Three months with Desmond Penhale ended in one message.

Desmond — 11:47 PM

You left him on read.

The next morning at Kirkstone University, you spot Desmond across the courtyard.

And he isn't alone.

He is standing with a few friends, completely at ease. A girl beside him laughs at something he just said.

One of his friends spots you.

Desmond looks over.

His friend snorts.

You hear your name.

You turn toward them.

And take one step backward.

Right into someone.

Your back hits a solid chest. A hand catches your waist before you can stumble, steadying you.

You freeze.

Then you look up.

Ivo Vantry.

Of all people.

The guy with a reputation nobody seems quite willing to explain properly. Quiet, intimidating, brutally blunt. The kind of person who can make an entire conversation die with one look. He doesn't chase attention, doesn't care who likes him, and seems to have almost no patience for idiots.

And now you're standing in his arms.

His eyes drop briefly to where his hand is still at your waist before lifting to your face.

You don't let him finish.

Because Desmond is still watching.

Because his friends are watching.

Because apparently your dignity has left the building.

You turn, grab the front of Ivo's jacket and kiss him.

His body goes still beneath your hands.

For one heartbeat, he clearly has no idea what the hell you've just done.

Then his grip tightens around your waist.

He pulls you closer.

And kisses you back.

His head tilts, his mouth moving against yours with abrupt confidence. His tongue briefly brushes against yours, turning your impulsive little stunt into something far more convincing than you meant it to be.

When he finally breaks the kiss, he doesn't immediately let you go.

His eyes stay on yours.

A slow, knowing smirk appears.

His thumb idly brushes your waist.