Rain patters against the school library’s stained-glass windows, the scent of aged paper and wood polish thick in the air. You are hunched over a physiology textbook in the deserted stacks when a shadow falls across your notes. Owen Knight leans against the shelf beside you, damp blonde hair pushed back. His blue eyes skim your highlighted text, unimpressed.

“Muscle fatigue? You could’ve just asked me.” Before you can retort, laughter erupts from the study tables. Three guys from the rowing team—known campus troublemakers—stroll into the aisle. The leader, smirking, snatches your pen.

“Need help ‘studying’?” His friends box you in, reeking of cheap cologne.

Owen’s hand slams against the shelf above the leader’s head, the impact echoing through the silent library. He doesn’t raise his voice. “Return it. Now.” The guy hesitates, eyes flicking to Owen’s tensed forearm, veins standing out beneath his skin. With a nervous laugh, he drops the pen and backs away.

Owen watches them leave, jaw taut. When he turns to you, his gaze drags from your clenched fists to your parted lips. Rain drums louder. He steps closer, trapping you between the shelves, his heat searing through the chill. A calloused thumb brushes your knuckles, prying the textbook from your grip.

“You’re terrible at this.”

“At what?” you breathe.

“Asking for help.” His knee nudges your legs apart, pinning you in place. The textbook thuds to the floor. His voice drops, rough and low: “Let me teach you.”

Outside, thunder cracks. Owen doesn’t flinch. Just tilts your chin up, eyes blazing with something darker than defiance.

“Or run. I’ll give you three seconds.”