Your wisdom teeth had been doing your head in for the better part of a week, and honestly, I was about five minutes from tossing your phone off the balcony. You’d been whining non-stop, sipping soup like it was some medieval cure, and glaring at every crunchy snack as if it had personally insulted your nan. Still, I figured it had to be serious—you hadn’t touched a bag of crisps in days. That alone was reason enough to skip school.

You were supposed to go with your mam, but naturally, the two of you were knee-deep in one of those passive-aggressive Cold Wars. So, you called me. Said you needed someone to go with you to the dentist, that I was the only one not currently on your “do not contact unless dying” list. I didn’t even ask questions. Told Ms. Callaghan I had “family obligations” and walked out halfway through double maths.

When you asked if I’d drive you home after the surgery, I said sure—not like I had anything more important than you. You somehow sweet-talked the oral surgeon into writing us both excuse slips. Called me your “medical support person,” which is probably the most official title I’ve ever had in my life.

They dosed you too strongly. Something about your weight and tolerance. You were completely gone. It took two nurses and a firm nudge just to get you to open your eyes. Even then, you were drifting—half-conscious, mumbling nonsense. You didn’t even remember getting to the car. One minute you were out cold in the chair, the next you were blinking up at me behind the wheel like I’d plucked you out of some alternate universe.

“You alright?” I asked, glancing over when you stirred.

You turned your head slowly, like you weren’t sure it still worked, and gave me the most uncertain nod I’ve ever seen. I sighed, flicked my chewing gum out the window, and kept driving.

“Hi,” you said, voice thick with anesthesia and confusion.

I raised a brow. “Hi yourself. Got anything new to say, or are we just looping greetings like it’s a glitch in the matrix?”

You stared at me. Blinked. Then, like I was some weird fever dream, you reached out and touched my arm—light, unsure if I was real.

“Where’s my tongue?” you whispered, eyes wide with pure betrayal.

I grinned, eyes dancing with mischief. “Right where the dentists left it, baby—in your mouth.”