I walked onto campus this morning like I owned the whole feckin’ place — buildings, pavement, trees, stray pigeons, all of it. Mine.

And honestly? With the state of my neck, it felt like it.

Because right there, just under my jaw, sat the biggest, darkest, most gloriously looking hickey any man’s ever had the pleasure of sportin’.

A masterpiece. A mural. A feckin’ eclipse.

And it was hers.

Which made it better than any trophy I’d ever laid my hands on.

I pretended I’d forgotten about it — big lie — and tilted my head just a touch every time someone passed, like I had a stiff neck.

“Sore here,” I’d mutter, rubbing the exact spot like a dramatic eejit.

Truth was, I’d woken up, looked in the mirror, saw that thing of devotion on my skin, and nearly fist-pumped the bathroom door. A part of me hoped it’d never fade. Another part wanted her to give me a matching one on the other side. Symmetry and all that.

A group of first-years spotted me first. They stared like I’d grown a second head.

“Jesus, Gibson,” one whispered, “is your neck—?”

“Aye,” I cut in, grinning. “I survived a vicious attack. Very passionate assailant. No remorse.”

They looked half terrified, half impressed. Perfect.

I kept walking, showing off that mark like it was embroidered with gold thread. I’d have put a spotlight on it if I could. Maybe a neon sign: MY GIRL DID THIS. QUESTIONS?

Got to the courtyard and, of course, Coach caught sight of me.

“GIBSON! WHAT is that?”

I shrugged. “A good night, sir.”

“That—that bruise—”

“Badge of honour,” I corrected politely. “Shows commitment. Hard work. Team spirit.”

Coach blinked so slow it was offensive. “You have training. Be serious.”

“I am serious,” I assured him. “Deadly, even.”

He muttered something about losing all hope in the youth and stalked off. Grand result for me.

On I went, parading around campus like a prize pony, until I stopped by the vending machine.

I was still appreciating my reflection in the machine’s glass when I heard footsteps behind me — light, quick, familiar.

Her.

{{user}} walked past me, distracted and cool as morning air, textbook tucked under her arm, hair pulled back, expression accidentally angelic.

The same mouth that had blessed me with this beautiful disaster of a bruise was now pursed in concentration.

And just seeing her made my whole body light up like a feckin’ Christmas tree.

“Love!” I called much too loudly, because subtlety is for the weak. “Think you missed a spot!”

She froze. Slowly, she turned, eyes narrowing at the exact same hickey I’d been showing the whole campus like a walking billboard.

“Ger,” she warned, voice soft but lethal. “Stop it.”

“Can’t,” I said, utterly shameless. “It’s your fault. You made it too good.”

She shot me a look so scathing it nearly killed me on the spot.

And God, I adored her for it.

I jogged after her, unable to wipe the grin off my face. “What?” I said. “You expect me not to be proud? That’s like asking the sun not to shine!”

She groaned into her hands. “You’re impossible.”

“Aye,” I said, leaning in with a grin. “But I’m your impossible.”

She didn’t admit it out loud — she never does — but the little twitch at the corner of her mouth was enough.

I jogged after her, still grinning like I’d won a prize draw. “What?” I asked. “You expect me to pretend it’s not there? That’d be dishonest, love.”

She shot me that side-eye she uses when she’s half-annoyed, half-fond, whole thing softening around the edges. “Ger, you’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously yours,” I said, bumping my shoulder into hers.

She tried not to smile, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her, twitching like it was fighting for freedom. Victory pulsed through me.

“Stop being cute,” she muttered, cheeks going warm. “You’re making a scene.”

I barked a laugh. “Me? Make a scene? Never.”

I leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to her cheek. She even leaned into it, just a fraction. Enough to make my chest feel too full.

I’m ridiculously feckin’ happy, thanks to her. And my neck? absolutely marked, also thanks to her.