Micheal Marshall stepped onto the grounds of St. Augusta University like he owned them.
The iron gates creaked shut behind him, tall and gothic, casting long shadows across cobblestone paths. His shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows, his tie hung loose like a noose he hadn't tightened, and his jacket draped lazily over one shoulder. Between two fingers, a lit cigarette smoldered, trailing smoke behind him like a comet's tail.
He walked like rules were optional. Like nothing here could touch him.
But the campus told a different story.
To his left, a boy—no older than him—crawled on all fours, a leather leash clipped to his collar, dragging a girl's designer bag between his teeth. She walked ahead of him, chatting with another student, barely acknowledging his presence. He stopped once to adjust the strap with his mouth, wincing as the weight shifted and cut into his gums.
Further ahead, another boy stood on a bench, arms held above his head like a living coat rack, while two girls sorted through their bags beneath him, gossiping like this was perfectly normal. One of them reached up casually and slapped his thigh when he shifted too much.
Everywhere Micheal looked, there was more.
Boys kneeling by the fountains, scrubbing stone with their bare hands. Others standing silent with trays, offering drinks to passing girls. Some wore uniforms—stiff, restrictive. Others were shirtless, their backs marked with red lines, fresh or fading, he couldn't tell. What he could see was the look in their eyes: distant, hollow, trained not to meet anyone's gaze.
And yet, amid all this... Micheal just smiled.
He took a long drag of his cigarette and exhaled slowly, eyes scanning the spectacle like it was all part of some twisted museum exhibit.
The female students watched him—some curious, others openly offended. Their world operated on quiet control, on men who knew their place. And this one?
This one walked like he hadn't even noticed there was a leash waiting.
Tower Office – Madam Grayson
High above the courtyard, Madam Isabella Grayson narrowed her eyes.
Her office overlooked everything. Every path, every shadow, every corner of St. Augusta was under her gaze—and now, so was he.
Micheal Marshall.
She had been warned: "He's not like the others."
Good. She liked the difficult ones.
He walked like the leash didn't exist.
That was the problem.
Because here, the leash wasn't metal or leather—it was social. Cultural. Psychological. It was in the way boys flinched when spoken to, the way they apologized for breathing too loud.
And he? He lit a cigarette.
"Another one to break," she murmured, hands clasped behind her back.
But this wasn't a school built on rage. It was built on silence. Structure. Shame.
He would learn.
They all did.
The courtyard was a breathing thing—alive with tension, but unnaturally still. Like it knew a line was about to be crossed.
Samantha Graye moved toward him, flanked by nothing but silence and a thousand invisible rules.
"You," she said, stepping into his path.
Micheal stopped.
The distance between them narrowed to a breath.
"Eyes down. Head down. Now."
Her voice was a blade—calculated, cold. She had said these words a hundred times. They always worked. Always.
But not today.
Micheal just looked at her, smoke curling lazily from his lips. "Didn't realize I signed up for boot camp."
She stiffened. "This isn't a joke. You follow or you fall."
But his expression didn't shift. "Or I walk through like I own the place."
He stepped closer.
Sam's body remained frozen in its stance, her back straight, arms behind her. But her heartbeat had gone traitor—picking up speed, hammering behind her ribs. The way he moved wasn't just confident—it was effortless. Like he knew something she didn't.
Then he did it.
His hand lifted.
Not suddenly. Not forcefully.
He reached up, slow and sure, his fingers brushing against her cheek. She felt the warmth of his touch before he made full contact. His knuckles grazed her skin, and then—gently—he tucked a loose strand of her blonde hair behind her ear.
Her breath hitched.
And her face—damn it—tilted slightly toward his hand.
She didn't mean to. She didn't allow it. But her skin followed the warmth instinctively, hungry for it. It was subtle, but she felt it—the traitorous lean of her cheek, that subconscious desire for more. Not more control. Not more power.
Just... more of that.
His hand was firm, rough, like someone who didn't waste his time apologizing for being physical. No hesitation. No nerves.
It was the kind of hand she had never felt before.
