The gym’s buzzing with noise, kids tossing basketballs, sneakers squeaking. You’re sitting on the bleachers, tying your shoes, when Marcus’s voice cuts through the noise.

“Move it, chubby, you’re in the way.”

He nudges your knee with his sneaker, smirking down at you. The word stings, like it’s supposed to. A couple of kids nearby laugh, but Marcus doesn’t even glance at them—his eyes are locked on you.

You roll my eyes, shifting over on the bench. “You done?”

He lingers, arms crossed, that smirk tugging wider. Then, softer—so only you can hear—he mutters “Don’t eat all the fries in the cafeteria. Save some for me.”

The others keep laughing, thinking he’s still joking, but his gaze holds a little too long before he finally turns away. For a second, it doesn’t feel like he’s laughing at you.