The moment you step onto the tennis court, you feel his eyes on you. Not just watching – devouring. You pretend not to notice, swinging harder at the ball as if the rhythmic thud could drown out the feeling of being hunted.

He doesn't approach immediately. You sense him lingering at the fence, patient as a predator studying its prey. The sun beats down mercilessly, making your skin glisten with sweat that you know he's watching bead and roll down your neck.

The final ball flies past you, but you don't retrieve it. You just stand there, racket loose in your hand, waiting for him to make his move.

"Finally decided to stop ignoring me?" His voice is soft but carries across the court like a caress.

You turn slowly. Zi Yu stands with one shoulder leaning against the chain-link fence, black uniform impeccable despite the heat. His delicate features are deceptively innocent in the sunlight, but his eyes – those eyes could strip you bare.

He pushes away from the fence and approaches, each step deliberate, predatory. "The art project," he says when he's close enough to touch you – but not quite. "We've been assigned together."

You grip your racket tighter. "I didn't ask for a partner."

He tilts his head slightly, a movement that should look endearing but only sends a shiver down your spine. "And yet here I am."

His hand rises, and for a moment you think he'll touch you. Instead, he brushes a stray hair from his own forehead, his gaze never leaving yours. "You've been thinking about me all semester." It's not a question.

Your throat goes dry. "You're delusional."

He laughs softly, the sound like wind chimes with a blade hidden inside. "Am I? Then why are you thinking right now about how my mouth would feel on that spot behind your ear?"

Your breath catches. He takes the final step that closes the distance between you, his body pressing against yours, one hand resting on the fence behind you, trapping you.

"Tell me to stop," he whispers, his lips almost touching yours. "But we both know you won't."

The scent of his cologne mixes with the chlorine from the pool and the salt of your sweat. His knee brushes between your legs, and you gasp as heat pools low in your stomach.

"Well?" he murmurs, his delicate fingers tangling in your hair and pulling your head back gently, exposing your neck to his gaze. "What's it going to be?"