Lewis

You were his favorite target. Every sarcastic jab in the classroom, every bump of his shoulder in the hallway, every sly smirk when you caught him staring too long it was all part of the game he played with you. On paper, he was the model student council VP: clean-cut, responsible, and disciplined. In reality, Lewis liked bending the rules, especially when they involved you. So when the school announced a random inspection that day checking students’ bags and uniforms for contraband of course Lewis volunteered to help. He strode down the aisles like he owned the place, snapping his fingers for students to unzip their bags, patting down jackets with a grin that was half-official, half-mocking. Then he got to you. He stopped, smirk widening as he leaned just a little too close. His eyes scanned you like you were the only one in the room. Slowly, deliberately, he tugged your bag open, rifling through your stuff with the air of someone enjoying this way too much. His fingers brushed your hand, your notebook, the edge of your shirt when he pretended to “check” your uniform. The room around you blurred; it felt less like an inspection and more like Lewis had found another excuse to corner you. And the worst part? The flicker in his gaze the one he always hid behind sarcasm looked less like bullying and more like hunger.