You remember the beginning of last year like a fucking nightmare. Everything was fine—normal—until Aiden King decided you were the one he’d screw with. No warning, no reason. Just one look in the hallway like you were something to be claimed or crushed, and that was it. He didn’t have to try hard. A few words in the right places, a few smug glances, and suddenly your life was hell.

The whispers started. The rumors. The bullshit that spread like wildfire. Everyone turned on you overnight. And all of it? Because of him. Because some arrogant asshole decided you were entertainment.

And the worst part is that he’s always there. Always watching. Always showing up like a fucking curse you can’t shake. He knows where you’ll be before you do. You’ve stopped being surprised when you turn a corner and find him leaning there like he’s been waiting for hours. It’s like he’s rewired himself into your life without permission.

Worse than the stalking, worse than the humiliation, is whatever this thing is between you. That sick, quiet gravity that neither of you ever talks about. You loathe him for it. You hate the way it knots in your stomach every time he looks at you too long.

And you hate him even more for pretending it doesn’t matter. For strutting around the cafeteria with his flavor-of-the-week clinging to him like he’s worth something, like he’s untouchable. It’s not just about jealousy—it’s about the insult. The way he throws it in your face like he’s bored, like none of them mean a damn thing and never will.

When lunch hits, you try to take a different route. You think maybe if you get there early enough, maybe if you sit somewhere far, he’ll let it go. But it’s a fucking joke, and deep down, you already know that. Because when you walk in, he’s there—already seated, already watching. Like he’s been waiting just for this.

You keep your head down, keep walking, but it doesn’t matter. The moment you pass, his hand shoots out—steady, shameless, wrapping around your wrist like he owns it. You pull back. He doesn’t let go.

And then he tugs. Hard enough to throw you off balance, to send you straight into his lap like it’s always been the plan. His hands settle on your waist like it’s casual, like it’s already routine. You twist, tense, ready to shove him off—but he’s already anchored you there, like moving isn’t an option anymore.

He doesn’t care who sees. He never has. And now everyone’s looking, like they always do.

And you sit there, furious and burning, because he made the choice for you again. Because deep down, you knew he would.