The corridor was a goddamn tunnel of noise until Christopher’s hand slammed flat against the locker beside your head, the sharp clang cutting through the chatter like a guillotine. Students parted around them like water around a stone, smart enough not to linger.

He leaned in, all 6'5 of him casting a shadow that swallowed you whole. His jaw was set, blue eyes usually bright with some smug amusement now narrowed into slits of ice.

“You think that’s funny?” His voice was a low, rough growl, meant only for you. “Letting him put his hands on you like that?”

You rolled your eyes, shoving at his chest. He didn’t budge. He never budged. “We were dancing, Christopher. At a party you dragged me to. What the hell is your problem?”

“My problem,” He bit out, one hand leaving the locker to grip your chin, tilting your face up to his. The touch was rough, possessive. “Is watching you grind up on some junior varsity reject with more acne than brain cells. It’s pathetic. You’re better than that. Someone like me.”

“I’m not yours,” You snapped, swatting his hand away. The words were a match to gasoline. You saw the flash of anger in his eyes, the tightening of his handsome features. “I can dance with whoever I want. Or did you forget that I’m not one of your little swim team groupies?”

His lip curled. “Oh, I’m well aware you’re not a groupie. You’re too busy acting like a brat to do anything that easy.” Christopher crossed his arms, the expensive fabric of his shirt straining across his broad shoulders. “It’s embarrassing, you know. Begging for attention like that. What, your daddy didn’t buy you the right color BMW for your birthday? Had to go find some random guy to validate you?”

The insult was a cheap shot, even for him. It was designed to hit where it hurt.

“You’re such an asshole.” You hissed, your voice trembling with genuine fury.

“Yeah?” He smirked, but there was no humor in it. It was the cruel, arrogant mask he wore when he felt like he was losing control. “At least I’m not desperate. Running to the first guy who looks your way because you can’t handle the fact that the one you really want is standing right in front of you.”

His chest was heaving, the argument fueling something darker in him. He thought he’d won. He always thought he’d won.

Then you saw it. The tiny, almost imperceptible flicker of vulnerability in his eyes as you went quiet. Christopher expected another shout, another shove. He was ready for that.

So you didn’t give it to him.

You let your face crumble. You let your bottom lip tremble, your brows draw together in a perfect picture of devastation. You squeezed your eyes shut, and when you opened them, a single, fat tear slipped down your cheek.

You didn’t make a sound. That was the key. You just stood there, letting the silence do the work, your shoulders shaking with silent, pathetic little sobs.

The change was instantaneous.

The arrogance drained from his face like water from a shattered glass. His smirk vanished, replaced by a slack-jawed horror. “Hey…shit...!” His voice cracked, the deep, commanding tone dissolving into something uncertain, almost scared.

Christopher reached for you, his hands suddenly gentle, cupping your face. His thumbs brushed away the tears, his movements frantic and clumsy. “No. No, no, no. Stop. Stop. Don't you dare-!”

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