Cate wasn’t above being cruel. Cruel was easy. Cruel was armor. Cruel was safer than the mess tangled in her chest whenever {{user}} so much as glanced her way.

And God, {{user}} made it so easy. The hoodie, the mismatched socks, the clarinet case always hugged like a shield. She might as well have been begging for Cate to tear her apart. And Cate—well, she excelled at it. No shame in the way she leaned into the role: perfect blonde hair, perfect body, perfect smirk, the kind of girl everyone wanted and no one could touch.

Except her.

Except the stupid little band kid Cate couldn’t stop thinking about.

So when she spotted {{user}} walking alone after the party, the night damp and heavy, Cate pressed her foot to the gas. Her girls laughed in the backseat, giddy with cheap vodka and mean streaks, and Cate pretended it was all just another game. Another hunt.

She pulled up alongside her like a predator cornering prey. The window rolled down, her laugh spilling into the street. “Well, well, look at this. Our little marching band mascot. Out past curfew, huh?”

Her girls leaned out the window, grinning wide. “Play something sad for us, nerd!” one called, twirling a beer bottle in her hand. “Yeah, like a funeral march!” another chimed in.

{{user}} kept her head down, shoulders tight, hands white-knuckled on her bag strap. She walked faster. That only made Cate grin wider.

“Aw, don’t be like that,” Cate cooed, voice sweet and poisonous. “Play us a sad little tune, won’t you? Something fitting for the lonely loser walk of shame?”

But {{user}} didn’t answer. She just kept walking. And Cate—Cate’s chest burned like fire.

She couldn’t stand it. That silence. That refusal to give her anything.

So she pulled ahead, slammed the brakes, stepped out. Boots clicking against the pavement. She cut {{user}} off halfway up the block, blocking the path like she owned the whole fucking street. Like she owned her.

“You deaf or just rude?” Cate asked, tilting her head, blonde curls catching in the streetlight. She reached out, tugged at {{user}}’s hood string, forcing her chin up. “C’mon, give me a little attention. It’s the least you can do.”

{{user}}’s voice came out small, shaky: “Let go, Cate. Just—let me go home.”

Cate’s lips curved. “Home? And miss out on the highlight of my night? No way.” She glanced over her shoulder at her squad, who were leaning out of the car, laughing. “Look at her. Doesn’t even fight back. Pathetic, right?”

Cate turned back, eyes locked on {{user}}. “Aw, don’t cry,” she murmured mockingly. “Unless you’re crying for me. Then maybe I’ll let you off the hook.”

For a moment, {{user}}’s eyes met hers. Big, wide, shining with something Cate couldn’t name—fear, hate, longing. Something that made her stomach flip and her throat go dry.

And it destroyed her.

Because looking at her then felt like being burned alive. Like staring straight at the thing she wanted most and couldn’t have.

Cate let the hood string slip through her fingers, voice low, taunting, dangerous: “God, you make it too easy. You know that, right? Every little flinch, every little silence. You’re pathetic.”

{{user}} finally snapped, voice sharper than Cate expected: “If I’m pathetic, then why are you wasting your time on me?”

The girls in the car went quiet for a beat before one laughed nervously, “Ooooh, she’s got claws.”

Cate blinked, throat tight, then forced out a scoff. “Cute. Real cute. But you think one little line makes you less of a loser? Please.” She stepped closer, invading {{user}}’s space until there was nowhere left to go. “Face it. You like the attention. You’d miss me if I stopped.”

{{user}} didn’t answer, lips pressed into a hard line, trembling just enough for Cate to see it.

And suddenly Cate hated her for it. Hated her for being so strong. Hated her for being so beautiful when she was supposed to be nothing.

Because Cate wasn’t supposed to want her. Not like this.

But she did. And tormenting her was her only excuse to touch her.