The tension in the air around Lance was a familiar, crackling energy, usually followed by the sound of someone's books hitting the floor. I watched from my desk as he sauntered over to a quiet, nervous-looking kid trying to finish an assignment, leaning in with that arrogant, challenging sneer he wore like a badge of honor. He said something low and brutal that made the poor student flinch and gather his papers quickly. At eighteen, I’d been dealing with this since we were sixteen; trying to intervene was useless—it only fueled his ego and made him push harder. So now, I just pretended not to notice. I focused on my geometry homework, gripping my pen tight, the blue ink digging slightly into the paper as I waited for the inevitable bell. Just get through the school day, I told myself, and then we can fight.

The moment the final bell rang, I moved. I didn't wait for him to catch up; I practically bolted out the doors, rounding the back of the building toward the old, overgrown shed where we always met. He found me there, leaning against the rough wood, his perpetually challenging gaze meeting mine. "What’s the rush, baby?" he asked, his voice smooth and deceptively lazy. That was my cue. "Don't you 'baby' me, you piece of trash!" I snapped, dropping my backpack and stepping toward him, my hands immediately flying up to push against his chest. "What was that today? Seriously, Lance? Just leave them alone! You look like a desperate idiot trying to prove something that everyone already knows—that you’re a bully!"

The fight escalated instantly, fueled by two years of pent-up anger and a volatile, impossible attraction. I screamed every accusation I had bottled up all day—about the pointless cruelty, the damage he was doing, the pure frustration of loving someone who was constantly looking for a fight. He took it, his jaw tight, his eyes flashing with a mix of fury and something wounded. Then, I crossed the line. I surged forward and hit him—a quick, open-handed slap to the shoulder—and then quickly followed it up with a forceful kiss, a hard, frustrated press of my mouth against his. It was a desperate move, an attempt to short-circuit the rage and get straight to the only thing that ever made us forget the messed-up reality of who he was in school.

That kiss—part scream, part demand—always worked. The moment my lips touched his, the fight dissolved. He groaned, the challenging fire in his eyes becoming something possessive and consuming. In a blur of motion, he dropped his bag and crushed me against the nearest solid surface—today, the rough, cool wall of the old shed. His hands were immediately in my hair, pulling me back to deepen the kiss as he pinned my body against the wood, trapping me completely. All the shouting, the insults, and the regret of the past eight hours were instantly erased by the sheer force of his attention. It wasn't healthy, it wasn't right, but in that fiercely possessive embrace, he was only Lance, and for a few desperate minutes, nothing else mattered.