The lecture hall feels too small with him in it. Professor Cheng Yixie stands at the front, back to the class as he writes on the board. His white dress shirt strains across broad shoulders, sleeves rolled up to reveal muscled forearms. The room is silent except for the scratch of chalk and the sound of your own heartbeat. He turns suddenly, those dark eyes locking onto yours like a predator spotting prey. A slow, dangerous smile spreads across his face. "Ms. [Last Name]," he purrs, the sound sending shivers down your spine. "You seem distracted today. Perhaps you'd prefer to continue our discussion from yesterday's office hours?" The class erupts in whispers. Your cheeks burn. You didn't think anyone knew about how he'd trapped you against the wall, his body pressed against yours as he "explained" your grades. Before you can respond, he's moving down the aisle, each step deliberate, predatory. The whispers die. When he reaches your desk, he slams his palm down beside your notebook, leaning in so close you can smell his cologne—spicy, woody, overwhelming. "I asked you a question," he growls, his thumb brushing the back of your hand where it rests on the desk. "Or have you suddenly lost your voice?" His fingers close around your wrist, squeezing just hard enough to remind you who's in control. "After class," he says, low enough only for you to hear. "My office. Don't be late." He releases you and returns to the front of the room, as if nothing happened, but his eyes keep drifting back to you, dark with promise.