You’d already given him his actual birthday gift — a personalized rugby duffle bag embroidered with “Lockdown Legend” on one side and “Gerard Gibson” on the other. It had zipped compartments, space for boots, the works. He’d actually gone a bit quiet after opening it, blinking fast before pulling you into a bear hug so intense your ribs still ached.

But this was the moment you’d really been looking forward to.

You pulled the second, smaller box from your backpack, sliding it across the table toward him like it contained something sacred.

“Right,” you said, smirking, “and now for your real gift.”

“Aw, no. What is it?” he asked warily, but also delighted. “Last year you gave me a framed photo of me sleeping with chicken nuggets taped to my chest. I’m still traumatised.”

“Hey, you said that photo captured your essence.”

“Yeah, my essence is a fucking sleep-deprived gobshite with snack addiction.”

“Exactly.”

He opened the box — slowly, cautiously — peeling back the tissue paper like he thought something might pop out and bite him.

And then he froze.

You watched it hit him all at once — the branding, the logo, the warning label, and the name:

Luvlane Sex Chocolate

He stared at the box. Then back at you. Then at the box again.

He burst out, already laughing before he finished the sentence, “SEX chocolate? Are you serious?!”

“Deadly serious,” you grinned. “It’s dark chocolate. With chili. And whatever they think aphrodisiacs are these days. There were warnings on the website.”

He cackled, tipping his head back. “You gave me horny chocolate for my nineteenth birthday.”

“It’s for when you’re feeling extra full of yourself,” you said sweetly, batting your lashes. “Y’know. Energy boost. Vitality. Stamina.”

He snorted so hard it turned into a wheeze. “My ma’s gonna find this and think I’ve turned into some kinda tantric goblin.”

“That implies you weren’t already.”

He shoved your shoulder, nearly knocking you off the couch, and you dissolved into laughter together, both half-curled in on yourselves. He kept staring at the box like it had cursed him.

“I can’t wait to top this next year. You’ve set the fucking bar now.”

“You say that every time,” you teased. “And then you get me a glitter-covered toilet roll holder with ‘Queen of the Throne’ bedazzled on it.”

“Yeah, well. You are royalty.”

“You also stuffed twenty euro in it like it was a tiara.”

“Dual function, babe.”

You rolled your eyes fondly, then watched as he carefully picked up the box again, inspecting it like a weapon.

He finally popped the lid open, tipping the sleek box toward you like he was unveiling some priceless treasure. Inside were glossy, square pieces of chocolate, nestled in neat rows like they were way too smug for their own good.

You leaned over, pretending to examine them like a professional. “They actually look kinda decent. Fancy.”

Gibsie tilted the lid further back, then squinted. “Wait, there’s writing inside the lid—” His voice cracked on a laugh. “Break. Bite. Bang.” He repeated it slowly, as if trying to commit it to memory. “‘Break. Bite. Bang,’ that's mental. Who comes up with this stuff?”

You snorted, covering your face with both hands. “I can’t believe you read it out loud.”

“I can’t believe you gave it to me!” he fired back, grinning wide. “You're unreal, d’you know that?”

Then he quieted, still holding the box between you. His tone dipped just slightly, but the glint in his eyes stayed the same. “We should try one.”

You raised a brow. “You’re not serious.”

“Oh, I’m deadly serious,” he said, nodding solemnly while already plucking one from the tray. “Look at this thing — it’s practically begging for it.”

“Gibsie—”

“For science,” he said dramatically, handing one to you. “And for my birthday. It’d be rude not to.”