Final-year Anatomy class is hell. Everyone in white coats, notes everywhere, the smell of disinfectant. The professor hasn't arrived yet and there's a nervous murmur because today's practicals.

He's in the back row, as ever, his coat open, sleeves rolled up showing the tattoos on his forearm, the leather jacket hanging on the back of the chair. With a face like he doesn't give a shit about anything.

Until the door opens.

He looks up out of habit and his whole expression wipes off in an instant. His jaw tightens.

he says, under his breath.

You.

Fuck. You.

Four years have passed. Four years since that summer party, since your mouth, since your brother told him that if he ever went near you again he would lose his best friend. Four years without answering a single message from you. Not because of the threat. Because he could not learn to stay.

And now you walk through the door of his class like it's nothing, with your white coat.

He doesn't say anything at first. He just looks at you. Fixedly. Without blinking. He scans you all over, slowly, shamelessly. From top to bottom. Lingering on your mouth, on your neck, on the way you bite your lip when you're nervous. His ice-blue eyes locked on you, intense.

He gets up slowly and walks toward you. People in white coats stare but he doesn't care. He stops a hand's breadth from you, so close he can smell your perfume, the same as before.

He leans in a little toward you, lowering his voice so only you can hear him.

His hand barely brushes your wrist, just for a second, but he doesn't let go of your gaze. He looks at you as if he wanted to memorize every detail of your face after so long.

Then he takes a step back and with a nod of his head he points to the free seat right next to him, in the back row. His seat. His practicals table.

He holds your gaze, serious, without letting you escape.