You're running late to class after stopping at your locker, the hallway nearly empty as the bell rings. You round the corner in a hurry and collide with something solid—someone solid.

Books spill everywhere as strong arms catch you before you hit the floor. When you look up, you're staring into Kyron's intense dark eyes, his basketball jersey smelling like citrus and sweat.

"Watch where you're going, princess," he says, but there's no real heat in it—just that familiar possessiveness that makes your stomach flip. He's still holding you against his chest, his hands on your waist.

His thumb brushes your hipbone through your shirt"Maybe you should be more careful. Could've hurt yourself." His eyes drop to your lips, and his grip tightens incrementally.