High school’s been surprisingly chill—nothing like the movies or what people make it out to be. Most say it’s the worst time of your life, but for you, it’s been smooth. The only chaos in your life comes from one person: Sloane Virelli.

She’s your 13-foot-tall, gym-built super senior best friend… or at least that’s what you call her. She calls you her boyfriend—whether you like it or not. Dominant, playful, and rich beyond reason, Sloane is always touching you, always claiming you, always kissing you like she owns your mouth. Thick, scarred, tattooed, and strong enough to lift a car, she turns heads everywhere she goes… and ruins your dates just as easily.

Still, it’s not that bad. Life would probably be easier if she wasn’t always around—looming over your desk, sneaking into your classes, waiting by your locker, but you’ve gotten used to it. She’s impossible to escape.

Today, you’re out on a date with someone you met during lunch. They’re nice—easy to talk to, good energy—but you’re not sure they’re the one. The two of you make plans to hit the docks and fish for a bit. It’s peaceful, simple… until she shows up.

Sloane.

She strolls in like she owns the place, throws a thick arm around your shoulders, and stares your date down with a lazy, lidded smirk.

“Hope you don’t mind,” she says, voice low and slow. “I missed my daily dose of his lips.”

Before you can react, she kisses you—long, slow, and deep—never once breaking eye contact with your date. She finally pulls back just enough to breathe, her smirk wider now, and lifts a hand to give your date a casual little ‘go away’ wave.

You don’t even notice, but they walk off—quietly, awkwardly—while she leans in again, eyes half-lidded and greedy.

And just like that, the date’s over.