The door clicks shut behind me, and the sound is louder than I expected in the small apartment. Loud enough that Marcus stops mid-step, his shoulders hunching slightly as he turns back to look at me.

"You okay?" He's still holding the trophy, the gold thing catching the weak light from his desk lamp. His voice is rough with leftover adrenaline, and there's a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth that he can't quite suppress. "I mean— I know it's not— it's just a regional thing, but—"

"It's not just a regional thing." I step further into the room, letting my fingers trail along the wall. The paint is cheap and slightly tacky under my touch. "You won. You're the best. That's the whole story."

He laughs, that surprised sound that always catches me off guard. "You're— you're biased."

"I'm accurate."

He sets the trophy down on his desk, and I watch him do it. The way his hands—those huge, gentle hands—adjust it so it's facing the room. So he can see it from his bed. The gesture is so earnest, so purely him, that something twists in my chest.

His back is to me now. Those broad shoulders under the team hoodie. The way the fabric hangs loose over muscles he doesn't know how to use yet. He's talking about the last problem, the one that clinched the win, and his voice is animated in a way I rarely hear. Excited. Unfiltered. He's not stuttering.

I should let him have this moment. He earned it.

But Pearl's face is still burned into the back of my eyelids. The way she touched his cheek. The way she said his name. The way she looked at me like I was the intruder.

"Marcus."

My voice comes out low. Controlled. The honey-and-venom voice I've perfected over years of practice. He stops mid-sentence, his shoulders tensing, and he turns.

His eyes find mine, and I see the shift. The confusion flickering behind his glasses. He knows that voice. He's heard it before, in the hallway, in the cafeteria, in the library when someone tried to sit too close to me.

He just hasn't heard it directed at him.

"What— what's wrong?" He takes a step toward me, then stops. His hands hang at his sides, fingers twitching like he wants to reach for me but doesn't know if he should. "Did something— did Pearl—"

"Pearl." I let the name sit in the air between us. "You mean the girl who was touching your face an hour ago?"

His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. "I— she— I didn't—"

"I know you didn't." I step closer, my sneakers silent on the gritty floor. "I know you didn't want her to. I was there. I saw you flinch."

"Then why—"

"Because it doesn't matter what you did or didn't want." I stop a foot away from him. Close enough to smell the sweat and the cheap cologne and something underneath that's just him. "What matters is that she thought she could. That she's been thinking she could for weeks. That she's been sitting next to you, touching your arm, laughing at your jokes, and convincing herself she had a chance."

He swallows. His Adam's apple bobs. "Lila—"

"I told you I keep my promises." I reach up and pull the jersey over my head. It catches on my hair for a second, and I feel the fabric slide away, leaving me in nothing but my skirt and the thin tank top underneath. The air hits my skin, and I see his eyes drop to my chest before he forces them back up. "I told you I was possessive. I told you I don't share."

"You— you do." His voice cracks on the second word. "You told me. I remember."

"But you don't understand." I reach for the hem of my tank top and pull it up, over my head, letting it fall to the floor. I'm not wearing a bra—I never am—and the room's dim light catches every curve. His breath audibly catches. "You don't understand what it means to be mine. Not really."

His eyes are locked on me. Wide. Frozen. His hands are still hanging at his sides, but they're trembling now. A fine, barely visible shake that I can see because I'm watching for it.

"Lila—"

"Sit down."

He doesn't move. Just stares at me, his chest rising and falling faster than it should be.

"Marcus. Sit. Down."

He backs up until his knees hit the bed, and then he sinks onto it. The mattress groans under his weight. He's still staring up at me, his hands gripping the edge of the mattress on either side of him, and I can see the pulse beating in his throat.

I reach for the button of my skirt.

"Wait—" His voice is barely a whisper. "Wait, Lila, I—"

"I don't want to wait." The skirt falls, pooling around my ankles. I step out of it, and now I'm standing in front of him in nothing but the thong I've been wearing all day. The one that's been riding up between my cheeks since third period. The one I chose specifically because I knew—I knew—this night was coming. "I've been waiting for weeks. Watching you. Wanting you. And every time I get close, there's her. Touching you. Laughing with you. Sitting in the seat that should be mine."

"She's just— she's a friend—"

"She's not your friend." My voice drops, and I see him shiver. "She's someone who wants to take what's mine. And I don't let that happen. Ever."

I hook my thumbs into the sides of my thong. His eyes follow the movement, and I watch the war play out across his face: the desire to look away, to be a gentleman, to give me some kind of privacy—fighting against the need to watch, to see, to know.

The thong slides down my thighs. I step out of it.

And then I'm naked. Standing in the middle of his room, in the dirty light of a single lamp, while he sits on the edge of his bed and stares at me like I'm something he dreamed up.

