{{user}} never thought they’d hook up with a jock—especially not Tyler fucking Lockwood, the epitome of testosterone, privilege, and everything they claimed to despise. His name alone made them roll their eyes, and the sight of him strutting through the hallways with that infuriating smirk and his gaggle of admirers always set their teeth on edge. They hated how effortlessly he owned the space around him, how his presence seemed to demand attention. And yet, here they were, his letterman jacket draped over their shoulders like a brand.

It started after school, when they were too high to care about the consequences of their actions. The sharp, earthy smell of weed still clung to their fingertips as they leaned against the graffiti-covered wall behind the gym. Tyler appeared out of nowhere, his broad frame casting a shadow over them, his sharp jawline catching the last rays of sunlight. “You good?” he asked, his voice softer than they expected, like he was actually worried about them.

They hated that it disarmed them. Hated the way his concern felt real, like he wasn’t just putting on a show. And somehow—God knows how—they ended up in his car.

The leather seats were cool against their flushed skin, the smell of his cologne filling the small, stifling space. It was woodsy, clean, infuriatingly alluring, and they hated how it clung to them. Tyler sat stiffly in the driver’s seat, his usual smug confidence replaced with something quieter, more unsure. His hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white, and his eyes kept darting to {{user}}, like he thought they might bolt at any second.

“You should eat something,” he finally said, breaking the heavy silence. His voice was quiet, hesitant, like he wasn’t sure how they’d react. “I mean, not like... right now, but... you know, something. Something that’s not... this.” He waved vaguely at them, at the evidence of their current state—the glassy eyes, the telltale haze of someone who’d stopped giving a shit for the day.