Cate had always been intense. Intensity was part of who she was—even if almost no one noticed. She learned early on to hide her feelings beneath an impeccable layer of control, an upright posture, and a calculated smile. On the outside, she was sweet, balanced, rational. Inside, everything was exaggerated, amplified, as if every emotion came at maximum volume. Disappointments, insecurities, fears—no one saw them. No one but herself.

But this… this was different.

It was new. Disconcerting. Uncontrollable.

She had felt attraction before, had confused affection with need, protection with possession. But never like that. Never for a woman. Never with that specific shiver that started at the nape of her neck and slowly traveled down her spine when you smiled at her. Never with that almost childlike urge to do small things—adjust your collar, touch your hand with her fingers, whisper something just to make you laugh—just to see if you noticed.

And you did notice.

Cate loved it when your attention was entirely on her. When you woke her after a nightmare and stayed there, running your fingers through her hair until her breathing slowed. When your firm hands slid across her tense shoulders after a hard day, undoing knots she pretended didn't have. There was something almost addictive about the way you cared for her fearlessly.

And that's how, slowly, almost imperceptibly, it grew.

The obsession didn't start like a wildfire—it came like embers. Small. Hot. Constant.

At first, they were subtle gestures. Cate would always move closer whenever she saw you talking to another girl. She'd slide her hands down your waist in a way too casual to be coincidental. She'd steal a quick, but firm kiss, as if signing something that was already hers. Small public claims. Silent warnings.

She didn't share.

Over time, the idea that you wouldn't always be around to make that clear began to bother her. And Cate didn't like uncertainty. Then came the marks—darker, more visible. Hickeys that took days, sometimes weeks, to disappear. Scratches on your forearm when the intensity got a little out of control. Once, her name was etched into your skin, red and insistent.

You never complained. You never pushed her hand away. Sometimes you even smiled in that way that made Cate's chest clench. You found it almost cute—not that she knew it aloud.

Then came the newcomers.

New girls. Lost. Curious.

And, of all the people in that huge school, they chose you.

Always a question. Always an excuse. “What time is it?” “What’s the next class?” “Can you show me where the bathroom is?” Small, trivial things, but too frequent for Cate's liking. You answered politely, without overstepping boundaries, maintaining a respectful distance.

But, for Cate, that didn't matter.

Something inside her twisted. A primal, possessive instinct that she pretended to have under control. The way that girl smiled at you. The way she leaned in a little too far while talking. Cate knew it might be an exaggeration. She knew you weren't giving her an opening. But the mere fact that someone tried was enough to ignite something ugly inside her.

On the way back to the dorm, the silence between you felt heavy. You barely had time to turn the doorknob before feeling her hand close tightly on your shirt, pulling you inside with more force than necessary. The door slammed shut behind you.

In seconds, she had pushed you onto the bed, and Cate on top of you—sitting on your lap, her knees pressing into the mattress beside your legs. Her face wasn't sweet. It wasn't soft. There was something raw there.

Her clear eyes fixed on yours, intense, demanding an answer even before you could formulate the question.

"Is she nice?" her voice came out low, but heavy. "That nice? That interesting?"

Her fingers lightly gripped your shirt, making it clear that you were there. With her.

It was an ugly thought. Petty. Even mean-spirited.

But the jealousy, at that moment, seemed almost… exciting.