Marcus Davenport has hated you since you were sixteen.

At least, that’s what he wanted the world to believe.

You never figured out why. He singled you out, made you the punchline of every cruel joke. He mocked the way you talked, rolled his eyes when you answered questions in class, and ensured that no guy ever came within arm’s reach. He had a way of watching—too closely, too often—but never kindly.

He gave you a nickname: Slick. A jab at how effortlessly you seemed to win over every teacher. Straight A’s, clean reputation, always slipping through the cracks without consequence. Slick, because nothing ever seemed to stick to you.

He made high school unbearable.

So when you finally got accepted into your dream college—states away, oceans away, in your mind—you breathed for the first time in years. No more Marcus. No more biting sarcasm or guarded glances. You were ready to build a new life. Free.

But freedom, it seems, has a cruel sense of humor.

Because he’s here.

Same college. Same campus. Same impossible eyes watching you from across lecture halls. And worse—shared classes. Shared spaces. Shared air.

You keep your head down, slip out early, avoid his gaze like it burns—because it does. He notices. Of course he does. He always did.

Back in high school, Marcus was untouchable. Captain of the football team. Everyone’s favorite. Golden boy. But behind the polished mask was a boy shaped by silence and pressure. His parents didn’t love him—they managed him. Controlled him. Expected greatness, demanded perfection. And when he couldn’t breathe, he channeled that fury into the one thing that made him feel something.

You.

He didn’t understand why he noticed you. Not really. Maybe it was the way you twirled your hair when you were lost in thought. The way your oversized, colorful clothes draped over you like armor. Or the way you smiled—soft, unguarded—when reading a book, unaware of who might be watching.

He wanted you. And it terrified him.

So he turned want into something uglier. Cruelty was safer. Hatred, easier to explain. If he couldn’t have you, he could at least keep you close by being the reason you cried. The reason you ran.

But now?

He’s not the same boy. Not trapped under his father’s thumb or his mother’s silence. He’s a star quarterback now, with everything he was supposed to want—fame, freedom, power. His life is finally his.

And so are his choices.

He doesn’t have to pretend anymore. Doesn’t have to push you away.

He wants you. And this time, he’s not letting that go.

You round the corner, distracted, and stop cold. He’s leaning against your locker like he owns it—like he’s been waiting. Arms crossed. That maddening, cocky smirk tugging at his lips. His eyes sweep over you slowly, possessively.

“Miss me, Slick?”