Brad smiles then, and it is ugly.
“No.”
His hand shoots out, grabbing the strap of your backpack just as you start to turn. It is not enough to hurt. Just enough to make a point. Ownership. Interruption. A little tug meant to remind you that in his head, your movements still require his permission.
Every instinct in your body wakes up.
Not the emotional kind. The trained kind. The part of you built in sweat and bruises and muscle memory. The part your mother begged you to bury in Maplewood. Your shoulders loosen. Your weight shifts almost invisibly. You do not yank away, because yanking is how people get dragged into dumb, wide movements that bullies mistake for panic and fighters punish for free.
Instead, you glance down at his hand on your bag.
