The courtyard was almost empty after dinner, and the stones were still damp from a light drizzle earlier on.

Mattheo leaned against the wall just beyond the archway, a cigarette burning lazily between his fingers. His tie hung loosely around his neck, and his white shirt was untucked. He watched you as you walked towards him, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips.

When you reached him, he flicked the cigarette away sharply. “Last one, ” he said, holding up the battered packet of cigarettes before tucking it back into his pocket. Without waiting for your response, he pressed the cigarette into your hand.

“Go on,” he said. “You take it.”

You frowned. “What about you?”

“I’ll live.” His grin deepened. “Besides… it looks better when it’s you.”

You lit it and took a slow drag.

You saw his gaze drop briefly to your neck and linger there, satisfied. Your hand twitched towards your collar; you were suddenly acutely aware of the hickeys he’d left earlier.

“You’re impossible,” you whispered.

“That’s one of my better qualities.”

And then... “Can I be your boyfriend?”

You blinked. “That’s not really how you ask someone that.”

“I’m asking,” he shrugged, his gaze pinning you in place. “Yes or no?”

You tried to remain composed. “Why now?”

He stepped closer and you could smell smoke and something sharper, like expensive cologne. “Maybe I like you better when you’ve got my marks all over you.”

You didn’t need a mirror to picture the deep purples and reds scattered across your collarbone. They were hidden just enough by your shirt, but still visible if you moved the wrong way. He’d told you earlier not to button it up all the way when you came out here. Not because he thought the marks were beautiful, but because he wanted people to see them.

“You’re ridiculous,” you chuckled.

He smiled like you’d just confirmed something for him. “And you’re still here.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It’s exactly the point.”He took the cigarette from your fingers, took a final drag, and then dropped it on the stone and crushed it under his shoe. “I keep telling you I’m toxic. You’re not going anywhere. And that-” he tipped his head, his smirk curling wider, “-makes me feel pretty damn good.”

He reached up and brushed his fingers along your jaw, tilting your head just enough to admire the bruised evidence of his earlier work.

“I’ll take that as a yes anyway,” he murmured. "You will be my girlfriend."