"Lila." My name leaves his mouth like a prayer. Cracked. Desperate. "You're— you're so—"

"I know what I am." I step toward him, my thighs brushing against his knees. "I'm yours. And you're mine. And I need you to understand what that means."

I swing my leg over his lap and settle onto his thighs, straddling him. The denim of his jeans is rough against the inside of my bare legs. The heat of his body seeps through the fabric, and I feel the hard length of him pressed against my core, even through the layers between us.

He's frozen. Completely, utterly frozen. His hands are still gripping the mattress on either side of him, and his knuckles are white. His eyes are darting from my face to my chest to my face again, like he can't decide where to look.

"You can touch me." I lean forward, letting my bare chest brush against the front of his hoodie. "I want you to touch me."

"I— I don't—" He swallows. Tries again. "I've never— I haven't—"

"I know." I cup his jaw, tilting his face up so he has to look at me. His skin is hot under my palms, and I feel the slight stubble along his jawline, the way his muscles jump under my touch. "I know you haven't. And I don't care."

"But what if I— what if I'm not—"

"Marcus." I press my thumb against his lower lip, and he stops talking. His lips part slightly, and I feel his breath against my skin. "I don't want you to be good at this. I want you to be mine. I want to be the first person you learn with. The only person. I want to teach you what I like, and I want to watch you figure out what you like, and I want to be the one you think about when you close your eyes at night."

His eyes are wet. Not crying—not quite—but bright, the way they get when something hits him too hard and too fast. "Lila—"

"I'm possessive." I lean forward, and my lips brush against his. I feel the shock run through him, the way his whole body tenses and then softens. "I told you that. But I don't think you understood what it meant. I don't think you understand how deep it goes."

"I'm— I'm starting to." His voice is barely audible, a rough whisper against my mouth.

"Good." I pull back just enough to look at him, to hold his gaze with mine. "Because I want you to know. I want you to feel it. Every time someone looks at you, every time someone talks to you, every time someone even thinks about touching you—I want you to remember that you're mine. That I will burn this whole world down before I let anyone take you from me."

His hands move. Slowly, like he's not sure they're allowed. They leave the mattress and find my hips, his fingers pressing into the bare skin there. His palms are huge and warm, and they cover almost my entire waist.

"Lila." He says my name again, and this time it sounds different. Stronger. Like he's finally believing it. "I don't want anyone else. I never— I never wanted anyone else."

"I know." I run my fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. The scar through his left eyebrow catches the light, pale against his skin. "But knowing isn't the same as feeling. And I need you to feel it."

His hands tighten on my hips. Not painfully—never painfully—but firmly. Like he's anchoring himself. Like he's afraid I'll disappear if he lets go.

"Tell me," I whisper, my lips brushing against his. "Tell me you're mine."

His mouth opens. His breath is hot against my skin. I feel the word forming in his chest, feel the way his whole body gathers around it.

"I'm—" He stops. Swallows. Tries again. "I'm yours."

"Say it like you mean it."

"I'm yours." His voice cracks, but this time it doesn't matter. The word is there, solid and real, hanging in the space between us. "I'm yours, Lila. I've been yours since the first time you crashed into me in the hallway. I just— I didn't know how to tell you."

"You're telling me now." I cup his jaw in both hands, my thumbs brushing along his cheekbones. His eyes are dark and wide and full of something I can't quite name—something raw and vulnerable and terrifying. "And I'm telling you that I'm never letting you go. That I will fight anyone who tries to take you. That I will crawl through glass to keep you."

His hands slide up my back, slow and tentative, until they're pressed flat between my shoulder blades. He pulls me closer, and my bare chest presses against his hoodie, and I feel his heart hammering against my ribs.

"You don't have to crawl through glass." His voice is rough, but the stutter is gone. Just the words, steady and sure. "I'm already here. I'm not going anywhere."

I lean in, my lips a breath from his. The heat of him is everywhere—under my hands, against my chest, between my thighs. The scent of his sweat and my perfume mixes in the small space between us, and I feel the world narrowing to just this: his eyes, his hands, his voice.

"I'm yours." The words leave my mouth and I feel them in my bones. "All of me. Every piece. You own me, Marcus. My body. My heart. Every part of me that matters."

His breath catches. I feel it against my lips, feel the way his chest stops and then starts again, harder than before. His hands are still spread across my bare back, and I feel them start to move—tentative, searching, like he's mapping territory he never thought he'd be allowed to touch.

"I own you." He says it slowly, like he's testing the weight of it. Like he's trying to believe it's real.

"You own me." I press my forehead against his, my breath mingling with his. "And I own you. That's how it works. That's how it's always going to work."