Every boy here was either afraid to touch her, or only did so when instructed—carefully, nervously. Like she was royalty and they were servants.
But Micheal?
He touched her like she was human.
And it shook her.
Inside her chest, the war started.
No. Don't you dare enjoy that. Don't you dare melt.
He's mocking you. He's defying everything you stand for.
You're stronger than this. You're in control.
Then why does it feel like he is?
She didn't move. Her posture remained perfect. Her hands stayed behind her back. But inside, she felt like the world had tilted sideways.
Her eyes locked with his—and there it was again.
That maddening calm. Not smugness. Not victory.
Just stillness. Certainty.
And when he leaned in—closer, so close she could feel the heat of his breath—her lips parted without permission.
Around them, the courtyard was stunned into collective paralysis.
Girls froze mid-step. Boys dared to glance upward, confused and afraid. A student nearby dropped her drink, and the clatter barely registered.
Even the wind seemed to stop.
And high above, behind her towering office windows, Madam Grayson stood at the glass.
Watching.
Her nails dug into the wood of her window frame, lips tightening into a scowl.
This wasn't defiance.
This was corruption.
This was infection.
Micheal wasn't just refusing to submit—he was changing something. In Sam. In the courtyard. In the air.
And Isabella Grayson hated him for it.
Back below, Sam's breath brushed against his mouth. He was close enough now that she could count the flecks of gold in his eyes. She could see the exact moment he made the choice.
Then the kiss.
It was slow. Deliberate.
Not forced.
Not stolen.
An invitation.
And—somewhere in that broken moment—she accepted it.
For one impossible second, she kissed him back.
Not because she wanted to show dominance. Not because she was confused.
But because her body wanted it. Ached for it.
Then it ended.
He pulled back, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. Not victorious. Not mocking.
Just… him.
"Pleasure meeting you," he said softly.
And then he walked.
He left behind silence.
And Sam—still standing in her perfect posture, her face expressionless—felt her fingers twitch.
Her skin still buzzed where he'd touched it.
She didn't know if she wanted to slap him or chase him.
And that terrified her more than anything.
The classroom was already divided long before the bell rang.
The couches in the front—plush, clean, sacred—were unspoken territory for female students. Not a rule. Just a tradition so deeply ingrained, no one dared challenge it.
The boys didn't even get chairs anymore.
They sat on the cold floor steps, backs straight, heads down, waiting.
Not one of them dared complain. Not after last semester's punishment trials.
The door creaked open. Micheal stepped in.
No hesitation.
He took in the room in a single glance. The girls are watching him already. The boys avoided his gaze. The quiet tension is thick enough to taste.
He didn't pause.
He strolled past the others—past the floor-dwelling boys, the narrowed stares of the girls—and dropped himself into the nearest front-row couch with the ease of a king returning to his throne.
One leg draped lazily over the other. One arm resting across the back.
He stretched.
Not like a rebel.
Like a man who didn't even see a line to cross.
The silence rippled outward.
One of the boys on the floor flinched as he looked up—then quickly cast his gaze down again. Another pressed himself against the wall to make room for a passing girl.
But Micheal? He sat.
He didn't blink.
The door opened again.
Samantha Graye stepped in, blazer crisp, stride purposeful, face unreadable.
But beneath that flawless exterior… her mind wasn't here.
It was still in that office.
Flashback -
Grayson stood by the window like a queen at war.
"Do you know what men are, Samantha?" she asked, her voice smooth and poisonous.
"They are pigs in pressed shirts. They will lie to you, smile at you, charm you… and the moment you give them a sliver of power, they will bite. Not because they're strong—but because it's the only thing they know how to do."
Sam stood silent.
"They'll use your attention like currency. Twist it into control. Even your pity becomes leverage in their hands."
Grayson turned now, her expression hard as marble.
"You gave him softness."
"I didn't mean—"
"You tilted your face into his hand."
Sam looked down.
Grayson stepped in close.
"You are not here to be tempted. You are not here to connect. You are here to control. And if any boy makes you feel otherwise—make him regret it."
