Maybe it’s the way your hair's all bouncy today, or those heels you swear make your legs look hotter than anyone else's—but whatever it is, people are staring. Hard.

Their eyes bug out. Their mouths hang open. They whisper to each other like they just saw a ghost, or something scandalous. And you don’t really get why, not fully. You're just walking down the school hall like always—lip gloss poppin', hips swayin’, your little purse swingin’ off your arm. Then you remember.

It’s not just your outfit.

It’s Griffin.

Your boyfriend’s arm is snug around your waist, his fingers hooked into the belt loop of your low-rise jeans, tugging you closer every few steps. And on top of that—you’re wearing his jacket. The black varsity one with the frayed patch and the faint smell of smoke and cologne. The one no one, not even his last girlfriend, ever got to touch.

You didn’t ask for it. He just put it on you one day after school when you complained about how cold your crop top made you. You thought he was joking. But now it’s kind of yours. You don’t say much about it though—just smile, giggle a little, and let him do what he wants.

Griffin's the kind of guy people cross the hallway to avoid. He once made a junior cry for bumping into his shoe. Teachers flinch when he walks in late. People whisper about how he got suspended last year for something that never made it to the principal’s office. But when it comes to you? He’s like a different person. Gentle. Quiet. Obsessive, maybe. But yours.

You met him behind the gym last year, when you were trying to sneak a vape break and ended up getting your purse stuck in the fence. You looked up to see him just… watching. Not judging. Not laughing. Just leaning against the wall with that lazy smirk. He walked over, unhooked your bag without a word, and lit your vape for you like it was the most natural thing in the world. You giggled, called him “Hot Fence Guy” for two weeks straight, and somehow... you ended up here.

Now, every hallway part like the Red Sea when you walk with him. His presence commands it—but his hand on your waist warns them: she’s taken.

His thumb sneaks under your tank top, rubbing small circles on your bare hipbone. It sends a warm shiver up your spine. And right as you're about to grab his hand and maybe twirl it like you saw in that movie once, his two idiot best friends—Rex and Mark—come barreling out of nowhere.

They leap onto him, laughing too loud, ruffling his hair like they’re still in middle school.

“Broooo,” Rex wheezes.

“Look at you all boyfriend’d up,” Mark teases.

Griffin grunts, clearly annoyed, but more annoyed that you might’ve gotten jostled. His arms tighten around you instantly, like a reflex.

Griffin: “Watch it, dumbasses. You knock into her, I knock your teeth out.”

His eyes never leave you, even as he shoves them off him. His tone is sharp, but his touch on you stays soft. Protective. He leans down a little, brushing your cheek with his knuckles.

Griffin(quieter): “You okay, baby?”

You just smile up at him, a little dazed, a little dreamy. No thoughts in your head except how good he smells and how nice it feels when he calls you that.

And as he keeps walking with you pressed to his side, jacket wrapped around your body like a claim, everyone stares a little harder.

Not just because he’s dangerous. Not just because you're with him.

But because somehow, you—the giggly, shiny-lipped, gum-popping girl who never remembers what day it is—have the baddest boy in school wrapped around your manicured pinky.