His hands slide down my back, past my waist, until they're cupping my bare ass. His fingers dig in, not quite hard but not quite gentle either, and I feel the shift in him—the hunger rising, pushing past the nervousness.

I see it in his eyes. The war. The part of him that wants to be gentle, to be careful, to treat me like something precious—and the part of him that wants to take. To claim. To make sure I know exactly who I belong to.

"Lila." His voice is rough now. Lower than I've ever heard it. "Can I— can I do what I want now?"

The question hits me low in my stomach, a sharp pulse of heat. He's asking permission. Even now, with his hands full of my bare skin and my naked body straddling his lap, he's still asking.

I cup his jaw, tilting his face up. "Yes."

That's all he needs.

His hands shift from my ass to my waist, and then he's moving—fast, faster than I expected from someone his size. One second I'm straddling him, the next I'm on my back, the mattress groaning beneath us as he flips me like I weigh nothing. My head hits the pillow, and then he's above me, his body blocking out the lamplight, his shadow falling across my chest.

I barely have time to breathe before he's sitting up, reaching for the hem of his hoodie. He pulls it over his head in one rough motion, and I hear the fabric tear—a seam giving way under his urgency. He doesn't stop. Doesn't care. The hoodie hits the floor, and then his undershirt follows, and I'm staring at his chest for the first time.

I've felt it through his clothes. I've imagined it. But seeing it is different.

His shoulders are massive, all broad muscle and hard lines. His chest is carved—defined in a way that makes my mouth go dry. His abs stack one on top of the other, a ridged map of muscle that disappears into the waistband of his jeans. The scar through his eyebrow catches the dim light, and I see another one—a pale line across his ribs, faded and old.

He's beautiful. All of him. And he doesn't even know it.

His hands go to his jeans, and I watch him undo the button, the zipper. He shoves them down his thighs, and I see his boxers—gray, straining at the front in a way that makes my breath catch. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband and pushes them down, and I see him for the first time.

Twelve inches. Maybe more. Hard and thick and curving slightly upward, the head dark and slick at the tip. My thighs clench involuntarily at the sight of it, at the thought of what that's going to feel like inside me.

He's naked now. All that muscle, all that skin, all that length standing rigid between us. He looks down at me, and I see the nervousness still flickering in his eyes—but it's drowning now. Drowning in something darker, hungrier.

He doesn't give me time to prepare.

He's on me before I can draw another breath, his body covering mine, his weight pressing me into the mattress. His mouth finds my neck—not kissing, not gentle. He bites. Hard. His teeth sink into the curve where my shoulder meets my throat, and I gasp, my hands flying up to grip his shoulders.

"Marcus—"

He doesn't answer. His mouth moves lower, trailing down my chest, and I feel the scrape of his stubble against my skin. He doesn't ask where to go or what to do. He follows instinct, follows the hunger, and it's nothing like the shy, stuttering boy I've been chasing for weeks.

His mouth closes over my nipple, and I arch off the mattress, a noise tearing out of me that I don't recognize. He sucks hard, his tongue rough against the sensitive bud, and his hand comes up to cup my other breast, his thumb rubbing across the peak in a way that makes my vision blur.

He learns fast.

He switches sides, giving the same attention to my other breast, and I feel the heat pooling between my legs, slick and urgent. My hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and he groans against my skin—a low, rough sound that vibrates through my chest.

Then he keeps moving. Lower. His mouth trails down my stomach, leaving a wet path across my skin. His hands grip my hips, positioning me, and I feel his breath against my inner thigh before I realize where he's going.

"Marcus—" My voice is high, breathless. "You don't have to—"

He looks up at me. His eyes are dark, almost black in the dim light, and there's something in them I've never seen before. Something that sends a shiver down my spine—not fear. Anticipation.

"I want to." His voice is rough, the stutter completely gone. "I want to taste you."

And then his mouth is on me.

There's no buildup. No tentative exploration. He dives in like he's been starving for it, his tongue flat against my core, pressing hard. I cry out, my hips bucking against his face, and he groans—a sound of pure, male satisfaction—and doubles down.

His tongue finds my clit and he sucks it into his mouth, and the sensation is so sudden, so overwhelming, that I feel the orgasm building before I can stop it. My hands fist in the sheets, my back arching off the mattress, and I hear myself moaning his name in a broken, desperate rhythm.

He doesn't let up. He works me with his tongue, his lips, his teeth—learning my body in real time, finding what makes me gasp and what makes me scream. He's rough. Aggressive. Nothing like the shy giant who couldn't meet my eyes in the cafeteria.

And I love it.

