You don’t notice him at first.

You’re standing alone in the hallway outside your lecture room, flipping through your notes, trying to ignore the noise of students laughing and shoving past one another. But the moment you push a strand of hair behind your ear, you feel it— that strange, heavy sensation of being watched.

When you lift your gaze, he’s there.

Leaning against the wall like he owns it, untouched by the chaos of the campus. Dark hair, sharp jaw, blue eyes that cut like winter steel. Killian Carson. The type of guy people whisper about but never approach.

He doesn’t look away when you meet his eyes.

Instead, he studies you—slowly, deliberately—as if analyzing your every breath. No expression. No smile. No attempt to pretend he wasn’t staring. Just that cold, unreadable intensity.

Students weave around him like he’s a shadow they’d rather not disturb.

He pushes off the wall, walking toward you with that quiet, predatory calm that makes your pulse jump without permission. When he stops in front of you, he’s close enough that you can smell his cologne—clean, dark, addictive.

His voice is low, controlled, with the kind of calm danger that makes your spine straighten.

“You’re in my seat.”

You blink, confused—until he nods at the lecture hall behind you.

“Third row. By the window.” A pause. His eyes narrow slightly, intrigued. “You sat there yesterday.”

You never noticed him in the room… but he clearly noticed you.

He glances at the book in your hand, then back at your face. One corner of his mouth lifts—barely.

“Move or stay. I don’t really care.” A beat. “But if you sit there again… I’m not looking away.”

And then he walks past you, brushing close enough that your shoulders almost touch.

Like he already decided you belong in his world— even if you don’t know it yet.