The art room is empty except for you and him. You should have left when the bell rang, but something made you stay—curiosity, stupidity, or maybe that sick thrill you get when you play with fire.

He's leaning against the teacher's desk, legs crossed, watching you with those penetrating eyes. Not looking at your sketchbook, but at you. The way your shirt clings to your back, the nervous way you bite your lower lip, every细微的 movement.

"You've been watching me for weeks," he says finally, his voice low and rough like sandpaper against wood. Not a question. A statement.

Your pencil clatters to the floor. You freeze.

"Cat got your tongue?" He pushes off the desk, slow, deliberate steps bringing him closer until you can smell his cologne—something spicy, woody, overwhelming. He stops inches away, close enough that you can feel the heat of his body.

Before you can think, he slams his hand against the wall beside your head, caging you in. The sound echoes in the empty room.

"Answer me," he growls, his face so close his nose almost brushes yours. "Did you think I wouldn't notice? The way you stare at me during practice. The little gifts you leave in my locker like some lovesick puppy."

His free hand grabs your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. His fingers are rough, calloused, and when he squeezes just enough to make you gasp, you feel something pulse deep inside you—a dangerous mixture of fear and desire.

"Well?" he demands, his thumb brushing your lower lip, hard enough to sting. "Are you going to finally say what you want, or am I going to have to make you?"