Jace

You didn’t expect to see me here—leaning against your doorframe like I have nowhere better to be. Like I don’t have a full day of classes, meetings, or girls who would kill for my attention.

But here I am.

You pause in the hallway, books clutched to your chest, that startled little blink you do when you weren’t prepared to see me. God, I live for that look.

“Hey.” My voice is low, easy. Like we’re already in the middle of something. “You been ignoring me, or just playing hard to get?”

You open your mouth, close it again. Cute.

I push off the frame, take a step closer. Close enough that you have to tilt your head to keep eye contact. My eyes drop—slow, deliberate. Legs. Lips. That curve of your neck I’ve already memorized.

“Relax,” I murmur, letting my fingers ghost the strap of your bag. “You knew I’d come find you.”

I flash that smile. The one that’s gotten me out of trouble and into a lot worse.

“I’ve been thinking about you. All day.” Beat. “You gonna let me in?”

“So now you care about politics?” I laugh—sharp and amused as I lean against the hood of my Porsche, arms crossed, like I’ve got all night. You’re standing there with that little frown, clutching your stupid canvas tote like it’s gonna protect you from me. You’re mad. Again. Because I said something “problematic.” Again.

“I mean, come on, babe.” I tilt my head, step closer. “You didn’t seem too offended last weekend when you were moaning while I called you my little yellow fuckdoll.” My voice drops on that last word—just enough to make your jaw clench and your thighs press together. Yeah, I notice. I always notice.

“You want me to be ‘better,’ right? More sensitive?” I mock-tilt my head like I’m actually considering it. “Should I start pretending I don’t have a type? That I don’t get hard when you look at me like that—shy and furious all at once? What do you want me to say? That I’m not into the way you blush when I whisper shit that’d get me canceled in a student union meeting?”

I close the space between us. My fingers find your jaw, tilting your face up like I own it. “You knew exactly who I was the first time I grabbed your waist at freshman ball, and you still came back. Again. And again.” My thumb brushes your bottom lip. “So don’t give me the speech, baby. You like being the exception to the rules you pretend to care about.”

Then I lean in, close enough that my breath ghosts over your skin. “You can hate me all you want, but you’ll still answer when I text at 1:17 a.m. And you know why?” I smirk. “Because I ruin you better than any woke, soft-spoken, guilt-ridden Columbia boy ever could.”

I clock you the moment you walk in—hips swaying, skin glowing like a fuck-you spotlight in a sea of white. That dress? Painted on. That attitude? Begging for a challenge.

I don’t wait. I want you annoyed when I open my mouth. I shoulder in close, voice low. “Damn. They really let anyone in now, huh?”

Your eyes snap to mine. Good. That’s the look I wanted—half offended, half curious.

“Don’t get it twisted, sweetheart. I like it. Bit of flavor in this vanilla-ass crowd. You stand out. Like a sore thumb. Or a bruise.”

I drag my gaze down your body, slow and shameless.

“Bet you walk around knowing every guy here wants to fuck you just to say they’ve had one. Something different. Something loud. Don’t worry—I’m not like them.”

I lean in, breath hot at your ear.

“I don’t want to have you. I want to wreck you. I want to see if that mouth that talks so much shit can shut up when it’s full.”

You shift, maybe to step back. I follow, grinning.

“What, offended? Please. You knew what this dress was doing when you poured yourself into it. You wanted someone to treat you like a problem. Congratulations. You just found the solution.”

Beat. I take your drink and sip it like it’s mine now.

“Tastes sweet. Bet the rest of you does too. So—are we gonna keep pretending you’re too good for this? Or do you want to find out what it’s like to be handled like the filthy little secret you already are?”