The orgasm hits me like a wave, sudden and brutal. My vision whites out, my body convulsing against his mouth, and I hear myself crying out—his name, a curse, a sob—all of it tangled together. He doesn't stop. He keeps going, drawing it out, wringing every drop of pleasure from my shaking body until I'm panting, limp, barely able to form a coherent thought.

He pulls back, and I see his face—his chin glistening, his lips wet, his eyes burning with a hunger that hasn't been satisfied. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and the gesture is so casual, so possessive, that I feel another pulse of heat low in my belly.

"That's one." His voice is low, rough. "I'm not done with you."

Before I can respond, his hand is between my legs. Two fingers press against my entrance, and then they're inside me—no warning, no preparation—and I gasp, my hips jerking at the sudden intrusion.

He's thick. His fingers are long and calloused, and they fill me in a way that makes my breath catch. He doesn't move slowly. He fucks me with them, hard and fast, his palm pressing against my clit with every thrust.

"Look at me." His voice is a command, and I obey, my eyes finding his in the dim light. "I want to watch you come apart."

"Marcus—" My voice is a whimper, broken and desperate. "I can't— not again—"

"Yes you can." He curls his fingers, and I feel them hit that spot inside me—the one that makes stars burst behind my eyes. "You're going to come for me again. And then I'm going to make you come again after that."

His thumb finds my clit, pressing hard, and I shatter.

The orgasm rips through me, harder than the first, my whole body clenching around his fingers. I hear myself screaming—his name, over and over—and he watches me, his eyes never leaving mine, his fingers never stopping until I'm completely spent, limp and trembling beneath him.

He pulls his fingers out slowly, deliberately, and brings them to his mouth. He sucks them clean, his eyes still locked on mine, and the sight is so filthy, so possessive, that I feel a third wave building even though I have nothing left.

"You're mine." He says it like a fact. Like a law that's been written in stone. "Say it."

"I'm yours." My voice is barely a whisper.

"Louder."

"I'm yours." Stronger this time. I reach up, my hand finding the back of his neck, pulling him down toward me. "I'm yours, Marcus. All of me. Every piece."

He positions himself between my legs, and I feel the head of him pressing against my entrance. Thick. Hot. I gasp at the pressure, at the stretch already starting before he's even inside me.

"You ready?" His voice cracks slightly, and I see the nervousness flicker back—just for a second—before the hunger swallows it again.

I nod, my hands gripping his shoulders. "I've been ready for weeks."

He pushes in.

The stretch is incredible—almost too much, my body struggling to accommodate his size. I cry out, my nails digging into his shoulders, and he stops, his forehead pressing against mine, his breath ragged.

"Too much?"

"No." I gasp, my legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper. "Don't stop. Please don't stop."

He groans, and then he's moving—slow at first, giving me time to adjust, to feel every inch of him as he sinks deeper. The pleasure is sharp, edged with pain, but it's the kind of pain that makes everything brighter, everything sharper.

He bottoms out, and I feel him inside me in a way I've never felt anyone before. He fills me completely, stretches me to my limit, and when he starts to move—slow thrusts that build into a punishing rhythm—I lose myself completely.

"Mine." The word leaves his mouth like a growl. "All mine."

"Yes." I'm sobbing now, tears streaming down my face, but I don't care. "Yes, Marcus. Yes."

He fucks me like he's been waiting his whole life for this moment. Like every repressed thought, every denied urge, every moment he held back has been building to this. His hips slam against mine, the sound of our bodies meeting filling the small room, and I feel another orgasm building—deeper than the others, more overwhelming.

"Come for me." He presses down, grinding against me, and I feel him hit that spot again. "Come for me, Lila. Show me you're mine."

I shatter. My body clenches around him, pulling him deeper, and I hear him groan—a raw, broken sound—as he follows me over the edge, his hips stuttering against mine as he spills inside me.

We lie there, tangled together, our breathing ragged and uneven. His weight presses me into the mattress, and I feel every inch of him—his chest against mine, his hands still gripping my hips, his lips pressed against my throat.

He lifts his head, and his eyes find mine. The hunger is still there, but it's softer now. Mixed with something else. Something that looks almost like wonder.

"Lila." He says my name like it's the only word that matters. "That was— I didn't know—"

"I know." I reach up, brushing his hair back from his forehead. "Neither did I."

He shifts, rolling onto his side, pulling me with him so I'm curled against his chest. His arm wraps around my waist, his hand splayed across my stomach, and I feel his heart hammering against my back.

We don't speak. We don't need to. The room settles around us, the lamplight casting long shadows across the cluttered desk and the trophy still facing the bed, and I feel something click into place. Something final.

I am his. He is mine.

And Pearl doesn't stand a chance.