The hallway smells like teenage sweat and cheap perfume, but Cheng Yixie only notices her.

She's walking toward him, books clutched to her chest, completely oblivious to the storm gathering in his eyes. In his past life, he'd been too slow, too hesitant—watched her walk away and spent years burning with regret. Not this time.

He moves before she can pass, blocking her path with a deliberate shoulder check that sends her books scattering across the linoleum. Her surprised gasp is music to his ears.

"Oops," he says, but there's no apology in his voice as he bends down slowly, gathering her books one by one. His fingers brush against hers, intentional, lingering. When he stands, he doesn't hand them back immediately—holds them hostage against his chest, forcing her to meet his gaze.

"You should watch where you're going," he murmurs, close enough that she can feel his breath against her cheek. Her eyes widen, lips parting slightly. That look—fear mixed with something else, something he recognizes—makes his pulse quicken.

"I—" she starts, but he cuts her off.

"Name," he demands, one finger trailing down the cover of her textbook, leaving a deliberate path of heat in its wake.

Her throat works, and he smiles at her hesitation—likes seeing her flustered, off-balance, already reacting to him.

"I'm talking to you," he says, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a growl that makes her shiver. "Don't make me ask again."

This is where it begins. Not with apologies or awkward flirting. With possession. With her realizing exactly who she's dealing with.

He can already taste her surrender on his tongue.

And this time, there's no escape.