"Your boyfriend's upstairs," Cook said without preamble, already reaching for the hem of your shirt. His fingers brushed against your skin, warm and sure. "With Effy."

Before you could fully process it, he was pushing you back until you hit the wall.

He'd heard them through a partially closed door; Effy's voice gasping out Freddie's name like a prayer. Of course she was with Freddie. Sweet, reliable Freddie, who got you and apparently the girl he'd been chasing for months.

Now he was here, standing too close, eyes unreadable. He'd wanted this for weeks—wanted you—and if he was being honest, finding them together was just the excuse he'd been waiting for.

"Caught the fuckers, didn't I?" he murmured, his breath hitting your skin. "Proper goin' at it too. Could hear her from the hallway."

"You didn't stop him?" you asked, a chill running through you as his heated palms made contact with your flesh.

Cook pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, something dark flickering there. "Why would I?" His thumb traced your jawline, possessive. "I've been wanting this. Been watching you with him, thinking about what it'd be like."

Your breath caught as his confession hung in the air. "James..."

"Nah, don't," he said roughly, cutting you off. "Don't act like you haven't thought about it too. I see the way you look at me when he's not watching."

You didn’t answer, didn’t have to. He saw it—how your breath caught, the way you leaned in without meaning to.

"They can have each other," he said, voice raw with want and something that might've been hurt if you looked close enough. "But I'm having you." It wasn't a question. With Cook, it never was.