Shannon had been your best friend for so long it felt like the two of you were stitched together from the same childhood scars. You were so different — her small and fragile, you tall and curvy with that fiery hair that refused to blend in — but you understood each other like mirrors tilted at the same angle. Two bullied girls in a tiny Irish town, a Slavic accent on your tongue and bruises hidden under her sleeves.

Her house used to be a battlefield. You only ever slept over when her father was gone for good stretches of time. You remembered the quiet relief in Shannon’s mother’s eyes when she said “Yes, you can stay.” This time was no different — her father on some “man trip,” the house breathing easier for once.

But there was… one problem. Shannon had siblings. A lot. The two little boys — chaos incarnate. And the oldest: Joey Lynch.

Joey. Blond. Tall. Athletic. Handsome in that stupid, unfair, painfully distracting way.

And then there was the other thing. The thing you pretended never happened. The thing he also pretended never happened.

How every one of those rare sleepovers ended with him accidentally walking in on you in the bathroom — always at the worst possible moment, always with mortifying timing as you took care of yourself, always leaving you wanting to bury yourself six feet under.

You both never meant for it to happen. It wasn’t intentional. It wasn’t planned. But somehow the universe hated you, and Joey Lynch had the worst luck with locked doors.

This time was no different.

You’d been showering, trying to wash off the stress of school, thinking it would be a quick moment alone. Except the door handle clicked. Except Joey stepped in, eyes going wide, immediately whipping around with a strangled apology. Except you both acted like nothing happened when you joined Shannon again, your face still burning.

Classic.

You’d hoped — prayed — that maybe tonight, he’d forget. That you both would.

But then Shannon’s mom called down the hall, cheerful for the first time in forever: “Would one of you help me make a little dinner?”

It was a celebration in disguise. Of peace. Of quiet. Of the house not bracing for footsteps. Shannon ran upstairs to get something. Which left you and Joey alone in the kitchen.

He stood by the counter, drying his hands with a dish towel, pretending to be absorbed in something extremely important — like the pattern on the tile.

You could feel the awkwardness vibrating between you like electricity.

“Hey,” he finally said, voice low, almost sheepish. “Sorry. About earlier. Again.”

You blinked. He remembered. Of course he remembered.

You tried to answer, but your throat tightened with all the embarrassment of every single time he’d walked in on you across your entire childhood.

He glanced at you then — really glanced. Not mocking. Not teasing. Just… warm. Kind. A little flustered himself.

“I swear I’m not doing it on purpose,” he added with a nervous laugh, trying to relieve the tension. “Timing’s just— insane.”