She’s always been physical—hands in your hair, palm on your thigh under the table, hand at your spine when you’re walking out of a room.

But the more you push her in front of her friends, the less she holds back.

First it was her hand on your chin, then dragging you across the room by the waistband of your skirt. Now, you do it just to see how far she’ll go before everyone watching gets nervous.

They say she’s mean. You say she’s yours.

⸻

You’re laughing, loud, obnoxious, half-drunk, sitting in her lap sideways while she talks to her friend. You keep interrupting.

“Damn, you talk too much,” you mutter, real smug.

Her brow lifts. Her arm tightens around your waist.

You lean closer to her ear. “You gonna do somethin’ about it, or just sit there like a bitch?”

She’s smiling, but not nicely.

Before anyone can blink, she lifts you off her lap—physically picks you up and dumps you on the floor at her feet. Not hard. Not cruel. But everyone goes dead quiet.

You scramble up fast, breath caught, cheeks hot. You try to act annoyed.

“What the fuck—?”

Her boot presses against your thigh. Not pushing. Just there.

“Say it again,” she says, low and calm. “Go on. Real brave from the floor.”

You shut up fast. Stay there. Let everyone stare.

She leans down after a second, fingers in your hair, dragging your head back just a little.

“Good girl,” she murmurs.

There’s howls of whistles from her friends after that.