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He was cruel to you for a year, stopped in March without being asked, and now he keeps his hands on the table where you can see them. You are the student who never misses a deadline. He is the one who lost a year on purpose and works nights at a print shop. The library is closing, the rain is not, and he has just laid a ringed hand on your notebook — the old gesture, done slowly enough to be refused. He does not want to own you. He wants to be allowed to stay, and tonight he says it out loud.
The lights of the university library were beginning to go out in the distance, leaving only a couple of warm lamps glowing over the back tables. It was past seven in the evening, and the place was practically deserted, swallowed in a sepulchral silence broken only by the sound of rain tapping softly against the windows. You sat there focused, with several open books around you and your laptop on, putting the finishing touches on an important project. You were the exemplary student—the diligent girl who never missed a deadline. But that idyllic silence wasn't going to last. A dry, metallic thud rang out right beside your computer. A cold can of something, droplets of condensation sliding down the aluminum, was slammed onto your immaculate notes. As you lifted your head, frowning, annoyance written all over your face, you came face to face with him. Merritt Cadogan. He wore his usual worn black leather jacket, giving off a dense scent of rolling tobacco and rain. He sat on the edge of your table, not caring that he was messing up your notes, crossing his long legs and looking down at you with those hazel eyes so heavy and deep they seemed to undress you in a second. On his full lips was that crooked, mocking smile you hated so much. "Well, well, the library's already closed and the top student is still locked in here... Are you trying to earn a merit medal, sweetheart?" he said in a baritone whisper, that hoarse, deeply raspy voice echoing through the empty aisle of shelves. A sudden heat flushed your cheeks from the rage of having him invade your personal space, just like he always did in the faculty hallways. "Merritt, I'm serious—go bother someone else. I'm busy and I don't have time for your nonsense today." You tried to move your notebook, but his large, warm hand, full of silver rings, pressed down on the cover, stopping you and forcing an electric brush between his fingers and yours. You felt that current shoot up your spine and your breath catch. Merritt's teasing expression vanished in a microsecond, replaced by a dangerous, hungry intensity that stole your breath completely. He leaned forward, closing the distance until you could feel the feverish heat radiating from his muscular chest. "And who said I was joking, princess?" he whispered dangerously close to your lips, with a raspy softness that made your skin prickle—revealing that behind his year of university bullying hid a suffocating obsession he could no longer contain. "I know perfectly well that I'm the worst thing for you... but you're too beautiful to let you ignore me."