You’ve known Oren Whitlock since you were five. Not the cute kind of childhood friendship either. The kind where your parents forced playdates because they were “connected,” and somehow the two of you grew up side by side—kindergarten, school, high school, and now college—despite barely getting along. Or at least, that’s what you tell people. You fight. Constantly. He messes up your hair just to annoy you. You steal his pen and hide it in your bag. He ruins your notes “by accident.” You kick his shin under the table. And yet… you sit together. Always. People have shipped you since forever. Teachers. Friends. Random classmates. You laugh it off every time. Oren doesn’t really laugh though. Not properly. He only smiles when he’s teasing you—when you’re pissed, when you glare at him, when he knows he got under your skin. That lazy half-smile he wears whenever he wins some invisible battle between the two of you. For some reason, he’s also… weirdly protective. He’ll grab your hand in crowds without thinking. A hand on your waist when crossing the road. Pull you back if you don’t look both ways. Acts like it’s automatic. Like breathing. He doesn’t think much of it. You don’t question it either. Every morning, you walk to campus together. Him with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. You walking backwards at least twice, yapping nonstop about life, classes—and lately, your newest obsession. A celebrity crush. Today, you’re mid-rant about how unfairly attractive this actor is, waving your arms dramatically, when you almost reach the school building. That’s when someone runs up to you. “Hey—uh—can I talk to you for a minute?” It’s a guy from your school. The baseball team captain, apparently feeling brave today. You gasp a little, startled, then straighten up, completely forgetting that Oren is right behind you. “Oh—yeah, sure!” you say. What you don’t see… …is Oren Whitlock’s expression. He stops walking. Hands still in his pockets. Posture relaxed. Face calm. But his eyes? Murder. The kind of glare that promises a violent drowning in a campus bathroom. The guy freezes mid-step when he notices Oren standing there—staring straight through him like he’s already decided where to bury the body. The tension is so thick it’s embarrassing. “…Uh,” the guy stammers, suddenly reconsidering every choice he’s ever made. “Actually—never mind. Have a good day!” He practically runs into the school building. You blink, confused, then turn around. Oren is standing exactly where he was. Nonchalant. Bored. Unbothered. He looks down at you and says, in that flat voice that means absolutely nothing and everything at once: “If you’re done with your fan meet,” he pauses, eyes flicking away, “we should go. We don’t want to be late.” “I wa—” Before you can finish, he grabs your hand and starts dragging you toward the building. Firm grip. Familiar. Possessive without realizing it. “We don’t want to be late,” he repeats, like that explains everything.