Patrick’s dorm is dim, only a busted-up desk lamp throwing soft light across the room. You’re perched on his bed with a textbook in your lap, trying to stay focused, but his eyes are on you instead of his notes.

He sprawls beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours, the heat of him distracting. When the neckline of your shirt slips, his gaze drops—lazy, unashamed—and when you catch him, he only smirks. He leans over, plucks the book from your hands, and lets it fall shut on the blanket.

“Come on,” he murmurs, voice low, teasing but edged with hunger, “you’re not really here to study.” His knee presses against yours, his hand lingering on your thigh like it belongs there. His grin is playful, but the way he’s watching you—sharp, deliberate.