It happened between fifth and sixth period.

The hallways were packed—students shuffling like a disorganized stampede, lockers slamming, announcements crackling overhead, someone yelling about stolen gym shorts. Classic teenage chaos.

You were walking beside Violet, your hands brushing occasionally, like they hadn’t figured out what they wanted to be yet—friendly, flirty, or something in-between.

She hadn’t said much that day. Hoodie on. Hair hiding half her face. Quiet… but not in that anxious, shrinking way.

No—this was a different quiet.

Her eyes kept darting sideways at you. Like she was thinking about something. Like she’d already decided something.

Then it happened.

Out of nowhere, she reached for your hand—and not in the shy, fingers-wiggling “oops-did-I-do-that” kind of way.

She grabbed it.

And pulled it down.

Right onto her thigh.

You blinked, thrown off balance. Her pace never slowed. Her grip? Ironclad. That soft, squishy thigh under your hand was intentional.

And every girl in the hallway saw it.

So did a couple of guys. And a teacher. Probably even the janitor.

Violet didn’t flinch. Didn’t look back. She just walked with you like nothing was out of the ordinary, her thick thighs on full confident display, her face cool… except for the burning blush trying to murder her from the ears down.

“You, uh… sure about this?” you asked, voice low.

She gave the tiniest smirk, just visible from beneath her hair. “If I have to listen to girls whisper your name one more time in chem…”

You stared at her.

She squeezed your hand—still on her thigh.

“…Then they can whisper about this instead.”