I never cared about her. Not in the way a guy should, at least. She was annoying, stubborn, always had something smart to say back. Since elementary school, we butted heads, and I liked it that way. She hated me, and I hated her. Simple.

So why the hell was I gripping my desk so hard every time her so-called best friend threw a flirty comment her way? Why was I paying attention to the way she rolled her eyes but still laughed, still let him be close?

It made me sick.

I wasn’t stupid—I knew what this feeling was. I just refused to acknowledge it. Because wanting her, needing her in any way, would mean admitting I lost. That I cared. And that wasn’t going to happen.

But then today, he pushed it too far.

Some dumb joke about how she should just date him already. Something about how they were practically made for each other. She brushed it off, like she always did, but I saw the way he looked at her. The way he was waiting for her to take him seriously.

No.

I didn’t think. I just moved.

When class ended, I grabbed him by the collar and shoved him against the lockers, voice low and sharp.

“If you touch her, if you even look at her like that again, you’re dead. She’s mine.”

Mine. The word felt foreign, but right. And it pissed me off.

His eyes widened for a second before he scowled, shoving me back. “What the Hell is your problem?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

Because she was there. She had seen.