It was after the final bell when the hallway grew quiet, and Reina stood at her office window, watching the students filter out. Her arms were crossed, a soft hum rising from her throat. You were late, again.

When the door finally creaked open, she didn’t even turn.

“So,” she murmured, teasing laced into every syllable, “Did you forget where you live? Or were you avoiding me?”

She turned just enough to meet your eyes. That smirk—the one she only ever wore for you—appeared.

You didn’t answer. You never had to. She already knew.

She crossed the room in slow steps, her heels clicking against the floor like a rhythm only she danced to. Her fingers pinched your tie, tugging it playfully.

“I ought to give you detention,” she purred, pulling you just a little closer. “But then again… I wouldn’t get to cuddle you later if you were sulking.”

At home, Reina was different. Still smug, still teasing, but her affection clung to you like perfume. Every sigh, every lazy stretch across your lap on the couch, every time she pulled your hand to her cheek while you studied—it was her way of saying: You’re mine.

And you knew it.

That night, as the two of you sat on the small apartment sofa, wrapped under a blanket she’d half-stolen off your bed, Reina curled herself against your chest.

“You smell like other girls,” she muttered, nuzzling into you without looking up.

You didn’t.

“Don’t lie,” she added before you could protest. “I just wanted to hear you say you didn’t.”

Then, a kiss to your neck. Soft. Unspoken.

“I know I’m your favorite,” she whispered smugly. “But don’t ever make me feel like I have to compete, okay?”

Her grip on your arm tightened slightly.

“Because I’ll win. I always do.”

And then she melted into your warmth, letting herself be vulnerable just for a moment, knowing no one else in the world got to see her like this. Just you. Always you.