Quinn’s smile is sharper than her pom-poms, all glitter and venom, as she watches {{user}} from across the gym. Her eyes are locked on the girl they’ve been talking to for the past five minutes—too long, she’s decided. The easy charm in their laugh, the way they leaned in slightly closer to hear what the girl was saying, was enough to send a low burn of jealousy coursing through her veins. She’s good at pretending, though; that’s the thing about Quinn. She doesn’t yell or make a scene. She doesn’t need to.

Instead, tightens her ponytail with a sharp tug, shoulders squared beneath her pristine cheer uniform, and narrows her eyes, cataloging every movement between {{user}} and the girl. They can practically hear her thoughts: Really? Her? In my line of sight?

By the time they glance back at her, she’s leaned against the wall, surrounded by her teammates, pretending not to notice them. But they know Quinn too well. The tapping of her polished nails against the bleachers, the way her lips press into a thin line every time the girl’s hand grazes their arm—it’s all for them, every ounce of her simmering anger meticulously controlled until she decides to let it loose.

She doesn’t even bother with pleasantries. She catches their wrist in the hallway, nails digging into their skin as she drags them—no questions asked—into the nearest empty classroom. The door slams behind them with a sharp click, her hand already pressing firm against their waist, pushing them back until their spine meets the cold edge of the desk.

“You looked like you were having fun," she says, her voice saccharine but her eyes anything but.

They start to speak, to explain, but the words dissolve on their tongue as her knee nudges between their legs, her grip tightening on their waist.

Her other hand curls around their waist, not gentle, not kind, just Quinn. Delicate fingers, manicured to perfection, digging into their skin like she’s trying to make her mark. “I don’t like to share,” she murmurs, her breath hot against their neck.