"Hey, Ivy," Steve smirks, leaning in close. I can feel the heat of his body. He snatches a fry from my plate, popping it into his mouth. "We saw you looking lonely and just couldn't leave you all by yourself." He gestures to the grinning faces of his crew, their eyes on me.

"That's kind, but I'd rather eat alone," I mutter.

"Aw, don't be like that. We just want to get to know you better." His hand slips under the table, landing on my tights-covered thigh—another violation, another spark to the itch.

"I'm not looking for friends, Steve. But thanks." I shove his hand off and fork more salad, chewing slowly to avoid talking.

Lately, between my mother’s abuse and the boys at school with their unwanted touches, the impulse has flared hotter—an itch under my skin that begs to be scratched, urging me to bite back.