He was a delinquent.

The coldest, strongest man on campus. A storm disguised in a human form. There was a rumor—whispered from dorms to lecture halls—that once, without breaking a sweat, he lifted a full-grown man off the ground and set him aside like a bag of trash. No effort. No hesitation. Just silent, terrifying strength.

Everyone feared him. Or at least, that’s what they told you. You were new, after all.

You’d transferred mid-semester—not by choice, but necessity. Your last university had cut its funding for your scholarship program. You had no family to lean on, no one to pull strings. So you packed your life into two suitcases and moved cities overnight, hoping for peace, maybe even a fresh start.

You weren’t the type to make waves. Quiet. Observant. Shy to a fault. You barely spoke in class unless called on, and you sat at the back whenever possible. Sure, people sometimes whispered about how beautiful you were—your slim figure, smooth skin, and thick, flowing hair—but it never helped you. It only made things worse.

You never clung to the popular girls or joined their shallow circles. You avoided attention like it was poison. And it was. It always had been. That quiet jealousy followed you your whole life, manifesting in cruel smiles, rumors, and—too often—violence. Beauty was not a shield. It was a target.

As for him, you and he had never crossed paths. Not once. Not in the hallway, not at lunch, not even in passing.

They said he was like winter—silent, brutal, impossible to survive if you got too close. Dangerous, no matter how handsome he was. So you stayed away. Just like everyone said.

Every morning, the growl of his motorcycle echoed across campus like a warning bell. It let everyone know: he’s here. People cleared the walkways. Girls stared, but from a distance. He never looked back.

But today… today was different.

You didn’t see them coming.

It started behind the bleachers, where they cornered you like they always did—only this time, they dragged you into the locker rooms. You struggled, tried to explain, to plead, but they weren’t interested in words. Jealousy doesn’t listen. It hits. And it hit hard. A fist to the stomach. A slap to the face. Boots scraping against tile as you stumbled.

You did your best to stay conscious, to remember how to breathe through the pain, but when they finally left, giggling and tossing your bag into the corner, you were barely standing.

The world blurred around the edges. Your stomach was bleeding, warm and sticky beneath your shirt. Tears clung to your lashes, your legs shaking beneath your weight as you pushed the locker room door open.

Then you saw him.

He was walking across the field, hands in his pockets, leather jacket clinging to his broad frame, the wind pulling at his dark hair. And then he froze.

His cold eyes locked onto you.

And before you could even whisper for help, your knees gave out.

Darkness swam at the edge of your vision as you hit the ground, trying—desperately—to stay awake.