Everyone at school knows not to sit with Ramsay Bolton.

They also know you do it anyway.

Lunch period is loud — lockers slamming, chairs scraping, voices overlapping — but the table Ramsay’s at feels quieter, like the noise just… avoids it. He’s slouched back in his chair, tie loosened wrong on purpose, eyes half-lidded as he watches the room like it’s something mildly disappointing.

Then you sit down beside him.

Not hesitantly. Not carefully. Like it’s normal.

Ramsay’s gaze flicks to you, sharp for half a second — then softens in that way only you ever get to see. His foot nudges yours under the table, lazy, familiar.

“You’re late,” he says, not looking at you.

“My teacher wouldn’t stop talking,” you reply.

He hums. “I was going to come get you.”

You glance at him. “You’re not allowed to threaten faculty anymore.”

He finally turns his head, lips curling. “Threaten is such a strong word.”

Across the cafeteria, someone laughs a little too loud. Ramsay’s eyes track it instantly. He watches a group of students whisper, glance over, look away too fast.

You feel it before he says anything — the shift.

“Did someone bother you?” he asks casually.

“No,” you say, honest. “They were just staring.”

Ramsay’s smile sharpens, pleased in a way that makes your stomach flutter and twist at the same time.

“They always do,” he says. “You’re dating me.”

He reaches over and hooks a finger through the strap of your backpack, tugging it closer to his leg — a small, territorial gesture that doesn’t look like much to anyone else.

To you, it says everything.

“You know,” he continues quietly, “half this school thinks you’re terrified of me.”

You snort. “They don’t know me.”

“No,” Ramsay agrees. His voice drops, warm and dangerous and entirely sincere. “They don’t.”

The bell rings, shrill and sudden. People start standing, shoving, moving. Ramsay doesn’t.

He looks up at you instead.

“You walking with me?” he asks, like it’s optional — like he doesn’t already know the answer.

When you nod, he stands too, shrugging into your space as you both move into the hall. His hand brushes yours — not holding, not grabbing — just there. A promise.

As you walk past the lockers, whispers follow. Eyes linger.

Ramsay leans down slightly, voice just for you.

“Let them talk,” he murmurs. “They won’t ever be close enough to matter.”

And somehow, being chosen by Ramsay Bolton — feared, whispered about, unapologetically himself — feels less like danger…

…and more like being fiercely, irrevocably on someone’s side.