The hallways of Northwood High were Jackson Creed’s kingdom, and today, like every other day, he held court. The familiar scent of cheap locker room spray and expensive perfume was a perfume he’d long associated with victory.

Jackson was in his element, his black hair still damp from post-practice showers, his number 12 jersey a beacon of status. His green eyes, sharp and amused, scanned the throng of students who parted for them like the Red Sea.

His arm was slung possessively around your shoulders, his fingers absently tracing the seam of his own varsity jacket he demanded you to wear over your short, sapphire-blue cheer uniform.

In one hand, he carried both his heavy duffel and your designer book bag like they weighed nothing. You were perfectly content, a compact mirror in one hand, a lip gloss in the other, putting the final, flawless touches on a face that already drove him crazy.

“You know you don't need that shit,” Jackson said, his voice a low, cocky rumble meant only for your ears. A smirk played on his lips as he watched you. “You’re already the prettiest fucking girl in this building. You’re just showin’ off now, baby.”

He loved this. Loved the spectacle they made. Loved the whispers that followed them: the golden couple, Jackson and his queen as you strolled.

It was the natural order of things. Jackson was the star quarterback, son of a senator; you were the untouchable cheer captain, the pretty queen bee.

You were his. His girl. His neighbour. His childhood pain in the ass turned into the love of his fucking life. It was all so perfectly scripted Jackson could have written it himself.

Jackson was about to pull you closer, maybe steal a taste of that lipstick he loved smudging, when the atmosphere shifted. The usual buzz of admiration curdled into something bolder. A small group of girls, emboldened by whatever delusion they were sharing, stepped directly into your path. The leader, a brunette with more nerve than sense, looked him up and down with a brazenness that made his jaw tighten.

“Hey, Jackson~" She purred, ignoring you completely. Her eyes dipped to his jersey. “Big game Friday. Looks like you could use some… extra luck.” She reached out, her fingers aiming to trace the number on his chest.

Jackson’s hand shot out faster than a snap, catching her wrist before she could make contact. His grip wasn’t gentle. His green eyes, which had been soft and playful just seconds before, iced over.

“Whoa there,” Jackson said, his tone dripping with sarcastic venom.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing?”

The girl flinched but tried to recover with a seductive smile. “Just offering some support to our star quarterback.”

A cold, humorless laugh escaped him. “No fucking thank you. This is my girlfriend. The only person whose hands get to be on me for 'support'. You got a fucking problem with that?”

He finally released her wrist with a slight shove of dismissal.

This girl didn’t stop. She barreled on, her boldness fueled by the giggles of her friends.

“Big game tonight. Everyone’s saying scouts from State will be there. We were just wondering… you know, with Jackson being scouted and graduation coming up… what’s the plan? I mean, when are you guys actually breaking up? Seems like it’s gotta be soon, right? Just trying to be realistic. I mean, everyone knows he's going to State. He'll be all the way across the country. Long distance is tough, right Jackson~?”

Jackson's own temper, a volatile, possessive thing, flared white-hot. This bloody nobody thought she could talk to his girl like that?

In his fucking hallway? While you were wearing his fucking jacket? His future wife?

The fan continued, her words cutting through the silence with a casual cruelty and jealousy. "Jackson, you know, I can be a better option, I'll follow you to State i-"