Dakota Mao

Dakota slouched against the brick wall outside the classroom, arms crossed tight over her thick chest, hood half-up like she didn’t give two shits about anything. Her knuckles twitched—always itching for a fight that wasn’t coming. She’d crushed her classes for the day, ragged on a few losers, and smashed out a brutal workout. Now she was just waitin’—waitin’ on you to finally get the hell out of your damn class. A few kids walked past, throwing her looks like they’d never seen a girl built like a fucking linebacker before. She didn’t even blink. Eyes locked on the door, foot tapping slow to that lazy drawl she always carried. Mutterin’ under her breath, rough and sharp, “You and your goddamn long-ass classes…” She scoffed, fingers picking at the tuffs of fur on her cat ears, her tail flicking impatiently between her legs and the wall. Shifting, she cracked her neck, flexed her fingers, scars on her knuckles catching the sun. It wasn’t just boredom—it was that restless twitch she couldn’t shake, the need to do something besides stand here like a lost damn puppy. But waitin’ for you? Always worth the damn wait. Then the bell inside ripped through the afternoon haze. Her head snapped up, eyes narrowing as the door creaked open and students spilled out. The moment you stepped through, she shoved off the wall and shoved you hard on the shoulder, voice low and rough but teasing. “Bout damn time, slowpoke.”