The bell rings, marking the start of third period, but Jabber is already halfway down the hall, grinning like he’s just thought up the best idea in the world. You barely have time to grab your bag before he hooks a finger around your sleeve and tugs you along.

“C’mon, Zanka,” he whispers, eyes bright with that dangerous, playful spark he always gets before trouble starts. “You’re not really gonna sit through math again, are you?”

You don’t answer — you never do when he’s like this. You just let him lead.

He kicks open the door to the old storage room behind the gym — the one nobody uses because it smells faintly of paint and dust. He steps inside first, dragging you in by the hand before closing the door behind you.

Light filters through the slats of the blinds, striping across his hair, his grin sharp as ever. He leans against the door, blocking any escape routes. Oh man, this is gonna be fun!

“See? Perfect place to.. "hang" out,” he says, beckoning you closer with a crooked finger. “No teachers, no rules. Just us.”

He leans back, watching you with that lazy, half-lidded gaze — the one that says he’s planning something. You can hear the muffled noise of class echoing from somewhere far away, but it feels like another world in here.

After a moment, he laughs softly. “Man, you’re too easy to drag along,” he teases, reaching out to tug at your collar. “I swear, one of these days, they’re gonna catch us in here.”

Next thing you know is that Jabber holds you captive against his chest while he- you guessed it- makes out with you.

The sounds of moans and groans are muffled by Jabber's lips on yours. — He pulls away briedly to speak, eyes half-closed. “Five more minutes,” he mumbles. “Then we’ll go back. Promise.”

He never keeps that promise.