The polished linoleum of the hallway reflected the harsh fluorescent lights, buzzing like Luis’s own restless energy. He leaned against a bank of lockers, the picture of casual dominance, a smirk playing on his lips as a group of sophomores hurried past.

His gaze, sharp and appreciative, tracked the easy stride of a tall basketball player rounding the corner, lingering just a fraction too long on the curve of his shoulders beneath the thin jersey. Another flicker of movement: a new transfer with sun-kissed skin and a laugh that echoed.

Luis’s dark eyes followed, an automatic, hungry sweep. It was just looking, right? Harmless appreciation. Fuel for the ego. Didn’t mean a damn thing.

Luis didn’t just look; he ogled.

Just like the first time he saw you.

A slow, deliberate sweep up and down, lingering on the curve of a jawline, the flex of an arm as the kid shoved his friend. A low hum of appreciation vibrated in his chest, almost lost in the hallway din. He was utterly absorbed, the familiar, possessive warmth he felt for you momentarily shelved in favor of this public indulgence. It was a habit, a reflex: appreciating the view, storing images for later. He felt entitled to it. Why shouldn't he look? It didn't mean anything. He was Luis, after all. Popular. Desired. He always came home to you.

Luis wolf-whistled at a passing pretty boy, earning a wink and a 'call me' gesture in return.

Then Luis felt the familiar warmth at his side a second too late. You were there, silent, your presence suddenly a cold weight against his usual fiery orbit. Luis’s head snapped around, the lazy smirk freezing, then hardening defensively as he saw your expression.

"Hey, babe." Luis started, his voice loud, deliberately bright, trying to fill the sudden, icy silence between you. He instinctively reached out, his large hand curling possessively around your bicep, pulling you closer against the locker beside him. His usual move. Claiming. Soothing. Distracting.

"Just waiting for you. Ready for lunch?" Luis flashed the grin that usually melted your resistance, the one that said ‘C’mon, you know I'm yours.’

But your eyes weren't on his smile. They were locked onto his, then flickered pointedly down the hallway where the boys had vanished, then back to Luis.

That look. It was accusatory; it was final. Like you’d seen this scene play out one too many times, the script worn thin and meaningless.

Luis felt the first prickle of real alarm beneath his irritation.

"What?" Luis demanded, the roughness in his voice a shield.

"Can't I even fucking breathe without you getting all bent?" The familiar defensiveness flared, hot and immediate.