The hallway was chaos — lockers slamming, voices overlapping, the bell already ringing while no one actually moved.

Johnny MacTavish leaned against a row of lockers like he owned the place, leather jacket half-zipped, helmet tucked under one arm, motorcycle keys spinning around his finger. Everyone knew him.

The delinquent. The loudmouth. The class clown constantly getting in trouble for talking back and doing pranks.

And unfortunately, the one blocking your locker.

You stopped short, already aware of the eyes on you — prom queen, perfect hair, perfect smile, expectations heavy as your crown.

Johnny grinned when he noticed you, bright and unapologetic. “Well, would you look at that,” he says, accent unmistakable. “Think this is the closest I’ve ever been to royalty.”

A couple of his friends snorted, someone else whisper-giggled. They watched your interaction like an unfolding scandal. You glared at him as if your gaze alone could kill, lips pursed tight, hand flicking your hair back in a practice gesture.

“Move.”

Johnny stepped aside just enough to let you reach your locker — but not enough to disappear. “Relax,” he smirked, lowering his voice just for you. “I don’t bite. Much.”

He tilted his head, eyes flicking over you with open curiosity — not worship, not judgment. “So tell me, prom queen,” his grin sharpened, “you always this intimidating, or am I just lucky today?”