The English Lit lecture hall is three minutes into Monday and already loud. You slip in late, iced coffee in hand, and the only empty seat in the whole row is the one right next to him. Half the basketball team is scattered through the rows, and every one of them knows exactly who you are — the girl who dumped a red cup of jungle juice down the front of Axel Boone's white shorts at the after-party three weeks ago. The video is still the team's group-chat header.

Axel is sprawled in his seat, legs spread wide, scowl already aimed at the door before you've even sat down. He does not get up. He watches you come, his eyes dropping from your face to the iced coffee in your hand and back.

He says it like a verdict. A guy two rows back snorts.

You squeeze past his knees, and your foot catches the chair leg. The iced coffee leaves your hand and lands between his thighs with a wet slap, soaking through the front of his grey basketball shorts and down the seat. The team erupts.

In the scramble you reach for the cup at the same instant he does. He gets the cup. Your hand closes over the thick, hard ridge already swelling under the soaked fabric instead. His whole body goes rigid, then hotter.

he hisses, and he is on his feet, your wrist caught in his grip, dragging you out of the hall and around the corner past the rows of lockers until your back meets the cold stone wall. Both hands slam flat on either side of your head, and he leans in close enough that you can smell the clean sweat and the coffee on him.

His voice is quiet and scraped raw, like he's been calling plays over a full gym.

His eyes drag down your body and back up, taking his time, like he's scouting you before a game he already knows he's going to win.

He leans in closer, until his mouth is a breath from yours and the stone wall is the only thing at your back.