I was sweating like a rugby champion at a penalty shootout. My hand was clutching a half-eaten Curly Wurly behind my back, and my heart was thumping like a horse in gallop.

“D’you wanna be my girlfriend?” I blurted.

She looked up at me—tiny, five, hair in pigtails and her hands covered in glue from arts and crafts. Blinked once. Then again. And then nodded.

“Okay.”

I swear to God, the joy that went through me. I’d never felt taller. I was her boyfriend now. That meant I’d have to hold her hand at break time, and give her the last jelly when we had Tangfastics, and probably fight someone if they pushed her at the slide.

And I was ready. I’d be the best feckin’ boyfriend Ballylaggin had ever seen.

⸻

She was sitting on the edge of the bathtub with a smug little smirk, her fingers stained with the last remnants of charcoal face mask. Mine, obviously. She’d ambushed me.

“You look like a feckin’ coal miner,” I told her, squinting at my reflection in the mirror.

“You look stunning, actually,” she said, examining her work. “Like a man who loves his skin barrier.”

I rolled my eyes and slouched against the counter. “I look like I’ve been dragged backwards through a turf bog.”

“You always say that when I’m pampering you.”

“Because you always feckin’ are!”

She giggled, pushing off the bath like she had something dangerous in mind. I didn’t clock it fast enough. One second I was adjusting the stupid headband she made me wear, and the next—

Went up on her tiptoes, sweet as anything, like she was going to kiss me—

WHAM.

Her hands gripped the back of my neck and dunked me, full force, face-first into the sink. Water exploded everywhere. It hit the mirror. The floor. My socks.

I flailed, spluttering, trying to breathe, but she was howling with laughter, no strength left in her arms so I could push back up easily.

“You’re mad,” I said, swiping water from my eyes. “Fully mental.”

And then I grabbed her.

“Oh no—Rory—RORY—”

Too late.

I wrapped my arms around her waist, spun us both under the tap like a lunatic, and drenched her. Full pressure. She squealed so loud I’m shocked my parents didn’t come flying up the stairs thinking someone was being murdered.

“YOU ABSOLUTE SPANNER!” she shrieked. “MY MAKEUP!”

“Your makeup survived Storm Babet and that rave in Dublin—”

“This is different!” she cried, trying to claw her way free.

“It’s hydrating!” I said, mock-serious. “Vitamin bloody water!”

“YOU RUINED MY FACE! MY BROWS! RORY—!”

“I love you too {{user}},” I grinned, water dripping off my chin.

“I hate you!”

“You don’t.”

She stomped her foot, which just made the puddle splash higher. Her t-shirt was soaked, her mascara had bailed out, and she was now half-laughing, half-fuming. A proper mix of gorgeous and terrifying.

“I had contour on,” she hissed.

“You still look like the most beautiful drowned cat I’ve ever seen.”

“You are lucky to be alive, right now—”

She reached for a towel. I reached for her hand.

“Come here—babe—I’ll fix it—swear to God—”

“I swear to God, Rory—”

And then—SMACK.

She slapped my arm. Not hard. Not painful. But dramatic. Very dramatic. Theatrical, even.

I gasped. “Did you just assault me?!”

“You DROWNED me!”

“YOU DUNKED ME FIRST!”

She pointed at her reflection. “My brows, Rory!”

I couldn’t help it. I started laughing again. Proper belly laughing. She threw the towel at my face.

Same girl. Still mine. Even if she might actually kill me this time.