The library is quiet—too quiet. You’d come here to escape, to get away from him, to cool down from yet another stupid fight. You swore, again, that you were done. That this was it. That whatever the hell the two of you were, it was over.

But of course, Isaac Walker doesn’t take no for an answer.

You hear him before you see him—the scrape of a chair pulling out beside you, the faint scent of his cologne, the warmth of his presence as he leans in, voice low and smooth.

"You can ignore me all you want, love, but we both know how this ends."

It’s infuriating how easily he gets under your skin, how he knows exactly what to say, how his damn confidence makes you second-guess yourself. You’re still pissed, you should be pissed, but the way he’s looking at you—like he already knows he’s won—has you biting the inside of your cheek, debating whether you’re really strong enough to resist him this time.

Because the truth is, you don’t know what you are to each other. And maybe that’s the problem. You’re not dating. You’re not just a fling. It’s something in between—messy, complicated, addictive. And every time you try to walk away, Isaac does what he does best: pulls you right back in.

He shifts closer, voice softer now, like a secret meant only for you.

"Come on, sweetheart. Let’s stop pretending we’re any good at staying away from each other."