But Advik's fingertips found my wrist again.

Not holding. Not trapping. Just touching. Tracing lazy, feather-light circles against my pulse, round and round, a silent language I didn't want to understand. His knuckles brushed the inside of my forearm, his heat radiating against my side, his presence swallowing every inch of space between us until I couldn't tell where the air ended and he began.

I couldn't breathe.

I couldn't think.

And the worst part — the most traitorous, humiliating part — was that some broken piece of me didn't want him to stop.

I didn't know why he was behaving so differently today.

For years, he had treated me like a live wire — always pulling away, always keeping distance, always finding reasons to be in another room, another city, another universe. And now this? His thigh pressed against mine, his fingers circling my wrist like a bracelet he had no intention of removing. It had to be a game. Another test. Another way to prove he controlled every piece of my life down to the oxygen I breathed.

But my body didn't care about logic.

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird throwing itself against the cage of my chest. My palms grew slick against the desk, nervous sweat making my pen slip. I couldn't follow a single word the professor said. Every letter on the board blurred into static because Advik's thumb was still tracing circles against my pulse, round and round, a countdown I couldn't read.

I slid away from him, inching toward the edge of my seat, desperate for space, for air, for a single inch of wood that didn't carry his heat.

His arm circled my waist.

It happened so casually — so deliberately casual — that the students behind us probably thought he was stretching. But his hand splayed against my hip, fingers pressing into the fabric of my dress, and I felt the warmth of his palm seep through the cotton like a brand. He pulled me back, not forcefully, just enough to close the gap I had tried to create. His thumb rested against the bone of my hip, heavy and possessive, and stayed there for the rest of the lecture.

I stopped breathing.

I just sat there, rigid, staring at the whiteboard without seeing it, feeling the slow burn of his hand against my body, counting the seconds until the bell would release me. When the lecture finally ended, the sound of chairs scraping felt like a starting gun.

I got up quickly, nearly tripping over my own feet, and bolted toward the door. Toward the restroom. Toward anywhere that didn't smell like sandalwood and obsession.

But a hand grabbed my arm.

Not my wrist this time — my upper arm, fingers wrapping tight around the sleeve of my dress, yanking me backward with a force that made my teeth click together. I stumbled, panic flooding my veins, my vision narrowing to a tunnel — until I caught his scent. Sandalwood. Something darker beneath it, like storm clouds before they break.

Advik.

And despite everything, despite the fear and the fury and the humiliation of being dragged around like luggage, my shoulders relaxed a fraction. My body recognized him before my mind could scream.

He pulled me into a quiet, empty classroom down the hall. The door clicked shut behind us, and the noise of the corridor died instantly, replaced by the heavy silence of a space that felt too small for two people who had spent years learning how to hurt each other.

I whirled around to face him.

"What is up with you?" My voice came out too high, too breathless. "Why aren't you leaving me alone?"

He took a step closer. Then another. Until his shoes touched the toes of my flats and I had to tilt my head back to keep his gaze.

"You wanted to be alone?" His voice was soft. Almost curious. "Forget it. I'm not leaving you alone for a single second." He reached up, his knuckles brushing my jawline, light enough to make me flinch. "You wanted to shift with that bastard Sahil, right? Let's see how you do that."

Shifting with Sahil?

Confusion flickered through me, hot and sudden. What was he talking about? I wasn't moving in with Sahil — I was moving in with Maggie. But Advik didn't know that. He had heard me on the phone, heard fragments, and filled in the blanks with his own jealousy.

I masked it quickly. If he thought I was moving in with Sahil — fine. Let him believe it. I was giving him exactly what he wanted, wasn't I? Freedom from his precious responsibility. If he thought I was choosing someone else, maybe he'd finally let me go.

He moved closer still, trapping me between the lab bench and his body. There was nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide from the heat radiating off him in waves, from the way his chest rose and fell too fast, from the scent of him that filled my lungs until I felt dizzy.

He leaned in.

His mouth hovered near my ear, his breath warm and deliberate against my skin. Every exhale hit me to the core, sending shivers racing down my spine, pooling low in my stomach in a slow, treacherous ache.

He doesn't like me, I told myself, the thought frantic and thin. I'm just a burden. Just a responsibility he never wanted.

But still — somewhere deep in my traitorous, broken heart — I wanted him. I wanted this closeness. I wanted his hand back on my hip. I wanted him to mean everything his touch was promising, even knowing he never would.

"Try me, kitten." His voice dropped to a whisper, velvet wrapped around a blade. "If you even shift a single thing to his house, I will ruin him in such a way that he'll regret ever meeting you."

He said it slowly. Each word was calm, measured, but more threatening than any shout could ever be. That voice — that low, dangerous growl — did something to me that I couldn't control. My skin felt too tight, too hot. I was burning up, wanting his lips on my throat, wanting things I didn't have names for, wanting him to destroy me and call it love.

But I didn't say a word.

I couldn't. My voice had turned to ash in my throat, and all that remained was the truth I couldn't speak: that his threat should have terrified me, and instead, it had made me wet.