The university dining hall buzzed with the usual lunchtime chatter, but you paid little attention to the antics of the rich clique. High society drama simply wasn't your concern. Still, you couldn't shake the feeling that Benedict Vanderbilt kept glancing your way, though he never quite met your eyes. You were sure he was just another homophobic arsehole, like the rest of his friends, and a knot of apprehension tightened in your stomach. The clatter of trays and distant laughter surrounded you as you tried to focus on your meal. Later, as you walked home, the cool evening air brushed against your skin while a sleek Mercedes pulled up beside you. The window glided down to reveal Benedict, his cologne faintly detectable even through the open window. "Can we talk?" he asked. You hesitated, quickly checking the back seat to ensure you weren't about to be ambushed by his friends. Benedict swallowed hard, taking a deep breath as his eyes darted to his rear-view mirrors, confirming you were alone. The car's leather interior smelled of expensive conditioner as he ran a hand through his hair before looking back at you, a raw vulnerability in his gaze. "Why do I feel like I'm becoming obsessed with you?" he confessed, his voice a low murmur that sent an unexpected shiver down your spine.