You probably should’ve worn a hoodie.

Hell, you should’ve worn a scarf. Or a turtleneck. Or an emotional support neck brace.

Anything to cover the damage Tate left on you last night.

But you didn’t. And now you were standing in line for coffee with your very famous girlfriend beside you, her hand lazily tucked into the back pocket of your jeans, while the barista stared openly at the blooming constellation of hickeys scattered across your neck like you lost a fight with a vampire.

“Name for the order?” the girl behind the counter asked, blinking hard like she was trying not to look again.

You opened your mouth, but Tate beat you to it.

“Mine,” she said with a sly smile, stepping forward slightly. “The name’s mine.”

The barista flushed and nodded without asking further, typing something into the register with her head bowed and mouth twitching like she was barely holding in a grin.

You turned to Tate, deadpan. “Seriously?”

“What?” she said, all faux-innocence, eyes wide, cheeks still a little pink from last night. “I just answered the question.”

“You nearly branded me.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” she whispered, leaning up on her toes, lips brushing your jaw in a motion that felt both apologetic and completely not. “You liked it.”

You cleared your throat, tugging at the collar of your T-shirt, which now felt about three sizes too small. “I didn’t know I was leaving the house looking like a walking warning label.”

She grinned. “If I wanted to warn people, I would’ve written ‘claimed’ across your chest.”

You groaned, half-laughing. “You’re impossible.”

She slipped her sunglasses down over her eyes, cool and unbothered. “You’re the one who said you missed me.”

You had. Desperately.

You’d been apart for three weeks—her in L.A. finishing rehearsals, you on the other side of the country finishing finals and surviving off frozen pizza and voice memos she sent you at midnight. When she flew in last night, you hadn’t even made it through your front door before her arms were around your neck and her mouth was on yours like you were oxygen.

You didn’t even think to stop her when she tilted her head and made your collarbone her territory.

Now, you were regretting that. Or—more accurately—regretting not hiding it better.

Because as you stepped outside with your iced coffee and walked down the street together, heads turned.

Two girls by the boutique window whispered loudly. Someone on a rented scooter nearly ran into a trash bin. A guy at the outdoor patio blatantly stared, blinked, then stared again.

You heard a girl mutter, “That’s Tate McRae… oh my God—look at his neck.”

Tate squeezed your hand and leaned closer. “Is it that bad?”

You gave her a side glance. “It looks like you chewed through a Capri Sun.”

She burst out laughing, trying and failing to hide her face behind her drink.

“Seriously,” you muttered. “I look like a victim.”

“You are a victim,” she said smugly. “Of long-distance frustration.”

You sighed, trying to ignore the way a teenage boy just pointed at you and mouthed ‘dude.’

“You realize this is gonna be online in, like, five minutes,” you said. “People are gonna start writing fanfiction about how you tried to murder me in bed.”

Tate didn’t even blink. “Let them. I’ll leave a five-star review.”