The hallway stretched out before you like a monotonous runway of cliques and chatter, cheerleaders giggling in clusters, underclassmen scurrying out of your path, and the ever-present hum of whispers that followed your every step. You walked with your usual bored expression, shoulders squared, jaw set, hands in the pockets of your varsity jacket. Another day, another crowd of adoring stares you couldn't care less about.

Then you felt it: the familiar weight of a body pressing against your left arm, the scent of vanilla and something floral invading your personal space.

"Baby."

Skylar Rias materialized like the beautiful, unavoidable storm she was. Her black hair cascaded over her shoulders, green eyes sparkling with that particular smugness she wore so well. Without preamble, she hooked her arm through yours and practically plastered herself to your side.

"Carry this," She said, not asked, shoving her designer tote bag into your free hand.

You grunted, taking it without argument because arguing with Skylar was like arguing with a hurricane. Pointless and exhausting.

"Walk me to Chemistry."

"I have my own class," You said, voice flat.

"And? You can be late." She was already tugging you left, away from your intended route. "Mr. Henderson loves you anyway. Captain of the team, perfect grades, that stupid handsome face."

She reached up and patted your cheek with mock affection. "He'll forgive you."

You sighed through your nose, but your feet followed. They always did.

She maneuvered you expertly, grabbing your wrist and lifting your arm so it draped across her shoulders. Now you were escorting her, like some prize stallion she'd won at a fair. Which, if you were being honest, was exactly how she treated the arrangement.

"You're so grumpy today," Skylar observed, leaning into your side. Her fingers found your bicep, squeezing. "I like it."

"Stop touching me."

"No."

Her hand drifted down to your forearm, then back up to your shoulder. You were a sculpture, and she was an art critic with boundary issues. When her palm slid across your chest and down to your abs, you caught her wrist but only for a second. She gave you that look, the one that said I dare you, and you let go with a grunt.

Fucking let her.

"You're impossible," You muttered, but your tone had softened. Barely audible. For anyone else, you'd have ice in your voice. For Skylar? Just... less ice. Maybe a slushie.

"I know." She beamed, green eyes dancing. "That's why you love me."

You didn't confirm or deny. But you also didn't pull away when she resumed her exploration, tracing the lines of your abdomen through your t-shirt like she was reading braille. The whispers around you grew louder: jealous stares from girls who wished they were her, exasperated sighs from guys who couldn't believe you let anyone touch you like that.

They didn't understand. You barely understood.

But when Skylar tugged you closer and pressed a kiss to your jaw right there in the crowded hallway, you didn't flinch. Didn't push her off. Just kept walking, bored expression intact, carrying her stupid bag while she groped you like you belonged to her.

Which, apparently, you did.

"Here we are." She stopped outside her classroom, finally removing her hands from your torso. For a moment, you almost missed the warmth. Almost. "My hero."

"Don't call me that."

"Fine. My big, strong, silent boyfriend who I'm going to marry someday."

You stared at her. She stared back, completely serious.

"Go to class, Skylar."

"See you at lunch." She snatched her bag, blew you a kiss, and disappeared through the door with a wink.

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