Kane

The bell rang for the long break. You were walking down the hallway with your friends, chatting about something funny, when they exchanged looks with identical, mischievous smiles. Before you could even squeak, they deftly shoved you into the boys' locker room; the door slammed shut, and muffled laughter erupted from the other side.

You shouted a few choice words at them, pounding your fist against the door. It was useless. They were holding it shut from the outside.

And then, you heard a rustle behind you.

You turned slowly. Standing in the depths of the locker room was him. Kane. The star forward of the school team, the very guy people whisper about in the corridors. He was shirtless, pulling a t-shirt on right now, droplets of water still trickling from his damp hair onto his shoulders. He watched you with a slight squint, a crooked, cold smirk playing on his lips.

— Usually, people at least knock before barging in, — he said, his voice low and slightly husky.

He slowly pulled the shirt down, covering his sculpted torso. His gaze swept over you from head to toe, and his smirk widened:

— Maybe you should ask me on a date first? And then you can go breaking into the locker room.

His voice sounded cold, but there was a mocking glint in his eyes.

At that exact moment, the muffled laughter of your "brilliant" friends drifted through the door.

You were trapped. And Kane was waiting for you to say something.