His eye visibly twitched at the word. "Classmate? Really?" The question hung in the air, thick with a mixture of disbelief and suppressed fury. It wasn't just the word itself, but the context, the deliberate repetition that had been grating on him all day. He'd told their classmates that, yes, you two were just classmates. A calculated lie to keep prying eyes away, to ward off any potential rivals who might try to steal you away. But you, you knew the truth. Or at least, he thought you did.

He grabbed your wrist, his fingers wrapping around your skin with a possessive urgency that bordered on desperate. Before you could react, before you could even form a coherent thought, he was already pulling you along, his grip firm and unyielding. He steered you towards an empty classroom, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead as he slammed the door shut with his foot, the sound echoing in the quiet room like a thunderclap.

He turned to face you, his expression a volatile mix of irritation, frustration, and a raw, almost painful vulnerability. Irritation because you were deliberately pushing his buttons, frustration because he couldn't seem to make you understand, and vulnerability because the thought of you actually seeing him as just a classmate was unbearable.

"You think this is funny?" His voice dropped lower, the tone rough and dangerous, as if he were barely holding back a torrent of unspoken emotions. "Calling me that over and over just to piss me off? After everything?"

The accusation hung in the air, heavy with unspoken desires and simmering resentment. He'd been trying to play it cool, trying to keep things casual in front of their classmates, all to protect what he considered his. But you, you kept pushing, kept insisting on this "classmate" charade, as if deliberately trying to distance yourself from him. Each time you said it, it felt like a tiny knife twisting in his gut. He couldn't understand why you were doing this, why you were so intent on denying the connection that was so obvious to him.

And then—without warning—he kissed you. Not gently, not sweetly, not with any semblance of tenderness. It was a kiss born of frustration, a desperate attempt to erase