The hallway is crowded enough that you almost miss him. Almost.

You don't, though. You never do anymore — and that's the worst part. Somewhere in the past two months your brain rewired itself to scan for the specific disaster of messy black hair and a smirk before you've even cleared the library doors.

He's leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, one ankle booted over the other like he owns the building. His practice bag is slung across his chest, damp from morning swim. He still smells like chlorine and bergamot even from twenty feet away.

When he spots you, his face does that thing. The slow rearrangement. The lift of one corner of his mouth. The way his eyes drag from your face to your bag strap to your feet and back up, openly assessing, openly entertained.

You keep walking.

"Hey."

His voice carries, easy and loud, cutting through the hallway noise like it was built to.

"Didn't see you at the weight room yesterday. What'd you do, actually have a life for once?"

You don't stop. You don't look at him. You've learned that much.

He pushes off the wall. His footsteps fall in beside you, sneakers squeaking faintly on the tile.

"That's crazy, I could've sworn I saw you in the North building. You sure you weren't following me?"

He tilts his head, white-streaked hair falling over one eye.

"Because I definitely felt someone watching."

You shift your bag higher on your shoulder.

"Or was that just your personality? Kinda feels like a haunting."

Someone passing by laughs. One of his teammates, you think. Cassian doesn't even glance at them. His entire focus is on you — the way a cat watches a bird it's already decided it can catch.

You turn the corner toward the east wing. He follows.

"You know, you really should work on the ignoring thing. It's almost convincing."

He drops his voice half a register, leaning in just enough that you catch the chlorine.

"Except you keep clenching your jaw when I talk. Every time. It's actually adorable."

Your jaw is, in fact, clenched. You can feel the muscle jumping.

He notices. Of course he notices.

"There's that look."

He grins wider.

"Come on. Give me something. Yell at me. Tell me to go away. Tell me you hate me. I promise I'll believe it eventually."

You pull out your phone. Open a text. Type nothing. Just look at the screen like it's the most interesting thing you've ever seen.

"Oh,

brutal

.

" He clutches his chest like you've wounded him. "

The phone. The silent treatment. You're actually trying to hurt me right now."

A group of students passes between you. For a second there's distance, and you think —

maybe

— you've lost him.

Then his hand catches the back of your bag and tugs, just hard enough to make you stumble half a step.

"Gotcha."

You spin. He's right there. Closer than the hallway warrants, head tilted, that infuriating half-smile carved into his face. Up close you can see the flush already creeping along the tops of his ears from the warm corridor, the way his chest is still moving from the post-practice adrenaline.

"You're so easy,"

he says, quieter now. Just for you.

"You know that? Every time I say something you go all —"

He gestures vaguely at your face. "—

that

. It's like watching a fuse burn down. I keep waiting for the explosion."

You stare at him.

He waits.

The fuse burns.

He tilts his head the other way, watching your face with open fascination. "Come on. I'm

right here

. Hit me. Shove me. Do

something

. You've been wanting to since the first day I opened my mouth and we both know it."

Your fingers tighten on the bag strap.

"That's it,"

he murmurs.

"Right there. That look. Keep it. I want to see what happens when you —"

The bag hits the floor.

You don't remember deciding to drop it. It just goes — heavy and sudden, the strap sliding off your shoulder, the whole thing dropping with a dull thud against the tile. People nearby glance over. You don't care.

You roll your shoulders. Feel the joint pop. Feel your hands curl at your sides.

Cassian's grin falters. Not much. Just a flicker. His eyes drop to your hands, then back up to your face, and something shifts behind his expression.

You step into his space.

"If you keep fucking messing with me,"

you say, low and flat,

"I'm going to beat the shit out of you."

The hallway noise keeps going. Someone's laughing three doors down. A locker slams. A professor's heels click past.

None of it matters.

Because Cassian has stopped smiling.

Not in the way he usually does when he pretends to be hurt. Not the theatrical flinch, the hand-on-chest, the performance. This is different. His mouth is still open around whatever smart thing he was about to say, but nothing comes out. His eyes have gone wide — not scared, not even close — and there's a flush crawling fast down his neck beneath the collar of his hoodie.

He's staring at you.

Really staring.

Like he's seeing you for the first time.

And then you see it.

The way his posture changes. The way his thighs press together, just slightly, almost unconscious. The way his hand twitches at his side like he doesn't know what to do with it. The way his chest moves with a breath that comes a little too fast, a little too controlled, like he's trying to keep something from showing on his face.

He's excited.

You can see it. The shift in the fabric of his grey sweatpants, the unmistakable thickening pressed against his thigh, the way his hips tilt forward a fraction like his body is leaning toward you without his permission.

His lips part.

Nothing comes out.

For the first time in two months, Cassian Mercer has absolutely nothing to say.

His eyes are locked on yours. Dark. Hungry. The smug amusement is gone, replaced by something raw and startled, like a man who just realized the fire he's been playing with has teeth.

A strand of white-streaked hair falls across his forehead. He doesn't push it back. He doesn't move. He barely breathes.

The hallway moves around you both, and neither of you is part of it anymore.

His throat works on a swallow. His hand lifts — hovers — falls back to his side.

"...Oh,"

he says, almost to himself. Barely a sound.

Just that.

Oh.