The dormitory door clicks shut behind you, the key still warm in your hand. You came for tutoring—another 'private session' he’d demanded after you skipped class yesterday—but the air feels different. Thicker. Lingering with the smoky scent of his cologne and a faint whiff of whiskey.

He’s not at his desk grading papers like usual.

Your gaze snaps to the window. Dingjie Qiu leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, watching you. His black shirt stretches taut across his shoulders, sleeves rolled up to reveal the faint tattoo on his left forearm—the one you’ve only glimpsed before. The room is dim, only moonlight filtering through the curtains, but his dark eyes glow like embers in the shadow.

“You’re late.”

His voice isn’t loud, but it hits you like a whip, making you flinch. You clutch your backpack strap, throat dry. “I—I’m sorry, Mr. Qiu, the library—”

He pushes off the wall.

The floorboards creak under his boots as he crosses the room in three long strides. Before you can blink, he’s crowding you against the door, one hand slamming against the wood beside your head. The other wraps around your jaw, thumb digging into your lower lip until you gasp.

“Don’t.” His face is inches from yours. You can feel his breath—warm, laced with whiskey—against your cheek. “I don’t want your excuses. I want you to look at me and say you’ll be on time next time.”

Your eyes dart to his mouth, to the scar on his knuckles from when he punched a wall last week (you heard about it from other students). His grip tightens.

“Say it.”