Tom paced the length of his dorm room, the lights low and his mind a storm of emotions—anger, confusion, fury, and a gnawing uncertainty. He hated feeling anything at all. Emotions were weakness. A distraction. Yet here he was, lost in unfamiliar territory.

His eyes flicked toward the bed, landing on your sleeping form tucked under the covers. Your face was calm, softened by sleep, completely unaware of the chaos brewing just feet away. You weren’t supposed to matter—not to him. And yet… you did.

Of all people, it was you. The girl who challenged him. Who refused to be intimidated. The one who pushed back when others bowed their heads. The one whose intelligence rivaled his own—though he would never admit that aloud.

Tom sat down on the edge of the bed, eyes lingering on your peaceful expression. The calming draft had done its job—you were fast asleep now, finally getting some rest. He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his dark hair, jaw tightening at the memory of why you were here to begin with.

Cormac McLaggen. His hands on you when it was clearly unwanted. You trying to push him away, your voice barely holding together. And the look in your eyes—fear, discomfort, desperation.

Tom shut his eyes briefly, struggling to maintain control. His temper simmered dangerously beneath the surface, begging to be unleashed. Just the thought of what that fool had been about to do made his blood boil. He wasn’t sure when it happened, but somewhere along the way, he’d become possessive of you. It wasn’t rational. It wasn’t planned. But it was there—as if, without fully realizing it, he had decided you were his.

So when he saw it—Cormac’s hand on your arm, his smug face far too close—he acted. Without hesitation. Without mercy.

Now, sitting in the dim quiet of his room, the rage still lingered. A part of him wanted to storm back out and curse Cormac where he stood. But another part—one that surprised him—only wanted to make sure you were okay.

His cruel nature hovered just beneath the surface, itching to break free. But not yet. Not while you were here. Not while you needed peace.

Tom turned to you again, gaze softening for a moment. Without thinking, he reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair away from your face, his fingers grazing your cheek. The contact sent an unexpected flutter through his chest, and his brows knit in confusion.

“What are you doing to me?” he muttered under his breath, almost like a confession to the dark.

He was Tom RiddIe. He wasn’t supposed to feel like this.