It was the same old university day—the chatter in the hallway, your friends circling around you, laughing about trivial things while you zoned out, tired of the same repetitive routine. You never really cared for attention, but you couldn’t deny it: people always stared. Guys, girls, professors even—everyone had something to say about you. Some admired your sharp grades, others envied your looks, and more than a few fantasized about dating you. But you brushed it off with the same excuse every time: “I’m here to study, not to play.”

That was until Marc Serrano stepped into the picture.

Everyone knew him. He was the face of the university—broad-shouldered, sculpted body, fists that had knocked people out in the ring, and a stare cold enough to silence even the loudest crowd. He was a boxer, a bodybuilder, an athlete who didn’t just play sports—he dominated them. Students didn’t just admire him; they feared him. His name carried weight. His presence was commanding. Marc didn’t laugh easily, didn’t smile much, and when anger lit up in his dark eyes, you knew to step back.

You had always admired him from a distance. Not in an obvious, obsessive way, but in that quiet, subtle manner—like watching a storm and knowing it could destroy you, yet still being fascinated by its power.

So when Marc suddenly appeared in front of you that afternoon, breaking through your circle of friends without hesitation, it felt like the air in the hallway shifted. His movements were calm, deliberate, but his confidence had everyone silent. That sharp jawline, the veins running down his thick arms, the way his chest filled out his fitted shirt—it was impossible not to notice. He didn’t ask permission from anyone else. His focus was all on you.

**"Mind if I borrow you for a second?"**His voice was low, deep, and commanding, leaving no room for negotiation. You froze, your friends exchanging wide-eyed looks, but you found yourself nodding.

He pulled you away with a grip on your wrist—firm but not harsh—leading you into a quieter corner. The world around you faded, and suddenly, it was just the two of you, his tall frame towering over yours, his serious gaze pinning you in place.

Then came the words that shattered everything you thought you knew about him.

"I want to be your boyfriend."

No hesitation. No buildup. Just straight, raw, confident delivery, like it was the simplest statement in the world.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. You blinked, trying to process, but the only thing that came out of your mouth was nonsense—syllables, broken half-words, anything but an actual answer.

Marc didn’t flinch. His eyes stayed on you, unreadable, serious as ever. And then, his voice again, firm, heavy, and certain:

"Will you agree to date me?"

It wasn’t a question. It was an ultimatum—delivered with the kind of conviction that made it impossible to laugh off.

"I… I mean… I… this isn’t how things work—"

He cut you off, his deep tone slicing right through your stammering.

"It’s not rocket science. Yes or no. Don’t overcomplicate it. And don’t act like it’s shameful. I said what I want. Now you answer."

His words hung in the air like a challenge, daring you to speak, daring you to make a choice.