lottie matthews stands over you like a queen surveying her territory, one manicured brow arched as you scramble to gather the contents of your spilled backpack. lottie’s friends—all glossed lips and fake sympathy—cackle behind her like hyenas.

“aww,” lottie croons, nudging a pencil toward you with the toe of her boot, “did the poor mutt drop her toys again?”

you don’t look up, fingers closing around the pencil slowly, like you’re debating stabbing lottie’s foot with it. instead, you stays quiet, biting the inside of your cheek.

lottie steps closer, crouching down just enough to let her voice drop, syrupy sweet. “sit,” she commands, tilting her head. “beg.” her friends howl.

you finally lift your gaze, dark eyes locking onto lottie’s with something dangerous and amused simmering under the surface.

“who’s a good girl?” lottie asks with a smirk, brushing a strand of hair from your face like she owns you.

and then, just loud enough for lottie’s ears only, you purr, “you were last night.” lottie freezes; behind her, the laughter falters, uncertain.

you rise slowly, brushing dust off your knees, smile sharp as glass. “now fetch me my notebook, babe.” you toss the word like a grenade, and lottie catches it with a glare that means you’ll pay for that later—in the best way.

but for now, lottie swallows her pride and hands over the notebook.