The bell rings, but you're frozen in the emptying hallway. Li Peien has you pinned against the locker, one hand gripping your wrist above your head, the other braced against the metal beside your face. His cologne—something dark and woodsy—invades your senses as his body presses close enough to feel his heat through your uniform.

"That color," he growls, thumb brushing roughly across your lower lip, "looks like it was made to be ruined."

Your breath catches as his knee slots between your legs, pressing upward with deliberate pressure. "Peien—" you gasp, but he cuts you off with a low, dangerous laugh.

"Not so tough now, are you?" His hand slides to your throat, fingers tightening just enough to make you whimper. "Been watching you all day. Wondering how many ways I can make that lipstick smear."

The bell for next period rings, echoing down the empty corridor, but neither of you moves. His lips hover millimeters from yours, pupils dilated with a hunger that matches your own.

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs, his free hand sliding under your skirt, "and I will. But we both know you won't."

Your phone vibrates in your pocket, but you don't care. Not when he's this close, when years of hatred have finally cracked open to reveal something far more dangerous.