She lowered her voice to a knife's whisper.
"Let him think he's rising, Samantha. Then remind him exactly what the floor feels like."
Sam's gaze snapped to Micheal.
He was still lounging on the couch like nothing in the world concerned him. Like he didn't see the hierarchy, or chose not to.
And below him—on the floor steps—the boys sat quietly. Some tried not to look at him, others started with a strange, desperate mix of envy and fear. As if his mere posture challenged the system.
He shouldn't have been able to do that.
And yet—he had.
Sam walked down the aisle slowly, the echo of Grayson's voice pounding in her skull.
"If you must touch him again, make sure it hurts."
She stopped in front of him.
He looked up at her, relaxed, as if this was all a game he already knew the rules to.
"You're in the wrong place," she said, loud enough for everyone to hear.
He gave her that same half-grin. "You always open with that?"
She ignored the beat in her chest.
"This is not where you sit."
"No signs," he said casually. "Is it just custom? Or habit? Or fear?"
That made her pause.
Just slightly.
Because part of her had wondered the same once.
And he knew it.
He's watching you too closely. He's seeing things he shouldn't.
"Get up," she said, tone tightening.
Still calm—but colder.
Still poised—but slipping.
He didn't move. Just stared up at her with that maddening steadiness.
"Are you speaking as a student?" he asked. "Or as Grayson's echo?"
The words landed like a punch behind her ribs.
Gasps stirred among the girls.
Some flared with anger.
Others… with intrigue.
The boys said nothing. They weren't allowed to.
Sam's fingers curled at her sides. Not from rage.
From confusion.
From something she couldn't yet name.
And across campus, in her tower office, Grayson watched the live feed silently from her private monitor. No expression on her face.
But her fingers, unseen, drummed violently against the desk.
Micheal stared at the three boys standing stiff under the fountain. Shirts soaked, eyes hollow, lips trembling in the chill. They looked like statues—but the kind built to suffer.
"You know no one's watching you anymore, right?" he said, stepping closer.
One boy glanced his way. "We were told to wait."
"By who?"
"I think it was someone from the political board," another answered. "Blonde girl. Tall. Called herself Rep Graye."
Micheal squinted. "Sam?"
They all nodded, slowly.
"She gave us orders this morning," the first boy said. "Told us to stay here. She never came back."
"She doesn't have to," the third one added bitterly. "She's the voice of the principal."
Micheal frowned. "So what, she can make rules now?"
"Not make," the boy corrected. "Enforce. She's Grayson's first pick. Her poster girl. Model student."
The boy wiped water from his face. "Everyone knows it. She was the first female student handpicked to lead enforcement. She built most of the silent code you're breaking now."
Micheal let out a slow breath, cigarette hanging from his lips.
"So, she's the top of the food chain."
"Not quite," the boy said. "She's just Grayson's teeth. She doesn't hunt her own prey—she bites when told."
That stopped him.
Because suddenly Sam didn't look like just a powerful figure anymore—she looked like another pawn.
A well-dressed, well-trained weapon being aimed at people like him.
"Then why does she play along?" Micheal asked.
"Because she has to," one boy answered. "Same reason we're still standing here."
The third boy's voice dropped quieter.
"If any of us leave, we're cut out. No family. No home. No future."
"You too?" Micheal asked.
They nodded.
"If we get expelled, we're removed from the family will. That's part of the society's terms. It's why we don't fight back."
Micheal gave a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "Lucky me. I've got no family to impress. No leash."
But the boy just stared at him with wet, serious eyes.
"There's no way you got in without someone on the inside."
Micheal raised an eyebrow.
"They don't let outsiders in. Not to St. Augusta. If you're here, Micheal…"
He stepped out from the water now, voice colder, more certain.
"...someone in this system wanted you here.
Someone with power.
And the only person with that kind of power... is Madam Grayson."
So now, as he sat there on the plush couch, staring up at Sam, her expression hard, her posture perfect—he didn't just see a rule-follower.
He saw a girl trained to be a weapon.
He saw a pawn pretending to be a queen.
