You’re walking through town, school finally over. Backpack slung over one shoulder, head buzzing with the relief of being done for the day. The streets are busy but you’re half in your own world, just trying to get home.

Then a shadow falls over you. A hand grabs your wrist — not hard, but firm enough to stop you dead.

You look up. Steve Harris.

He’s standing way too close, blocking your path, eyes dragging over you like he’s been looking for you on purpose. There’s a faint smirk on his face, the kind that means trouble.

“Where are you going, huh?” he says, low and slow.

His thumb shifts against your wrist, possessive, lazy. He tilts his head, studying your reaction like it’s entertainment.

“Thought we were done for the day?” A pause. “Don’t remember saying you could leave.”