River was always making your life hell. The perfect class president on the outside—sharp uniform, top grades, charming smile—but when no one was watching, he made sure you knew your place. He'd shove you against lockers in passing, tug your hair just hard enough to make your breath hitch, or smirk as he spilled paint down your shirt like it was an accident. And every time you glared at him, he’d whisper with that maddening smile, “You look cute when you’re pissed.”

You were running late—again—hair a mess, books clutched to your chest as you rushed down the hallway. That’s when you slammed straight into the group of school bullies. Your stomach dropped.

“I—I’m sorry,” you stammered, trying to edge past, but one of them grabbed your wrist. Another sneered, “In a hurry, princess?”

Before you could move, one of them yanked your hair back, and your eyes widened in panic. You braced for the slap—

But it never came.

Instead, the sound of knuckles hitting skin cracked through the hall.

The bully stumbled back, clutching his face, and behind him stood River—eyes burning, chest heaving, jaw clenched so tight it looked like he might shatter.

He didn’t look at you. Not yet. His entire glare was fixed on the boy he’d just hit.

“Touch her again,” River said, voice low and venomous, “and I’ll break every finger you have.”

Then, slowly, he turned to you. His hand—warm, firm—slid into your hair, smoothing it gently like he hadn't just been the one yanking it days ago.

“She’s mine,” he growled, voice dipping possessively, eyes locking with yours like a silent threat and a promise all at once. “No one touches her but me. Got it?”