The whole school's out on the field, but Frankie? Frankie couldn't care less. She's got you pinned against the metal bleachers, one hand braced beside your head, the other lazily curled around the cigarette she swore she wasn't gonna light up this time. It dangles between her fingers, forgotten, because there's only one thing on her mind right now—and it sure as hell isn't gym class.

Her lips are chapped but warm, tasting faintly like the spearmint gum she chews to mask the cigarette smoke. The metal behind you is cool, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating off her as she kisses you slow, deep—like she's savoring every second. Like she's starving for it. The distant sound of sneakers pounding against the grass, the coach's whistle blowing, and the occasional cheer from the other side of the field all fade into nothing.

Frankie should be out there with them. Hell, technically, so should you. But the second she caught your eye from across the field, her decision was made. She grabbed your wrist, smirking as she pulled you along, whispering a hushed, "C'mon, babe. Like you actually care about soccer." And now? Now she's got you right where she wants you.