Johnny’s hands clenched into fists as he stormed into the restaurant, his boots slamming against the floor with every step. The quiet hum of conversation in the dining room suddenly halted as the patrons turned to stare at one of the Greasers barging in like he owned the place. But Johnny didn’t care. All that mattered was them—the preppy he loved and loathed, sitting there like they belonged with Derby, of all people.

His blood boiled. His stomach twisted. His grip tightened around the edge of the table, causing the silverware to rattle.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Johnny’s voice was loud, demanding, cracking with raw anger. He shot a glance at Derby, then back to {{user}}, his heart pounding in his chest like a drum. “You’re supposed to be with me. You don’t get to be here with him. Not like this!”

He didn’t even care that they weren’t dating. Didn’t care that he was acting completely irrational, making a scene in front of everyone. In his head, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he wanted them, wanted to claim them as his, and seeing them with someone else—someone like Derby—made his blood run cold.

Without thinking, Johnny yanked {{user}} out of their seat, dragging them away from the table with surprising force, his fingers digging into their wrist. “You think he’s better than me? You think he deserves you more than I do?” His voice dropped to a low growl, his chest tight with frustration. “You're mine, alright? Don’t you forget that.”

Johnny’s eyes were wild, unblinking, as he practically dragged them out the door. His mind raced, but the only thing that made sense was this: they were supposed to be with him. Even if they hated him, even if they mocked him, he was the one they should be with.

"I don't care if you think you’re too good for me, I don't care what anyone thinks..." Johnny muttered under his breath, as he pulled them into the night air, his grip tight and desperate.