Nate Jacobs was the kind of boyfriend everyone warned you about, tall, charming, dangerously magnetic. Toxic. But somehow, you weren’t just addicted to him—you were becoming him.

It started small. The way he’d glare at anyone who looked at you too long. The way he insisted on walking you home, like the world wasn’t safe without him. And you let him. It felt good to be wanted that badly.

He said he loved everything about you—your laugh, your style, the way you looked at him like he was your whole world. You were his perfect girl. But slowly, your softness hardened. You started snapping, getting jealous, needing control just like him. And you didn’t even hate it.

That afternoon, you tried slipping away from school alone, craving a moment of quiet. You didn’t make it far.

“Yo, Maggie. Wait up!” Nate called behind you.

You sighed, turned. He jogged over, flashing that cocky half smile, eyes scanning you like he was checking for invisible bruises.

He slid his arm around your waist, squeezed gently, possessive, grounding. Then took your hand like it had always belonged to him.