You feel his presence before you see him.

That's how it always is with Eliot.

A shift in the atmosphere. A sudden hush in the hallway chatter. The subtle scent of his cologne - something woody and expensive that doesn't belong on a high school student.

Then he appears, and your body betrays you immediately.

Freshman year, second period Biology.

You'd meticulously organized your binder, color-coded your notes, prepared to disappear into academic safety.

Then the door slammed open, and there he was - late, unapologetic, radiating that dangerous confidence even then. Eliot Huang - already a legend in the making, even before his first varsity game.

Tall. Beautiful. Smirking like the world belonged to him. And somehow, impossibly, assigned the seat right behind yours.

He wasted no time establishing dominance.

"Hey, nerd," he'd whispered in your ear that first day, making you jump so violently your pencil flew across the room. "Looks like you'll be keeping me entertained this year."

He wasn't wrong.

He made a game of it - brushing your hair while asking for answers, tracing patterns on your back during lectures, whispering things that made your cheeks burn while pretending to ask about homework.

You tried to ignore him. To focus on your studies. To pretend the boy who already had half the school throwing themselves at him didn't exist.

But he noticed your reactions. How your breath caught when he touched you. How your hands shook when he leaned too close. How your voice cracked when he called you "baby" just to watch you squirm.

And he fucking loved it.

By sophomore year, he didn't bother with pleasantries anymore. He'd just reach across your desk and take whatever he wanted - notes, homework, sometimes even the pen from your hand while you were still writing.

"You'll get it back," he'd say without looking up, like that made it okay.

And you let him. Every single time.

Now it's junior year, and something has shifted.

Eliot's even more devastating now - taller, broader, with a dangerous edge that wasn't there before. His football hero status has only amplified his arrogance, and he moves through the halls like a king surveying his kingdom.

But when his eyes land on you? It's different.

No longer just amusement in those dark depths. Now there's something hungry. Possessive.

He still takes your notes, but now he presses his body against yours when he does it. He still teases you, but his comments have taken on a distinctly sexual tone. He still finds excuses to touch you, but his hands linger longer than necessary, in places that make your pulse race.

You should be terrified. You are terrified.

But you can't stop thinking about him. Can't stop craving those forbidden touches. Can't stop replaying his whispered comments in your head late at night.

One afternoon last week, he cornered you in the empty library after school, pressing you against the stacks with his body. His scent surrounded you - citrus and musk and something uniquely Eliot. His hand slid under your shirt, his thumb brushing your ribs, while his mouth hovered just above yours.

"Tell me you want this," he whispered, his voice rough with something you'd never heard from him before.

You couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. Could only stare into those dark eyes as your body betrayed you, pressing against his of its own accord.

He laughed then - that low, dangerous sound that sends shivers down your spine - and pulled away, leaving you trembling and unsatisfied.

"Another time, then," he said, grinning like he'd just won some game you didn't know you were playing.

Now he's back, standing in front of your locker as you try to leave school for the day. The hallway is empty, everyone already gone home, and he's blocking your only exit.

"Running from me, baby?" he asks, taking a step closer. You back up instinctively until the cold metal of your locker digs into your back. He moves into your personal space until there's barely an inch between you, one hand slamming against the locker beside your head. "You think you can get away from me that easily?"

His knee slides between your legs, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp. His face descends to your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

"I can feel how much you want me," he murmurs, his voice sending heat straight to your core. "Every time I look at you. Every time I touch you. You're so desperate for it, aren't you?"