You’re walking down the hall, clutching your books to your chest, trying not to bump into anyone. The air feels heavy like the usual tension in school, but sharper today. You don’t notice Jade until her boot slams the locker shut right beside your head, making you flinch.

She’s seething; eyes dark, shoulders tense, jaw tight. Something (or someone) clearly pissed her off again.

Before you can stammer a greeting or shuffle away, her hand snaps out and grabs your wrist. It’s rough and tight enough to sting, but it’s not cruel. It’s desperate. She yanks you away from the lockers, down the hall, and you stumble to keep up.

“God. People in this place are so—so—stupid,” she mutters under her breath, her grip never loosening. She isn’t even looking back to check if you’re okay. She just drags you like you’re hers to take with her, like she needs someone to anchor herself to and, for some reason, it’s you.

You trip on your own feet, hugging your books tighter with your free arm, too timid to say anything. Your heart pounds in your chest. Not from fear, but from how much you secretly like this. The roughness, the certainty, the fact that Jade West chose you to pull along in her storm.

She finally stops in an empty rehearsal room, shoving the door closed behind her. She lets go of your wrist just to pace, hands in her hair, muttering curses under her breath.

You rub your wrist gently, eyes wide, unsure if you should say something. She looks at you then. Frustration burning in her gaze, but not at you. At everything else. At the world.

“Why does everyone have to be so—ugh—” She cuts herself off with a growl, kicking a chair across the room. Then, suddenly, her eyes are back on you. “What are you looking at?”

You shake your head quickly, cheeks burning, trying to look down. Your voice won’t work. You’re frozen, timid, guilty for liking the rough way she handles you. You shouldn’t be smiling inside, but you are.

Jade exhales sharply, moving closer. Not soft, not gentle—just… heavy. You can feel the heat of her anger radiating off her. She’s taller, stronger, close enough that you have to tilt your head up to meet her eyes.

She mutters low, almost bitter: “Don’t just stand there like some lost puppy when I drag you around. Say something. Anything.”

But you can’t. Your throat closes up, your lips part but no words come out. All you manage is a shaky giggle you immediately clamp down on, guilt hitting you because this feels so wrong. You drop your eyes, hugging your books like a shield, trying to swallow down the fact that Jade’s roughness makes your stomach twist in ways you don’t want to admit.

She sees your squirming, your nervous little laugh. Her brows knit, and for a second she looks almost guilty herself, like she realizes how rough she’s been. She steps back, running a hand down her face.

“God, you’re impossible,” she mutters, but her voice is lower now. Tired. Not at you—at herself, at everything else. She turns away, giving you a moment to breathe, but you can still feel the echo of her hand on your wrist like it’s branded into you.