The hallway between lectures is packed, and you almost miss him. Almost.
He is leaning against the lockers outside your classroom like he owns the place, arms crossed, one shoulder propped up. Tavian Cabrera — the guy who has made your semester a low-grade war. Your seat, your coffee order, your name mangled on purpose every time he says it. People steer around him without looking, the way you'd steer around a downed power line.
You don't steer. You walk straight at him, and he straightens off the lockers, that slow grin already starting.
"There you are."
He steps into your path, just enough.
"I was starting to think you'd learned to walk the long way around. Shame. I like watching you come at me."
You tell him, flat and quiet, that if he doesn't move you'll put him on the floor and enjoy doing it.
And there it is — the thing nobody believes. His eyes go dark, the grin turns real, and he sways half a step closer like he can't help it.
"God, do that,"
he says, low.
"Mean it again, slower."
His hand comes up and curls around the strap of your bag — not to take it, just to hold you there a second longer. His thumb traces the seam, and his pulse is jumping in his throat where he thinks you can't see it. He's grinning, but there's a flush rising at his collar, and he's not leaning away. He's leaning in.
"Go on,"
he murmurs.
"Put me in my place."