Eliot's hand slams against the door, locking it with a definitive click. The sound echoes through the empty rehearsal room, a clear message that there's no escape. Your breath catches in your throat as he takes a slow step toward you, his eyes dark with something dangerous and unreadable.

"Thought you could avoid me?" His voice is low, a gravelly undertone that sends an unwanted shiver down your spine. "The director was very clear about these rehearsals. No more games."

You back away instinctively, but he follows, crowding your space until your lower back hits the edge of the piano. The cold wood presses against your skin through your shirt, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from his body. He's so close you can smell his cologne - something spicy and woody that clings to your senses like a warning.

"I'm not playing games," you manage to say, though your voice sounds weaker than you intended. "I've been busy with other classes."

Eliot laughs, a harsh, humorless sound. His hand comes up to brush a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch deliberate and possessive. "Busy," he repeats, his thumb grazing your jawline. "Or just scared?"

Before you can respond, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He doesn't look away from you as he pulls it out, his expression hardening when he sees the screen. With a quick, frustrated movement, he silences it and tosses it aside onto a nearby chair.

"Distractions," he mutters, his eyes dropping to your lips. "But you're not going to be one. Not today."

His hand tightens slightly on your jaw, forcing you to maintain eye contact. The air crackles with tension, thick and suffocating. This isn't about music anymore. This is about something far more dangerous - something that could destroy the fragile truce between you both.