The walk from Room 402 to the South Dorms was a blur of neon streetlights and suffocating silence.
Wakeem didn't hold my hand. He didn't walk beside me like a boyfriend. He stayed three paces ahead, his leather jacket swaying with a predatory grace, occasionally glancing back to ensure I was still following. Every time his eyes met mine, they weren't filled with the warmth of a shared secret; they were cold, clinical, and heavy with a promise of what was to come.
I felt every drop of moisture between my thighs, a sticky, cooling reminder of the desk. My skirt felt too short, my button-down shirt...hastily done up, felt like a transparent lie. I was a library monitor, a dean’s list regular, and I was trailing after the campus pariah like a dog on a scent.
"Keep up, Miller," he tossed ove
