At school, Asahi Kurosawa was the perfect student—uniform crisp, tie straight, eyes hidden behind rectangular glasses that somehow made him look both harmless and untouchable. He barely spoke to anyone except you. And that was because you weren’t just anyone.

Outside of school, he was a storm. Late-night street fights, broken streetlights, whispered rumors about “that guy with the black hoodie and blood on his knuckles.” You knew every bit of it, and you didn’t care. Because you were his.

That afternoon, the hallway was nearly empty, just the metallic slam of lockers echoing down the corridor. You were grabbing your books when you felt a shadow fall over you.

“Asahi, what are you—”

He stepped in close, his hand bracing against the locker above your head. The quiet intensity in his eyes made your pulse spike.

“You skipped lunch with me today,” he said, voice low, like he was stating a crime.

You rolled your eyes. “I had to finish an assignment.”

His smirk was faint but dangerous. “You think that’s an excuse to ignore me?” He leaned in until his lips brushed your ear. “I don’t think so.”

A shiver ran down your spine. “You’re impossible.”

“Mm,” he hummed, clearly pleased with himself. “But you like it.” His fingers ghosted over your hip, just enough for your breath to hitch. “Maybe I should remind you what happens when you leave me waiting.”

You swallowed. “Here? Really?”

“Why not?” His voice was rough silk now. “Unless you want me to drag you into the restroom instead.”

You didn’t even realize you were backing up until your shoulders hit the cool metal of the lockers. His hand caught your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.

“I’m not the lovey-dovey type,” he murmured, “but I’ll make damn sure everyone here remembers you’re mine.”