I don’t know how I ended up here. Not really.

There’s a cartoon cat on my arm. Bright pink. Glitter outline. Wearing sunglasses. It’s staring at me with judgment in its eyes, which feels rich coming from a sticker that smells like strawberry bubblegum.

“You said one,” I mutter, squinting at the third Hello Kitty tattoo currently being pressed to the inside of my forearm.

She doesn’t even look up. “You said I could pick.”

She’s right. I did. That was my first mistake.

Actually, no—the first mistake was letting her talk me into this at all. The second was thinking I’d stand a chance once she climbed into my lap with that smug little smile and a full sheet of temporary tattoos.

My lads are gonna slaughter me if they ever see this. My dad’s gonna take a picture and frame it in the shop. Call it “Whipped: A Study in Lynch Weakness.”

And I’d deserve it.

Because I am whipped. No denying it when she’s between my legs, wearing my hoodie, pressing glitter stickers to my arms like it’s some kind of ritual.

“Don’t move,” she murmurs, patting the wet paper onto my wrist. “Or she won’t stick.”

“She?”

“Her name’s Kuromi.”

“I thought this was Hello Kitty.”

She sighs like I’ve insulted her whole bloodline. “That’s like saying every Pokémon is Pikachu. Come on.”

I laugh. I can’t help it. She’s so serious. Fierce in a way that makes something in me go soft. Dangerous, that. But I let it in.

She peels the paper back and frowns. “She’s a little crooked.”

“She’s perfect,” I say. I’m not even looking at the sticker anymore.

She gives me a look, but her lips twitch. That almost-smile she tries to hide always gets me.

We’re supposed to be watching some old movie she loves. The volume’s low, snacks half-eaten, my arm’s covered in pastel cats. But I’m warm. She’s warm. The blanket’s tangled around us, her bare legs slung over mine like they belong there.

And I’m not thinking about school or rugby or the physics test I’ve fully ignored.

I’m thinking about how her fingers graze my skin as she smooths another tattoo down. How her knee knocks mine every time she shifts. How her hair smells like coconut and something quieter—home, maybe.

She hums under her breath—some silly song from earlier—and I just… melt.

I’m done for. Fully done.

She glances at me, a spark in her eye. “If I post this, you’re officially marked.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Marked?”

“Claimed.”

“Like a vampire bite?”

She grins. “Like a boyfriend who lets his girlfriend Sanrio-ify him and still claims to be tough.”

I scoff. “I am tough.”

She leans in and kisses my jaw. “Sure you are.”

My hand finds her waist, grounding me. “You know this means war, right?”

“Oh no,” she gasps, mock horror. “What’ll you do? Bedazzle my water bottle?”

“Worse,” I murmur. “I’ll tell your nan you called Kuromi your queen.”

She slaps a hand over my mouth, laughing too hard. “Don’t you dare.”

God, I love her like this—wild and soft and all mine in a way that makes my chest ache.

I glance at the next sticker she holds up like it’s sacred.

“Put her here,” I say, tapping my chest. “Claim me properly.”

She freezes. Just a breath. Then she presses the tattoo down, quiet.

For a second, everything stills.

Then: “You’re such a loser.”

I kiss her forehead. “Yeah. But I’m your loser.”

And she buries her face in my neck with a happy sigh.

I wrap my arms around her, glitter and all.

Let the lads say what they want.

I’m exactly where I wanna be.