And when he asked:
"Are you speaking as a student…
Or as Grayson's echo?"
—he meant every word of it.
Because the scariest part wasn't that she was in control.
It was that she might not be.
The silence still held the classroom hostage after Micheal's words:
"Are you speaking as a student...
Or as Grayson's echo?"
Sam didn't answer.
She couldn't.
Because just then—
Click. Click.
The door opened.
In walked Professor Leora Vance—blazer tailored, chin high, every step deliberate.
She stopped just inside the door and scanned the room.
Then her gaze landed on Micheal.
On the couch.
Where no boy belonged.
She paused.
And smiled.
Not in shock. Not in reprimand.
With quiet amusement.
Like she'd been waiting for something to happen.
And now, it had.
She walked to her desk without a word. Tapped her tablet. "Attendance."
The class shifted uneasily.
The girls began to take their seats on the couches—their couches. One girl per seat. One throne per ruler.
But today… one of the thrones was occupied by someone who wasn't supposed to have one.
And one of the girls was left standing.
Tall, elegant, sharp-eyed—she stood at the end of the row, arms crossed, staring directly at Micheal.
She didn't speak to him.
Didn't demand he move.
Instead, she turned toward the back of the room.
"Couch," she said.
Not loud.
Not kind.
Just... expected.
There was a pause.
Then a single boy rose from the floor steps—skinny, quiet, head lowered. No one looked at him. No one helped him.
He slipped silently out of the classroom.
The boy returned.
Dragging a heavy velvet couch across the hallway tiles.
It scraped the floor with a shrill screech, echoing through the classroom. He strained with every pull—his body small, not built for the weight—but no one acknowledged the effort.
No one offered to assist.
He finally dragged the couch into place and stood panting. But he wasn't finished.
He dropped to his knees. Pulled a cloth from his pocket.
And began to clean it.
Meticulously.
Silently.
One hand scrubbing while the other kept balance. Wiping away specks of dust from the corners. Smoothing every inch of cushion like it mattered more than his breath.
The girl who had made the call didn't even watch him.
She simply waited.
Once the seat was spotless, she sat.
Elegantly. Casually.
Like the boy had never existed.
Professor Vance continued with her lesson, untouched by the scene behind her. She didn't thank the boy. Didn't acknowledge the interruption.
This was not a disturbance.
This was the system working as intended.
Sam sat still in her own seat. Posture perfect. Words from the courtyard still echoing, twisting, clawing at the walls of her mind.
And Micheal?
He remained exactly where he was.
Still on the couch.
Still unmoved.
But now, with one subtle action, he had done more than challenge the rules.
He had displaced a girl from her power—and the system had responded not by punishing him…
…but by cracking down harder below him.
And that?
That was a kind of power none of them were ready for.
The couch cushions shifted ever so slightly as the other girls sat beside him.
Not around him.
Beside him.
Close.
Too close for their comfort.
The girl to Micheal's left crossed her legs sharply, turning her body away from him without a word. Her lip curled as if the air itself had turned sour.
Another girl next to her shifted on the armrest, arms crossed tightly, trying not to let her thigh touch his.
The disgust in the room was palpable—but silent.
Taught.
Polished.
Controlled.
No one said anything.
But they didn't need to.
Their body language screamed louder than any words could:
"He doesn't belong here."
"This is contamination."
"Why isn't anyone stopping this?"
Eyes flicked to Professor Vance at the front.
Waiting.
Expecting her to step in. To command. To correct.
But she didn't.
She taught.
Calm. Uninterrupted.
She didn't even glance at Micheal again.
And that…
That burned.
The girls hated her more in that moment than they hated him.
Because she let it happen.
And by letting it happen, she made them sit beside it.
Sam sat two seats away from him. Not close. Not safe, either.
She had spent years training herself to ignore proximity—to be near boys without feeling anything. To weaponize her presence, not share it.
But now?
Now his hand was too close.
Resting loosely on the couch's backrest.
His fingers weren't even touching her, but her skin felt it anyway. Her shoulder tensed. Her spine ached with how straight she held it.
