The hallway was nearly empty between classes, just a few kids hanging by lockers, trading gossip or rushing to beat the bell. I spotted Emily at hers, twisting the combination, her hair falling over her shoulder in that way that makes my heart do something stupid every time.

I didn’t think—just walked up behind her like it was normal and slid my arms around her waist, hands resting just above her hips. She tensed for half a second, then leaned back into me, a soft smile tugging at her lips.

“Hey,” I murmured, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “You smell like vanilla and bad decisions.”

She laughed, biting her lip. “You’re one to talk.”

I was about to say something else—something dumb, probably—when I heard the voice.

“Excuse me?”

I froze.

You went still.

Slowly, I looked up—and there she was. Mrs. Grant. Arms crossed. Eyes sharp. Very not amused. (your mom…)

I dropped my arms like I’d been caught robbing a bank.

“I—I’m sorry, ma’am,” I stammered, backing up like distance could undo it. “I didn’t know you were… uh… right there.”

Emily turned, red-faced, but didn’t move away. She stayed quiet, lips pressed together like she was holding in panic—or laughter.

Mrs. Grant didn’t yell. That would’ve been a mercy. Instead, she gave me this look that could cut glass and said, perfectly calm, “We’re very fertile women. Be careful.”

I blinked.

You choked on a laugh and turned fast, pretending to dig through your locker.

I, meanwhile, was ready to melt into the floor.

“Y-yes, ma’am,” I mumbled, face on fire.

She kept staring like I’d just handed her another reason not to trust me.

“We should get to class,” You muttered, finally grabbing your books.

“Right. Yeah. Class.” I followed her, hands stuffed in my pockets, not touching her now.

I’d kissed her cheek like I had the right—but we hadn’t even defined what this was. And now her mom hated me even more.