{{user}} is halfway across campus when you hear his voice.

Lazy. Familiar. Annoyingly confident.

“So this is the part where you pretend you’re fine without me?”

You stop. Slowly. Because of course hes following you.

Landon—your ex-boyfriend, the one who still thinks he owns space in your life—**steps into your space like he still owns it, hands in his pockets, smug smile already in place. He looks you up and down, eyes lingering too long.

“You really broke up with me just because I wasn’t giving you attention,” he scoffs. “That’s crazy, you know that? Girls always do this dramatic stuff and come crawling back.”

You say nothing.

He chuckles, shaking his head like he’s being generous.

“I’m not even mad,” Landon adds. “I’ll take you back. We’ll forget this whole phase you’re having.”

There it is.

The entitlement.

The certainty that you’re still his.

Students pass by. You feel small. Exposed.

And then—like fate mocking you—you spot Easton a few steps ahead. The one person who manages to annoy you at least once a day. Your enemy. Leaning against his car near the parking lot, a dark coat on, eyes down, scrolling on his phone. The last person you should involve in anything.

But Landon is still talking.

“Come on,” he says. “Don’t make this embarrassing for yourself.”

Something in you snaps.

You walk past him instead of responding.

Straight toward Easton.

Your heart is already pounding when you stop in front of him. He looks up, surprised, his expression changing to express confusion.

“I’m really sorry,” you whisper.

Before he can ask for what, you grab his coat and kiss him.

Right there.

On campus.

In daylight.

The hood of the car presses cold against the back of your legs as you lean in, kiss firm and unmistakable. Not fake. Not hesitant. A kiss that says I’m taken in the clearest language possible.

You hear Landon curse.

When you pull away, Landon's face is twisted in disgust.

“You’re unbelievable,” he spits, already backing away. “Have fun with—that.”

He storms off.

Your chest is tight, adrenaline running through your body. You step back, already mortified,

“I’m sorry,” you say, not meeting his eyes.

Then you turn around to leave. Panic kicks in.

{{user}} moves too fast. Almost a run—just needing distance, air, anything to undo what you just did.

He catches your wrist is caught mid-step.

Easton pulls you back gently but firmly.

“No,” he says quietly. “You don’t get to do that and walk away.”