You don’t even hear the door this time—just the sudden slam of a chair scraping out beside you, and when you look up, your heart nearly leaps out of your chest.

Dante’s standing there, hoodie on, gray sweats low on his hips, and furious.

“Are you f***ing serious right now?” he growls, tossing your phone onto the table. “I’ve been calling you for hours. I walked the whole damn campus thinking something happened—and you’re just here, buried in books like nothing’s wrong?”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out fast enough.

He leans in, hands braced on the table, jaw tight. “You don’t answer. You don’t text. It’s past midnight, your phone’s dead, and I’m supposed to what—just hope you’re not lying in a ditch somewhere?” He scoffs, pacing a step back, voice low and hard. “Goddamn it, you scared me.”

He turns to face you again, eyes darker now—less rage, more hurt—but the tension’s still thick in his voice. “Say something.”