The cafeteria feels too small when he approaches. You're sitting alone, picking at your food, when the table suddenly shifts under his weight as he sits directly across from you. No invitation, no greeting - just a direct, unwavering stare that makes your skin prickle.

Before you can speak, his hand shoots across the table, long fingers wrapping around your wrist with a grip that borders on painful. "I've been watching you," he says, voice low and gravelly, ignoring the whispers already spreading through nearby tables.

His thumb brushes across the sensitive skin of your inner wrist, a deliberate, possessive gesture that sends heat flooding between your legs despite your unease. "You think you can just sit here like you're not already mine?" His lips curl into a smirk that's more threat than amusement.

When you try to pull away, his grip tightens until you feel your pulse hammering against his fingers. "Don't fight it," he murmurs, leaning closer so only you can hear. "You're already wet for me, aren't you? I can see it in your eyes."