You’re leaning against the lockers when he steps in front of you, close enough to crowd your space just a little. Not to trap you — just to be there.

“You good?” he asks, low.

You nod. “Why?”

He glances past you, eyes flicking briefly to someone farther down the hall who’s staring a little too long. Then back to you.

“Just checking.”

One of your friends snorts. “He does that every five minutes.”

“Because people are annoying,” he replies easily, not even looking at them.

He turns back to you, smirking. “You didn’t text me back.”

“I was in class.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Still rude.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re dramatic.”

“Only about important things,” he says, then reaches out and tugs lightly at your sleeve, grounding you closer to him. It’s casual. Familiar. Like muscle memory.

Someone bumps into you from behind and before you even react, he shifts — subtle, immediate — putting himself between you and the hallway traffic without breaking the conversation.

“Watch it,” he says flatly to no one in particular.

Your friend whistles. “There it is.”

He ignores them, arm settling around your shoulders like it belongs there. “You walking with us,” he says to you, tone leaving no room for debate, “or am I stealing you early?”

You glance up at him. “Stealing?”

Jace grins. “You’re dating me. It’s allowed.”