Yᴏᴜʀ Hᴏᴛ Bᴜʟʟʏ Bᴏʏғʀɪᴇɴᴅ Oᴡɴs Yᴏᴜʀ Wʜᴏʟᴇ Wᴏʀʟᴅ

The hallway smelled like floor wax and the vanilla perfume every junior girl seemed to wear this year. You were at your locker, digging for your chem book, when you felt it—that weight on the back of your neck, the prickle of being watched. You didn't have to look up. Kael never just walked up to you like a normal person. He leaned against the locker beside yours, arms crossed, his letterman jacket hanging off his shoulders in that way that made other girls stare as they passed. But he wasn't looking at them. He was looking at you. Specifically at your neck. Specifically at the dark mark he'd left there Saturday night that you'd tried to cover with concealer that morning.

"Nice try," he said, his voice low enough that only you could hear it over the chaos of passing period. He reached out, his thumb brushing your jaw, tilting your head so he could see it better in the fluorescent light. His expression didn't change—still that bored, arrogant look he wore like armor—but his thumb pressed harder than necessary, his touch saying everything his face wouldn't. "Miller was asking about you in calc. Wanted to know if you were single." He laughed, soft and humorless, his eyes dropping to your mouth. "I told him you were complicated."

He stepped closer, his body blocking the hallway traffic, not caring that people were trying to get past or that you could feel the heat of him through your sweater. His hand dropped from your jaw to your waist, his fingers digging in just enough to remind you he was there, that he could pull you against him if he wanted to, that everyone in this hallway knew exactly who you belonged to. "You're not wearing the necklace," he said. It wasn't a question. It was an accusation, delivered in that tone that made your stomach flip—half angry, half something else.

"I forgot."

"Bullshit." He leaned down, his lips brushing your ear, his breath warm and smelling like the mint gum he was always chewing. "You left it on your dresser because you're pissed I didn't text you back last night. Fair. I was being an asshole. But don't punish me by looking available, princess. It makes me do things." His hand slid lower, possessive, claiming, his palm flat against your hip. "Things that get me sent to the dean's office. Again. And then I have to listen to my father lecture me about 'Sterling family image' while I'm imagining all the ways I could ruin Miller's scholarship if he looks at you like that one more time."

Someone called his name down the hall—one of his lacrosse friends, probably wanting to head to lunch. He ignored them completely. His eyes were on yours, hazel and sharp and something else underneath that he would never admit to, something that looked a lot like fear dressed up as anger. "My car. After last period. You're coming over."

"I have—"

"You have plans with me," he interrupted, his voice finally cracking, just slightly, just enough that you knew he was lying about how calm he was. He swallowed hard, his jaw working, his grip on your hip tightening. "Unless you want me to have a conversation with Miller about respecting other people's property. About understanding that some things aren't fucking shared. Your choice, babygirl. But make it fast, because I'm about ten seconds from dragging you into that empty classroom and reminding you why you don't wear other guys' attention like it's something you earned."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, really look at you, and for a second the mask slipped—the cruel smirk faded, and he was just a boy who was terrified you'd realize you could do better. "Wear the necklace," he said quietly. Then louder, for the benefit of anyone listening: "And fix your shirt. You look like you dressed in the dark." He turned and walked away before you could respond, his shoulders tight, his hands shoved in his pockets like he couldn't trust them not to reach for you again.

The Audi was warm inside, smelling like leather and the mint gum he was always chewing and faintly like him—that cologne that cost more than your textbooks. He hadn't said anything since you got in, just drove with one hand on the wheel, the other drumming against his thigh to some song you couldn't hear, his jaw clenched tight enough that you could see the muscle working in the streetlights passing by. You'd talked to Chris Hendricks for ten minutes after school. Just ten minutes. About the English essay, about the reading list, about nothing. That was it. But you'd laughed at something he said, and Kael had been watching from his car across the lot, and now you were here, in the silence that was always worse than his yelling.

He pulled into his driveway—if you could call the winding road up to the Sterling estate a driveway, the kind that had a gate and a code and trees that cost more than houses—and killed the engine. The house loomed above you, all glass and modern angles, empty except for the housekeeper who left at six. The silence settled heavy between you, broken only by the tick of the cooling engine.

"You want something to drink?" he asked finally, staring straight ahead at the garage door, his profile sharp in the dim light from the dashboard.

"I'm fine."

"Didn't ask if you were fine," he said, his voice flat. He turned his head, his eyes meeting yours. In the fading light, they looked almost gold, dangerous, tired. "Asked if you wanted something to drink. Water. Wine. I don't give a shit. But stop acting like you're made of stone, because you're not, and it's insulting to both of us when you pretend I don't affect you."

He shifted in his seat, his knee bumping yours, and he didn't pull away. "You're doing this thing," he said, his voice dropping, losing some of that sharp edge, "where you act like you don't know what you do to me. Like you don't know that when you laugh at some other guy's joke—some guy who doesn't know you, doesn't know how you take your coffee, doesn't know that you make that noise in your sleep when you're dreaming—when you laugh at him like he's worth your time, I want to put my fist through a wall." He laughed, shaking his head, his hand running through his hair, messing up the perfect style. "I'm not a fucking psycho. I know that. I know normal boyfriends don't get like this. But I'm not normal, babygirl. You knew that when you let me take you home the first time. You knew it when you let me fuck you in the backseat and called me 'love' like you meant it."

He reached over, his hand finding yours on the seat between you. His fingers were cold, trembling slightly, the only sign that he wasn't as in control as he pretended. "I bought you something," he said quietly. "Not because I'm sorry. I'm not sorry for being pissed. I'm... it's in the back."

You looked behind you. A bag from that boutique you liked, the one in the city where the dresses cost more than your part-time job made in a month, where the salespeople knew his name and didn't ask questions when he bought things for girls who weren't there.

"I saw it yesterday," he continued, his thumb tracing circles on your palm, his voice getting rougher, quieter. "And I thought of you. Which is fucked up, probably. That I see a dress and think about how you'd look in it, how I'd be the only one who gets to see it, how other guys would look at you in it and I'd have to—" He stopped. Took a breath that sounded painful. "I'm not good at this. At being soft. My dad never taught me that. He taught me to take what I want and break what I can't have." He squeezed your hand hard enough to hurt, his eyes closing for a second. "But I'm trying not to break you. I'm trying to just... keep you. Without scaring you. Without making you look at me like I'm a monster."

He looked away, out the window at the dark driveway, his profile sharp and young and somehow already tired. "Wear the dress tonight. Or don't. Keep being mad at me. But don't pretend you don't know that you're the only thing I give a shit about. That's insulting to both of us." He paused, his jaw working. "And if you really want to leave, if you're really done with this—with me—then say it. But say it looking at me. Don't just... fade away. I couldn't take that. I'd rather you hate me than forget me."

The silence stretched, heavy and real, and he didn't move to fill it. Just sat there, holding your hand like it was the only thing keeping him anchored, waiting for you to decide.