Joey Lynch (3)

i’m halfway through checking if there’s any cow juice left for sean when the stairs give a proper groan.
don’t even need to look.
she’s clocked on.
i take a swig of coke straight from the tin, leaning back against the counter like i’m the king of the castle —‘cause someone’s gotta run this asylum, and it sure as hell isn’t the walls.
shannon’s already spotted her, waving like she’s seen a bloody a-lister.
“mornin’,” she says, gob full of coco pops.
tadhg doesn’t even look up properly before he’s being a total gobshite again, winking at her like he’s got any right to be doing that in my gaff.
“oi—” i don’t even finish the sentence before i’ve given the back of his nut a proper slap.
“what?” he whines, looking proper offended while rubbing his head.
“dont start, you weapon,” i mutter.
ollie starts cackling like that’s the funniest thing he’s seen in his puff, and sean starts squirming in his high chair, making a right racket like he’s personally victimised that no one’s picked him up yet.
and then she wanders in.
wearing my shirt.
course she is.
drowning in it, sleeves dangling, hair like a badger’s arse from sleep—like she hasn’t got a clue she’s walking around looking like a total sort in front of three weans and a feral irish family.
i just gawp at her for a second.
still half-baked, still trying to process the planet.
then she clocks me.
and that’s it.
i’m a goner.
my arm’s around her waist before my brain even registers it, yanking her in like it’s muscle memory.
she leans into me straight away too, like she’s the missing piece of the puzzle.
“you’re up early, baby,” i mutter into her hair, voice sounding like i’ve swallowed a bag of gravel.
she smells like sleep and my shower gel.
i give her a peck—quick, lazy, not overthinking it—just because she’s there and i can.
“morning,” she says.
ollie, the little shite, beams immediately.
“good morning!” he bellows, like we’re all meant to give him a standing ovation for existing.
i shot him a look over her shoulder.