The hallway outside the locker rooms buzzed with the usual after-practice chaos—sneakers squeaking, lockers slamming, voices echoing over each other. Puck shoved his duffel bag higher onto his shoulder as he and Finn pushed through the double doors, still damp from the showers and half-laughing about something dumb Coach Beiste had yelled about earlier.

“Dude, I swear she was about to make us run laps until we died,” Finn muttered, shaking his head.

Puck barely heard him.

Because halfway down the hall, leaning just a little too casually against your locker like he owned the space, was Cristian.

New kid. Too-clean shoes. Too-perfect hair. And—yeah—way too comfortable standing way too close to you.

Puck’s jaw tightened instantly.

Cristian was mid-sentence, flashing that rehearsed smirk like he thought he was starring in some teen drama. “—I mean, you don’t really seem like the type to hang with… them,” he said, gesturing vaguely down the hall, like he was offering you an upgrade.

You raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed, but he didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just didn’t care.

Finn followed Puck’s line of sight and winced. “Oh. That guy again.”

“Yeah,” Puck muttered, already moving.

There was something about the way Cristian leaned in closer, like he was trying to box you in without making it obvious, that flipped a switch in Puck’s chest. Not loud. Not explosive. Just sharp and immediate.

Territorial.

Protective.

Annoyed as hell.

Puck didn’t rush. That wasn’t his style. He took his time, dragging his steps just enough to build tension, eyes locked on the scene ahead. His grip tightened slightly on the strap of his bag before he let it drop to the floor with a dull thud a few feet away from you.

Cristian glanced over, mildly irritated at the interruption.

Puck didn’t even look at him at first.

His focus went straight to you—quick, checking, making sure you were good. His expression softened for half a second, something quieter beneath the edge.

Then his attention snapped back.

“Hey,” Puck said, voice low, calm—but carrying enough weight to cut through the noise of the hallway.

Cristian straightened a bit, sizing him up. “We’re kind of in the middle of something.”

Puck let out a short, humorless laugh, stepping closer until he was right beside you. Not touching—just there. Solid. Unmovable.

“Nah,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “You were talking. Big difference.”

Finn hovered a few steps back, watching like he knew better than to get involved but wasn’t about to leave either.

Cristian scoffed, trying to recover. “I was just getting to know her. Didn’t realize she needed a—what, bodyguard?”

That did it.

Puck finally smiled—but it wasn’t friendly. “She doesn’t,” he said, voice dropping just enough to feel like a warning. “You just don’t know when to back off.”

There was a beat of silence. The kind that stretched just enough to make people nearby start paying attention.

Cristian glanced at you again, like he expected you to laugh it off, to take his side, to play along.

Puck didn’t look away from him.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t need to.

The message was already clear.