re lucky you’ve got princess eyes,” he grumbled. “Or I’d tell Ma on you.”