The hallway behind the old physics building smells of dust and forgotten chalk. Elenora's canvas sneakers, scuffed at the toes from a lifetime of careful steps, make no sound on the cracked linoleum. Someone had slid a torn piece of notebook paper under her dorm room door: a crude map drawn in blue ballpoint, an arrow pointing to this wing. Her thumb traces the edge of the folded paper in her jeans pocket, the action a silent, nervous metronome. She shouldn't be here.

The fluorescent tube above her sputters, a dying insect. Its pale light washes the peeling green paint on the walls, making everything look sick. Empty.

David leans against a bank of lockers, their combination dials long since rusted shut. He isn't looking at his phone. He's just waiting, arms crossed, one ankle hooked over the other. His white Oxford shirt is immaculate, sleeves rolled precisely to his elbows. Not a speck of dust on him. He looks like he's posing for a catalogue titled 'Academic Privilege.'

Elenora stops. Her breath hitches. Wrong.

She turns on her heel, the motion sharp with panic. Her shoulder bag swings, hitting her hip.

"Leaving so soon, Ellie?" His voice is calm. It doesn't echo. The sound just sits in the thick air between them.

She doesn't answer. She walks faster, back toward the distant rectangle of gray daylight at the hall's end. Her heart is a frantic bird in her throat.

A hand closes around her upper arm. Not rough, but absolute. His grip is warm through the thin cotton of her sleeve. He pulls her back, turning her, and then her shoulder blades meet cool, gritty plaster. He cages her with his body, one hand flat on the wall beside her head. He smells of expensive soap and, underneath it, something darker. Sandalwood.

"You came," he says, as if confirming a hypothesis.

"Let me go." Her voice is a whisper. It lacks force.

He doesn't. He studies her face—the wide dark eyes, the lips still faintly swollen from yesterday in the library. His gaze is clinical. Hungry. He dips his head and kisses her.

It's not gentle. It's a reclamation. His mouth is firm, insistent, wiping away the hours since the last time. He tastes of black coffee. Her hands come up, palms pressing against his chest, but she doesn't push. She can't. The solid wall is behind her, and him in front, and there's nowhere for the pressure to go.

He breaks the kiss, breathing softly against her mouth. Then his hands are on her shoulders, turning her. She stumbles, off-balance. The plaster wall is cold against her cheek. He presses against her from behind, his body a line of heat. His lips find the curve where her neck meets her shoulder.

"Stop," she says, the word barely audible.

He kisses her neck again. A slow, deliberate press of his mouth to her skin. His arms come around her waist, holding her in place. Gentle. Dominant.

"David, stop!" This time it's louder. She twists, but his hold is secure. "I swear to God, if you try to rape me, I'll—"

He stills. His breath ghosts over the damp spot his lips left. "Shhh," he whispers, his voice a low vibration against her spine. "Look at me."

He doesn't force her head. He waits. She turns it, just enough to see his reflection in the cloudy glass of a locker door. His brown eyes meet hers in the distorted image.

"I have no intention of raping you," he says, so calmly it's more terrifying than a shout. "That would be crude. Messy." He shifts, his chin resting lightly on her shoulder, his mouth near her ear. "My father is Rohan Singh. Of Singh, Leibowitz, and Caine. My mother heads their litigation division. You know what they do to people who make messy, false accusations against their only son?"

She stares at his reflection. Says nothing.

"They ruin them," he murmurs. "They bury them in motions and depositions until there's nothing left. No reputation. No degree. No future." He nuzzles her hair, a grotesque parody of affection. "You wouldn't win, Ellie. You would just be broken faster."

A single, hot tear tracks through the dust on her cheek. She doesn't sob. She just goes very, very still. The fight drains from her muscles, leaving a terrible, heavy understanding.

He feels the surrender. His arms loosen, just a fraction. He turns her head back, gently guiding her cheek to the wall again. "Good," he whispers.

His lips return to her neck. This time, the kiss is softer. Lingering. He kisses the frantic pulse at the base of her throat. Then the delicate spot behind her ear. Each press of his mouth is slow, deliberate, almost romantic in its precision. He’s mapping her. Claiming her. And she stands there, submissive, watching a dead light flicker at the end of the hall, feeling his careful, devastating kisses burn into her skin.