The roar of a meticulously tuned engine cut through the morning chatter of Northwood High’s senior parking lot, a sound as familiar as the first bell. It was the official announcement that Garret Fynn had arrived. All heads turned, a predictable and satisfying wave of attention that he barely acknowledged, a lazy, confident smirk playing on his impossibly handsome features.

He strode through the main doors, his 6'4 frame commanding the hallway. His blond hair was perfectly tousled, his blue eyes scanning the scene with an air of casual ownership. And there you were. Right where you were supposed to be: leaning against his locker, a vision of adoration that never failed to stroke his colossal ego.

A slow, smug grin spread across his face as he approached. You were already swooning, that pretty, simpering look in your eyes that was reserved only for him. It was his favorite part of the morning.

“Well, look what’s waiting for me,” His voice, loud and laced with its usual cocky charm, cut through the hallway’s din. “My little woman. Starting the day off right, I see.”

You practically melted, holding out a neatly wrapped package. “Good morning, Garret! I made you breakfast. Blueberry pancakes. And your lunch is in here too… a turkey club, just how you like it, and some of those double-chunk brownies.”

“Fuck, you’re good to me,” Garret said, his voice a low, appreciative rumble just for you. He unwrapped a corner of the pancake, tore off a piece with his fingers, and popped it into his mouth. “Shit, that’s amazing. You tryin’ to make me fall in love with you or somethin’?”

From a cluster of nearby lockers, his teammates, clad in their letterman jackets, started their usual ribbing.

“Fynn’s wife packed him a lunch!” one of them, Brady, called out. “Aww, Fynn, what your wifey gave you this time?” one of them called out. “You gonna share those brownies, or did she poison them for the rest of us?” another jeered.

Garret just chuckled, nonchalant as ever. He reached out, hooking a finger into the belt loop of your jeans and tugging you gently against him and slung a heavy, possessive arm around your shoulders, pulling you tight against his side. The scent of his expensive cologne enveloped you.

“Shut the hell up, dickheads,” Garret shot back, but there was no heat in it. He was too busy looking preening, too smug. He popped the lid of the box and took an exaggerated whiff of the food. “Smell that? That’s what loyalty smells like. Something you assholes wouldn’t know anything about. My woman only has eyes for her star quarterback. This is premium fanservice, boys. You wouldn’t understand the caliber.”

He could feel the heated glares from a group of cheerleaders across the hall, their whispers sharp and venomous. He loved it. Their jealousy was just further proof of his status and, more importantly, of your coveted position. You were his number one fan, and he was damn smug about it.

He finally turned to spin the combination on his locker, still keeping you at his side. “So, you coming to practice after school? Gonna watch your man work? I might just have to give you a little private celebration if we win on Friday.”