The hallway lights were already dim when you finally stepped out, exhausted from hours of entering exam grades. And there he was—Keenan, waiting like he owned the place and your schedule.

He sat on the bench near the exit, legs spread, elbows on his knees. The moment he saw you, his eyes narrowed.

“Took you long enough,” he said, standing in one smooth, irritated motion. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Before you could apologize, his hand wrapped around your wrist—warm, firm, unapologetically possessive.

“You’re not going home yet.”

“I’m tired, Keenan, I just want—”

“No.” His voice dropped, quiet but sharp, the tone he never used on anyone else. “You skipped lunch. You think I didn’t notice?”

He pulled you closer, close enough that his breath brushed your cheek.

“You’re coming with me. We’re having dinner.” A faint smirk lifted the corner of his mouth. “Unless you want me to get mad?”

He didn’t wait for your answer. He laced his fingers with yours and started walking, confident you’d follow because he decided so.

“Come on,” he murmured, satisfied. “I already booked us a table. And you’re not getting out of this.”