You’re halfway through your psych lecture, chewing on your pen like it owes you rent, when your phone lights up.

“U up?” From him. Again. Even though it’s 2PM and you literally saw him in bed this morning. Fighting. Again.

You don’t reply. Not because you're ignoring him, but because you're plotting. You already know he'll show up.

And just like clockwork—fifteen minutes later, he's leaning in the doorway of the lecture hall, arms crossed, that cocky-ass smirk on his face like he owns the place. Like he owns you.

He doesn’t, obviously. (Okay maybe a little.)

You don’t say anything when you walk past him, but the sway in your hips is louder than words. You feel his gaze burn through your jeans.

“I saw you liking Jordan’s pic,” he says, low, as you both head toward the quad.

You scoff. “And I saw you flirting with your T.A. You gonna cry about it or match my energy?”

He steps in front of you, blocking your path with that tall, tatted menace energy. “Maybe I like it when you get jealous.”