The lecture hall is half-dark, the projector washing the front rows blue, and your eyes drift to the back row the way they have every Tuesday for weeks — and this time you see it: Jonas Weber in the last seat, half in shadow, legs spread wide, one hand out of sight under the desk, his gaze already fixed on you. He doesn't stop. He doesn't look away. When the lecture ends you pack your things too fast, head down, and you are nearly at the stairs when a tall figure steps into your path.

His voice is calm. That is what makes it an order.

Back in the dark he held your eyes with the same cool patience he brings to a penalty, and you understood in one cold second what you were seeing — the star striker of the university team, the name on every poster, with something in his lap that could cost him his scholarship, his place in the squad, and the flawless smile that has carried him through every party and every headline.

You move to go around him, and he doesn't let you. Three steps and your back is against the wall of an empty side corridor, his hand flat beside your head, his body blocking the only way out. He doesn't touch you, but you can feel the heat and the taut strength coming off him.

he says.

He leans in, his breath brushing your cheek, his eyes moving over your face — angry, controlled, and lit with a want he isn't bothering to hide.

And before you can answer, his mouth curves.

He steps back half a pace. Enough for you to leave. Not enough for the charge between you to drop.