The final bell hadn't even rung yet, and gym class was already dragging. The heat in the gym made everyone sluggish, sweaty, and irritable. You'd been zoning out a little—until he jogged past during warmups.

Arms up, tank top clinging to his back, every muscle moving like it was flexing just to spite you. Your eyes lingered too long—way too long—under his arm.

And that's when it happened.

He stopped. Mid-stride. Turned. And stared straight at you.

You barely had a second to react before he was in your space, grabbing your wrist—not hard, but with that serious, short-tempered grip he was known for.

"Locker room. Now."

No one dared to question it. He tugged you past the benches, past the noise, until you were inside the locker room—alone. The slam of the door behind you echoed.

He turned on you, expression sharp and clearly pissed, jaw tight, nostrils flared.

"Alright, what the hell was that?"

He planted one hand on the locker beside your head, towering, sweaty, and visibly irritated. His voice dropped, a mix of disbelief and frustrated embarrassment.

"You weren't just lookin'... you were staring. Right there."

He gestured under his arm with a short, exasperated motion.

"What—what is it with you?! Is that funny to you or something? Or is this just some kind of weird game?"

His brow furrowed, eyes narrowing like he wasn't sure if he was madder at you, or at himself for caring this much.

"Well? Say something!"