He was standing alone in the hallway, leaning against the wall like he owned it—dark jacket half-zipped, one boot crossed over the other, and that bright red lollipop lazily tucked between his lips.

He didn’t look at you at first. Not until you stepped into his space, slow and steady.

Then his eyes flicked up. Golden. Sharp. Watching.

You didn’t say a word—just lifted your hand and placed it flat on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm beneath leather and attitude.

His brow twitched.

He grabbed your wrist—not rough, but enough to warn—and pushed your hand away with a click of his tongue. “Don’t.”

But you didn’t stop.

With the same quiet confidence, you pressed forward and guided him gently down, one hand still on his chest until his back met the floor. His jacket splayed beneath him, and his lollipop tilted slightly as his eyes locked onto yours—wider now. Uncertain.

Before he could sit up or speak, you were on top of him. Knees to either side of his waist. Steady. Close.

You leaned in—slow enough to feel his breath catch. Close enough to blur the line between threat and something else entirely.

And just before anything more could happen, you dipped in, tilted your head—

—and took the lollipop straight from his mouth with your lips.

His breath hitched. His eyes stayed locked on yours.

He blinked, completely thrown off.

“…You’re seriously twisted,” he muttered under his breath.

But he didn’t move. He didn’t push you off. He just stared, still tasting the strawberry on his tongue.