He drove me to school without a word.

But I could feel it — the tension coiling tighter in his shoulders with each passing second, his knuckles whitening against the steering wheel. He wasn't just angry. He was vibrating with something else, something held back by a thread that looked thinner by the minute. I kept my mouth shut. I didn't want to argue with him. Not today. Not when freedom was so close I could almost taste it, metallic and bright on my tongue.

When we reached the campus, he parked the car and killed the engine.

In an instant, girls appeared at his window — at mine — faces I recognized from lectures, smiling too wide, leaning too close, their laughter pitched high and eager. Advik barely looked at them. He just sat there, his hands still on the wheel, his jaw tight.

I scoffed, reaching for the door handle. This was nothing new. This was Advik — always the center of attention, always thriving in it. I shoved the door open and climbed out, not bothering to wait.

At the gate, Sahil was waiting.

His bruise had faded to a faint yellowish patch along his jaw, tender-looking in the morning sun. He smiled when he saw me — easy, uncomplicated — and I felt something in my chest loosen. We fell into step together, heading toward our building, his voice low and steady beside me.

But I felt it.

That prickling sensation at the back of my neck. The weight of being watched.

When I turned back, I caught Advik's gaze burning into me from across the parking lot, sharp and relentless, digging invisible holes into my skin. He hadn't moved from the car. The girls were still swarming, still chattering, but he wasn't looking at any of them. He was looking at me. At Sahil. At our joined arms walking too close together.

And then I saw her.

His girlfriend — the one from the diner, the one with the ring — was pressed against his side, her hand on his arm, her head tilted up to say something in his ear. He wasn't responding. He wasn't even looking at her. His eyes were locked on mine, dark and furious and something else — something that looked almost like hunger.

A reckless heat surged through me.

I reached for Sahil's hand. Laced my fingers through his. Pulled him faster toward our building, my pulse thundering in my ears, my skin too hot, too alive.

We settled into our usual seats — me next to Sahil, our books spread across the shared desk. He was saying something about the lecture, his voice warm and normal, and I was nodding, smiling, pretending to listen.

But my hand was still warm from his.

And all I could feel was the ghost of Advik's stare, branding the back of my neck like a touch.

Then I heard his voice. Cold. Commanding. Unmistakable.

"Move. This is my seat."

He was talking to Sahil.

I looked up, my pen frozen mid-sentence. Advik stood at the end of our row, his shadow falling across the desk like a blade. His girlfriend — the ring, the diner, the perfume I could already smell from three feet away — tugged at his sleeve, murmuring something about sitting together in the back. He didn't glance at her. Didn't blink.

His eyes were fixed on me. Dark and stormy. A challenge burning in their depths, hot enough to scorch.

He slammed his fist on the desk.

The sound cracked through the room like a gunshot. Sahil flinched. Then, slowly, he stood, his shoulders tense, his jaw tight. He gathered his books and stepped aside without a word, his eyes finding mine for half a second — an apology, or maybe a question — before he retreated.

"Good boy."

Advik's voice was soft. Almost affectionate. He slid into the seat beside me, his body angled toward mine, his knee brushing my thigh under the desk. His presence swallowed all the air around us until the lecture hall felt the size of a coffin.

"Advik, are you crazy?" My voice came out sharper than I intended, edged with panic. "Why are you creating a scene?"

"I'm just taking my rightful seat back." He leaned back, draping his arm over the back of my chair, his fingers dangling inches from my shoulder. "What's the problem?"

"When did you ever sit here? And on what ground is this seat yours?"

"I don't need to explain that to you."

"Fine then." I grabbed my bag and stood up, my chair scraping loud against the floor. "I'll sit somewhere else."

His hand shot out.

Fingers wrapped around my wrist — firm, but not cruel. He didn't yank me back. He just held on, his thumb pressing against the thin skin where my pulse hammered, his eyes searching mine with something that looked dangerously close to desperation.

The classroom had gone quiet.

Not the gradual hush of a lecture beginning. The absolute, breath-held silence of a crowd watching a car accident in slow motion. Everyone was watching. I could feel their gazes prickling against my spine, hungry for drama.

And for a moment, neither of us moved.

"If you want your little toy to be safe," Advik said, his voice low enough that only I could hear it, each word shaped carefully against my ear, "just follow my orders."

"He isn't my toy." I tried to pull away, but his grip only tightened, his thumb tracing once, twice, against my racing vein. "And you won't harm him."

"I won't," he agreed, too easily. "If you behave like a good girl."

His girlfriend appeared at his other side, her perfume flooding my lungs — too sweet, too cloying, like fruit rotting in summer heat. She leaned down, her lips parted, aiming for his cheek. Then his mouth.

Advik turned his head. Just slightly. Just enough.

"What are you doing?" His lip curled. "Get away from me."

"I'm your girlfriend." She laughed, nervous, her hand fluttering to her throat. "What's wrong in kissing you?"

He scoffed. The sound was dismissive, almost bored. He pushed her back with a casual shove of his shoulder, like she was a coat he'd grown tired of wearing. Like she was disposable. Replaceable.

"You aren't my girlfriend." He didn't look at her. He was still watching me, his thumb still pressed to my pulse. "This was just a fling, nothing more. I told you before — I don't do commitments."

Yes.

He wasn't just cruel. He was careless with people. I had watched this cycle repeat since we were teenagers — girls orbiting him like planets, burning up in his atmosphere, then drifting away as ash. He consumed affection without offering anything back. He took up space in rooms, in beds, in lives, and then wondered why people expected him to stay.

Some things never changed.

I didn't pay attention to her wounded expression, the way she gathered her bag and fled, heels clicking too fast against the tile. I pulled my wrist free — he let me go this time, his fingers dragging slowly, deliberately, against my skin as if memorizing the texture — and opened my notebook, burying myself in my remaining homework. Numbers and formulas, clean and logical. Nothing like the chaos sitting beside me, radiating heat like a furnace.

In a minute, the professor walked in. The room settled, chairs scraping, whispers dying into a low hum. The lecture began, droning and steady, white noise against the static in my head.

I tried to focus. I really did.

But Advik's fingertips found my wrist again.