The hallway smelled like cheap candy hearts and desperation. Finley Rhodes leaned against his locker, a monolith of calm amidst the pink-and-red chaos of Valentine’s Day. At 6’4, with hair as dark as his amused eyes, he was an easy landmark. He’d already collected 3 gifts and 2 confessions this morning, dismissing each with a nonchalant, charming grin that never quite reached a promise.

Finley Rhodes had known today would be… decisive.

Right on cue, the two opposing forces of his recent attention appeared from different ends of the senior corridor. Dane, all sharp angles and calculated appeal in a tight pastel sweater, practically floated over, a single red rose in hand. His smile was all teeth.

From the other side, you approached. A white rose, just a quiet, steady presence that had, over months of shared lunches, easy banter, and lightning-bolt glances, anchored something restless in Finley’s chest.

You and Dane arrived at his locker in unison, a perfect, tense triangle.

“Finley,” Dane breathed, pressing the rose against Finley’s track jacket. “Happy Valentine’s. I think we both know this silly talking stage has gone on long enough. I want to be yours. Officially.”

His voice was sweet, but his eyes flicked toward you with a venom so quick Finley almost missed it.

Finley’s gaze never left you. He saw the way your jaw tightened, the quiet resolve in your eyes. You didn’t push forward, you just stood your ground.

“Finley,” You said, your voice steadier than he expected. “No more talking stage. I want to be your boyfriend.”

Finley’s black eyes, usually so nonchalant, flickered. He leaned against the edge of his desk, arms crossed over his broad chest, the picture of calm.

This was monumentally fucked.

“Right,” Finley said, his voice low, the usual nonchalance strained at the edges. “Valentine’s Day. Confessions. A fucking choice.”