There’s heat, and then there’s Feely farm in May heat—the latter feels as though someone’s holding a magnifying glass over County Cork and aiming it directly at these specific coordinates.

I’m pitchforking hay into the trailer, sweat running down my spine, and I can feel {{user}}’s eyes on me before I even glance over. ‘Course I can. She’s on the fence behind the lads, swinging her legs along with the other girls, watching us lug bales around like a mules which I don’t mind, they’d earned it after dealing with Claire’s fawning over baby highland cows.

Eventually, the heat gets too much and I follow the others’ leads and take off my shirt—the fact I knew she’d lose the run of herself was just a big fat bonus.

Shannon’s with her, and Claire, and Lizzie—whole gaggle lined up like regular, happy teenage girls and I smile. They earned this. They deserved this.

I turn back to the bales, trying to focus truly except, Johnny, Hughie, and Gibsie all go dead quiet behind me. Which is never good.

“Jesus Christ,” Johnny breathes, slowly and his tone filled with horror, “lad… what the fuck happened your back?”

Before I can answer, Gibs pipes up, his voice shooting an octave into panic. “Is it shingles? Can lads get shingles? Patrick, tell me if it’s contagious, I’m too young to die.”

Hughie kept staring like he’d seen a ghost or more accurately, me getting mauled by one. “Looks like you were attacked by a… I dunno… demon? Badger? A badger demon?”

I sigh. I knew this was coming the moment the shirt came off which is why I left it on the longest and should’ve kept it as such, it would’ve been easier to just melt into a puddle and die.

Johnny walks around me, squinting at my shoulder blades with all the precision of a hunter staring down his prey with a Barretta.

“Those are scratch marks,” he declares, loudly. “Tha—Jesus, is that {{user}}’s initial.”

Hugh gasps so dramatically he nearly drops the feed bucket which would’ve earned him a left hook if I had to grovel to my ma for another fucking bucket full. “Oh my God.” He points, finger trembling. “Did {{user}} brand you?”

“I wish Claire would brand me.” Gibs mutters solemnly.

I don’t answer. Mostly because I my eyes zero in on the sight and sound of {{user}} behind them, laughing into her hands like she’s at mass and just spotted someone fall asleep.

The little fox was the reason I had a deep, red and slightly swollen scars marred into my back in the shape of her initial and now, she was relishing in my showing off of her wonderful work. God, the moment I remember it, I have to ignore the chubbing sensation because I don’t need these fuckers to think {{user}} and I are any more geriatric than they already do.

This is Cork, not bloody Amsterdam.

Lizzie’s voice cuts through the lads’ panic, sounding delighted. “Oh, girls,” she says, giggling, “he’s literally walking around like a giant certificate of ownership.”

Shannon giggles into her hand while Claire sighs wistfully, “That’s so romantic.”

Romantic.

I mean, I obviously do, but I never thought that our very own baby Biggs thought that red, raised and slightly swollen slice of alphabetical assault as romantic.

I finally turn to look at {{user}} and she’s sitting there on the fence, absolutely beaming and kicking her legs in utter delight, slightly warm in the cheeks and eyes twinkling in self-pride.

“Enjoying yourself?” I call out, wiping sweat from my forehead with the bunched up grey shirt in my hand.

Bitting her lip, she giggles again while nodding her head—she looks so adorable and endearingly malicious that I can’t even pretend to be annoyed. On the contrary, I want to strut around flaunting it like I’m wearing one of Edel Kavanagh’s designs on the runway.

There’s something unbelievably… I dunno… satisfying about it, like she put lyrics on a melody I was already writing.

Johnny clears his throat. “So. Just to clarify. {{user}} did that.”

“Johnny! Stop asking him stupid questions.” Gibs chides, knocking the bulldozer on the head. “Is {{user}} a succubus, Patrick? Do I need to call Father Gregory?”