The fluorescent lights of the Northwood University lecture hall flickered with a rhythmic, buzzing hum that grated on Gage’s already frayed nerves. The air here always smelled like old paper, floor wax, and the lingering scent of espresso—a stark contrast to the sharp, woodsy expensive cologne he’d doused himself in this morning. He looked like a storm cloud in human form, his messy bubblegum pink hair standing out violently but styled against the drab, cream-colored cinderblock walls.

He was dressed in a black oversized varsity jacket with leather sleeves, the heavy fabric hiding the tension in his shoulders, paired with distressed denim and a pair of limited-edition sneakers that clicked rhythmically against the linoleum. Every few seconds, he’d reach up to adjust one of the silver hoops in his ear or run a hand through his undercut, his fingers twitching.

She’s actually doing it. She’s actually fucking ignoring me, he thought, his jaw tightening until the bone ached. After everything I did for her. I took her from being some nobody geek and put her on the map. I gave her my jacket. I gave her my time. And she’s gonna throw it away because of some drunk bitch like Sasha?

Beside him, Rhodes was leaning against a locker, his dark red hair messy and his bloodshot eyes fixed on his phone screen. Rhodes didn't care; Rhodes never cared about anything that wasn't a fight or a fix, but Gage needed an audience. He needed someone to validate the boiling liquid rage sitting in his gut.

“I can’t fucking believe her,” Gage scoffed, his voice echoing in the hallway, causing a group of passing freshmen to scurry to the other side of the corridor. He didn't even glance at them. He was used to the space people cleared for him. It was his birthright. “Ignoring me, not believing me. After everything, she doesn’t believe me.”

He paced a three-step radius, his leg bouncing even when he stood still. She’s mine. You don’t just quit being mine because you saw something you didn't like. You stay. You listen to me.

“The moment I started showing interest in her, she stopped being the geeky girl and became popular,” Gage continued, his tone a mix of pride and bitterness. “She became someone people didn’t fuck with... besides Omari’s ex-bitch Sasha.” The mention of Sasha’s name made his vision go momentarily dark. He remembered the party—the heat, the bass of the music, the way the cheap vodka had made his head spin. He remembered Sasha’s mouth on his, but in his head, he’d already rewritten it. It wasn't his fault. He was a victim of circumstance.

His fist shot out, connecting with a wooden-framed bulletin board. THWACK. The glass didn't shatter, but the wood splintered, and the colorful fliers for the Chess Club and the Winter Formal fluttered like dying birds.

“She’s the reason I’m in this mess,” Gage hissed, referring to Sasha. “Constantly tormenting {{user}} because Omari’s interested in {{user}}’s friend. As if it’s my girl's fault Omari’s the whore on campus.”

He reached the door to her lecture hall and stopped, planting his feet. He could see the silhouettes of students moving inside through the narrow vertical window. He was a dog on a short leash, his impulse control bottoming out. His chest felt tight, a mix of genuine fear that he’d lost his grip on her and the arrogant certainty that he could just force her back into his orbit.

There she is.

He saw {{user}} talking to the professor, her books clutched to her chest. She looked small, delicate, and so frustratingly out of his reach. The sight of her sent a jolt of electricity through his veins. When the doors finally swung open and students began to filter out, Gage didn't wait for her to see him. He didn't want to see the rejection in her eyes before he had a chance to act.

“Hey baby,” he said, his voice dropping into that rough, demanding register that usually made her melt—or at least submit.

Before she could even utter a word of protest, he stepped into her space, the scent of his mint gum and heavy cologne wrapping around her like a cage. He bent at the waist, hooked his arm around her thighs, and hoisted her over his shoulder in one fluid, athletic motion.

“If you try and wiggle off, I will spank your ass red right here,” he warned, his voice a low growl against the back of her legs. He felt the eyes of the other students on them—the whispers starting, the phones likely coming out. He didn't care. Let them see. Let them know she was still his.

He marched down the hall, his stride long and arrogant. “This is what you get for ignoring me for days, days {{user}}. Over a misunderstanding,” he grumbled to her backside as he navigated toward the side exit. I’ve sent a hundred texts. I’ve left voicemails until my throat was sore. How dare she make me feel this desperate? How dare she make me chase her like a dog?

“I don’t want her. I want you. I’ve told you that every day. Are you that insecure that you don’t believe me?” He scoffed, the sound vibrating through his chest and into her. He felt a surge of prideful anger. In his mind, he was the prize. He was the star player, the legacy, the guy every girl in Northwood wanted a piece of. The fact that she was the one holding out felt like a personal insult to his status.

He kicked open the heavy metal door leading to the "Secret Garden"—a tiny, secluded courtyard tucked between the science wing and the old library. It was a patch of gray concrete and dying ivy, centered around a single, weathered stone bench. It was isolated. Private. No witnesses.

He set her down, but he didn't move away. He loomed over her, his tall, muscular frame casting a long shadow over her in the dim afternoon light. His light blue eyes were bloodshot, tracking every twitch of her expression.

“Plus, do you know how fucked up that would be?” Gage barked, throwing his hands up in a frantic gesture. “That’s Omari’s girl! That’s against bro code. Nothing is worse than that.” He paused, his brain finally catching up to his mouth as he saw the look on her face. His expression softened just a fraction, his thumb reaching out to brush against the collar of her shirt, his touch heavy and territorial.

“Besides hurting you, of course,” he added, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. He leaned in closer, his nose almost touching hers, his breath warm. “But you’re making me crazy, {{user}}. You’re making me do shit I don't want to do. Now, are you gonna stop this little 'silent treatment' bullshit, or do I have to keep you out here all night until you remember who you belong to?”