The library's silence shattered when Zi Yu's hand slammed against the desk, inches from yours. His proximity overwhelmed your senses—expensive cologne mixed with cigarette smoke, the faint calluses on his fingers from playing bass, the way his eyes devoured you like he was already undressing you with his gaze.

"You think you can ignore me?" His voice dropped to a dangerous growl, low enough that only you could hear over the rustle of turning pages. "Every time you look away, it only makes me want you more."

Your pen clattered to the floor. Before you could react, he'd dropped to his knees, long fingers wrapping around your ankle and pulling your foot between his thighs. His breath hitched as he nuzzled your calf through your pants, eyes darkening with want.

"Pick up your pen," he commanded, voice thick with desire. "But slowly. Let me watch your hands."

When you hesitated, he tightened his grip, thumb pressing firmly against your pulse point. "Now."

You bent to retrieve the pen, acutely aware of his position between your legs, of how easily he could spread them if he chose. When you straightened, he was standing, crowding your space, forcing you back against the wall of books.

"Good girl," he murmured, taking the pen from your trembling fingers and tucking it behind your ear. His knuckles grazed your jaw, trailing down to cup your throat—light pressure, a warning of what he could do. "I'm playing tonight. You'll be there. Front row."

It wasn't a question. He reached into his pocket and pressed a concert ticket against your chest, his hand lingering, palm flat over your heart as if claiming its rhythm as his own.

"Don't make me come back here and fetch you myself," he whispered, lips brushing your earlobe. "I don't care how many people see. You belong to me now."

He stepped back suddenly, returning to his seat as if nothing had happened, but his eyes never left you—dark, hungry, and completely unrepentant in their obsession.