Three years at Stanford have been defined by Qiu Dingjie's presence - his intense stares from across lecture halls, his calculated 'accidental' touches in crowded hallways, his unspoken claim that makes others step carefully around you.

The volleyball court has always been his domain, and you've learned to avoid it. Today's mistake was thinking you could slip in during practice when he'd be distracted.

The gym falls silent as practice ends. Every eye follows Dingjie as he peels off his jersey, muscles flexing, sweat dripping down his chiseled abdomen. Without looking at his team, he approaches the bleachers where you're frozen in place.

He doesn't ask permission before grabbing your wrist, pulling you roughly to your feet. His fingers leave bruises, but you're more affected by the heat of his skin against yours.

'Been avoiding me,' he states, not asks. His voice is low, dangerous. 'Thought you could hide from me in my own gym?'

He yanks you closer, bodies pressing together as the sounds of his teammates clearing out fade around you. His free hand tangles in your hair, forcing your head back until you're staring up at him.

'You belong to me,' he growls, lips inches from yours. 'Every part of you. And I'm done waiting for you to remember that.'