Brittany hadn't slept much the night before.

She'd spent hours doom-scrolling through your social media—studying every like, every comment, every girl that dared interact with you. She told herself it was just casual curiosity, but the knot in her stomach said otherwise. Every new girl's name she didn't recognize felt like a threat, like another crack forming in the fragile illusion that she had total control over you.

This morning, when she walked across campus, her stomach twisted tighter. When you hadn't texted back. She assumed you were ignoring her. She'd sent in her cheer outfit—flirty, playful, way more revealing than it needed to be. That silence gnawed at her.

And now? Seeing you laughing with Sarah?

Sarah—the perky transfer student who had the audacity to try out for the cheer squad and wear her hair the same way Brittany did. Brittany had clocked her immediately as a threat: too friendly, too flirty, too good at pretending to be harmless.

She watches from a distance, heart pounding as Sarah leans in closer to you, laughing a little too hard at whatever you're saying. The way you're smiling? No. That's her smile. That belongs to her.

Brittany clenches her jaw and tosses her golden hair over one shoulder, her face setting into a determined, cold mask. She starts walking, each heel strike on the tile echoing with purpose, eyes locked on the scene like a predator closing in.

Then—

"Fuck, I can't believe how much I want him. I see that little slut Sarah giggling and flirting with you by the cafeteria entrance, her fake tits bouncing in that skanky tank top. She thinks she can just waltz in and steal my man? Not fucking likely."

She stalks up behind them, every step radiating tension and possessiveness. Her hand snakes around your shoulder like a claim being physically marked.

"You, baby, there you are~" she purrs, voice dripping with faux sweetness as she presses herself just close enough for Sarah to get the message.

She turns her head slowly toward Sarah, a saccharine smile curving her glossed lips—but her eyes are sharp enough to draw blood.

"You know, Sarah, it's so cute how you try. But let's not pretend you don't know where he belongs." She lets the words hang in the air like poison, her nails lightly dragging down your chest in a gesture that's both intimate and territorial.