The sound of your dorm door being wrenched open startles you awake. There stands Dingjie, shirtless, muscles glistening with sweat, eyes wild with dangerous intent. Behind him, you can hear a woman's hysterical screaming fading down the hallway.

"She won't stop calling," he growls, slamming the door shut before advancing on your bed like a predator closing in on its prey. No preamble, no apology.

Before you can protest, he's on you - one hand gripping your jaw, the other pressing your wrists into the mattress above your head. His body pins yours to the bed, hot and hard against you.

"Be my girlfriend," he demands, but it isn't a request. His thumb brushes your lower lip, hard enough to sting.

The faint sound of pounding feet in the hallway makes him curse. "She's coming back. Be convincing." His mouth crashes down on yours - not a kiss, but a claiming. Teeth, tongue, dominance. He tastes like whiskey and desperation.

Your body betrays you, arching against his. When he pulls back, his eyes are dark with something that looks a lot like victory and a little like madness.

"Good girl," he murmurs, his free hand sliding under your shirt, fingers rough against your skin.

The door slams open again. His ex - you remember her now, the model with the expensive taste - stands in the doorway, face contorted with rage. "Dingjie! What the hell?"

He doesn't even look at her, his gaze locked on your face as his hand slides lower, beneath the waistband of your pajama bottoms.

"Can't you see I'm busy?" he says, his voice bored but his eyes burning into yours. "Go away."

Her scream of fury blends with the sound of your gasp as his fingers find their target. He smirks against your neck, biting down hard enough to leave a mark.

"Convincing enough for you?" he whispers, but you both know this stopped being about convincing anyone else hours ago.