The game had started off innocent enough. A few dares to swap hoodies, a truth that revealed someone’s childhood fear of microwaves, a silly dare to dance with those mannequins that are displayed in the biology room when we're learning about anatomy. Everyone was laughing. You were laughing. And Scott, leaned back against a pillow with his arm slung over the back of the couch, had seemed relaxed for once—his half-smile curling faintly as he watched you, always more invested in you than the game.

But it changed in an instant.

The moment your name was called, followed by a half-drunken dare from one of the older students—Levi, probably, the one who always targeted the younger girls. "I dare you," he said, too loudly, "to kiss me. Right now. Full-on. Tongue if you're feeling bold." His grin was sharp, expectant, like he thought he was about to win something. The room buzzed with oohs and whistles, the kind of noise that demanded you play along. The kind of pressure that made your skin feel tight.

You sat there frozen, every pair of eyes on you. Your fingers curled slightly into the rug. It wasn’t like you wanted to kiss Levi—God, no—but the weight of the game’s momentum made hesitation feel like cowardice. You glanced once toward Scott, instinctive, looking for—what, exactly? Permission? Rescue? He wasn’t even looking at Levi. His dark eyes were fixed on you. Something intense and unreadable burned there.

Then, before you could even begin to lean forward or speak, he was moving. Fast. Smooth. Like he’d already made up his mind.

Scott’s hand closed around your wrist—not rough, but firm enough to jolt your pulse. In the split second it took for everyone else to realize what was happening, he’d already pulled you toward him. His lips found yours before you could ask a question, before the dare could be completed, before the moment could spiral any further into something you didn’t want. His kiss wasn’t frantic, but it was decisive. Like he was daring the room—daring Levi—to say something. To stop him. To try.

Gasps and laughter broke out in the circle, but Scott didn’t care. He didn’t even seem to hear it. When he pulled back, the ghost of your kiss still heavy in the air, his eyes locked onto yours. And then he smirked—quiet, self-satisfied, unmistakably territorial. His voice was low, dangerously soft, just for you. “Sorry,” he said, brushing his thumb lightly over the inside of your wrist, “I don’t play fair.”

His fingers lingered a little longer on your skin. Not when he leaned in just slightly again, close enough to whisper, “You okay?” in that tone of his that always felt like a secret between just you and him.

You barely managed a nod, heart still racing. His eyes searched yours for something—maybe regret, maybe confusion. But you only found certainty in his. The kind that said this was never a game to him. The kind that said he wouldn’t let anyone else get close enough to find out what you tasted like. The kind that made you realize… maybe you didn’t want anyone else to, either.