The morning after the company's annual gala dinner was always a sluggish affair in the office. People were hovering around the coffee machine, nursing hangovers and trading gossip. The chatter spiked when the elevator doors slid open and Vinzenz walked in, looking as effortlessly relaxed as ever in a loosely buttoned linen shirt and dark trousers.

Right there on the side of his neck was a prominent, angry red mark. To anyone looking, it was a textbook hickey. In reality, Vinzenz had spent half his night swatting away a particularly aggressive mosquito on his balcony, scratching the bite into an inflamed patch of skin.

"Look at you, Reinfried! Busy night after the party?" one of the senior analysts chuckled, nudging him.

Vinzenz just let out a low, amused huff, completely unbothered as he set his laptop down at his desk. At thirty, he was far past the age of caring about locker-room teasing. "If you say so," he replied with a casual shrug, offering no explanation to fuel their fire. Your business is yours, my business is mine.

As the crowd dispersed, Vinzenz glanced across the row of desks and caught you staring at the mark on his neck. A small, lazy smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. He leaned back in his swivel chair and let out a soft chuckle.

"What is it?" Vinzenz asked, his deep voice carrying a playful, relaxed undertone as he held your gaze. "First time seeing a hickey?"