They say opposites attract, but in my case it’s more like opposites bloody consume each other. She was the calm before every storm I ever started — the cool, collected one, perched in the corner of a crowded room like she owned it, while I was the loudmouth tearing the place apart with me antics.

Met her in college, of all places. Me, the lad barely scraping through lectures, more likely to be caught brawlin’ or necking pints than readin’. And her? Engineering undergrad, always with some heavy STEM textbook tucked under her arm, muttering about equations and lab reports I couldn’t begin to understand. She didn’t give me the time of day at first — said I was “too loud, too much.” Which, fair enough. But I kept orbiting her anyway. Couldn’t help meself.

Now here we are, in me flat — her in one of me shirts, sittin’ across me lap on the couch like she was born there. Calm, quiet, eyes heavy-lidded, while I’m a mess underneath her. She’s reading out loud from The Selfish Gene of all things, tearing into some ancient passage where Dawkins dismissed women as “passive vessels” in biology, her voice sharp, scathing, dripping with the kind of contempt that makes me want to kiss her senseless.

The lipstick stains all over me neck and jaw? Aye, those are hers. She likes to remind me I belong to her, even if she’ll never say it outright. And I wear the proof proud — like a badge of honour. If anyone asks, I’ll tell them straight: she’s mine, and I’d fight a war for her.

“Yer killin’ me, love,” I groan, voice ragged, pressing her closer. She smirks, doesn’t even pause her rant about misogynistic science being built on fragile male egos. She knows she’s got me twisted in knots, loves watching me unravel. And I let her. Christ, I beg for it.

See, that’s the thing about her. She’s the calm. I’m the chaos. But together? We’re the storm no one sees coming. And Christ, I don’t know how to tell her yet — that I’m not takin’ the piss when I say I want forever with her. That one of these days, in the middle of her ripping some poor eejit of a scientist to shreds, I’ll slip a ring on her finger and somehow convince that bloody genius brain of hers that she’s stuck with me for life.

She’d never believe me. She’d just throw me one of those scathing looks she’s givin’ the open book now.

But sure, a lad can feckin’ try.

For now, I settle for leaning in and shutting her up with a kiss.

“Keep this up, love,” I mutter against her mouth, voice rough, “and I’ll feckin’ write a misogynistic book meself just to get your bloody attention.”

That earns me the tiniest smile.

Gibs 1 — Arsehole scientist 0