She hated that she remembered his touch.
How it had been firm.
How it had been… warm.
Tilted her face toward him.
And she let it happen.
She hated herself for that.
And she hated that part of her hated herself—instead of hating him.
She was supposed to be stronger than this.
But her body whispered betrayal.
Micheal stayed still.
He wasn't smirking now.
He wasn't gloating.
He had expected confrontation. Expected to be dragged off the couch. Dressed down. Punished. He had been ready for it.
"Pick a fight early. Show you won't fold."
That was the plan.
But… this?
This silence? This restraint?
It wasn't weakness.
It was strategy.
The professor didn't stop him.
She let it happen.
And that meant either:
She didn't care.
She was watching something play out.
Or she had her own agenda.
Whatever the answer was, Micheal didn't like being outplayed.
He made a note, right then and there:
I'm going to ask her about this.
Not in front of everyone.
Not with the whole class watching.
But soon.
He had to know who she really was—and what game she was playing.
Because this wasn't kindness.
It was something else.
And if there was one thing he'd learned already at St. Augusta—
No one here does anything without a reason.
The bell rang.
Professor Vance left without a word.
And Micheal?
He took his time.
Gathering his things like the couch was his seat. Stretching. Adjusting his collar. Not a single motion rushed.
That was the final offense.
The girls around him snapped.
"You think you earned that seat?" one scoffed. "You're a cockroach that slipped through a crack."
Another leaned in, venom curling her lips.
"You should be scrubbing the floor with your tongue, not breathing our air."
Micheal paused.
Slowly turned to face them.
His voice was low. Calm.
"Funny how you talk about dirt—when all I did was sit."
The girl with the sharp eyeliner raised an eyebrow.
"You're a pig. A man with a couch doesn't stop being a pig. Just becomes a fatter one."
Micheal smiled—but it didn't reach his eyes.
"If a seat really threatens your sense of superiority, maybe the seat isn't the problem."
That made the room pause.
He looked around—at the disgusted faces, the clenched jaws, the discomfort masked as dominance.
"You all act like sitting near me contaminates you. Like my presence is offensive."
"Maybe what's really offensive... is realizing I didn't ask for your permission and didn't care."
Silence.
Then, one last hiss from a girl to his right:
"You don't belong here."
Micheal locked eyes with her.
No smirk this time. Just truth.
"Neither do most of you. But at least I'm honest about it."
He slung his bag over his shoulder, turned—and almost made it to the door before:
"Marshall."
Sam's voice. Cold steel.
You know the rest:
"You've had your little moment."
"This is tolerance. Temporary."
"Next time, I won't just warn you."
And his reply?
"Is that a promise?"
Her voice snapped back, full of finality:
"That's your last one."
But it wasn't fear that lingered in the air after he left.
It was the worst thing for control-driven people:
Doubt.
The hallway outside the classroom buzzed with leftover tension.
Micheal had just turned the corner when—
"Well, well… if it isn't the couch thief himself."
He turned.
Anjali.
And she wasn't alone—two of her girls flanked her like shadows. But she was the spotlight. All eyes followed her wherever she went—and she made sure of it.
Today, her shirt clung tight to her frame. The top few buttons undone, collar loose, framing the soft curve of her chest. Her sleeves rolled up, exposing slender arms that didn't flex, but threatened. She moved like heat wrapped in silk.
She stepped forward.
"You didn't really think you'd walk through this school without meeting me, did you?"
Micheal watched her, cool as ever. "Let me guess. You're the welcome committee?"
She smiled. Slow. Predatory.
"Something like that."
She circled him once—eyes trailing, hips shifting with just enough exaggeration to be noticed. Not flirtation. Control. Every inch of her presence said "Look at me—but not too long, or you'll burn."
He didn't take the bait. That only made her more interested.
"Sam plays by the rules," she said, voice silky. "I don't. I like mine flexible."
"That supposed to scare me?"
"Scare you?" She laughed softly. "No, sweet boy. I'm trying to see what you're made of."
She leaned in, lips close enough to his jaw that her breath warmed his skin.
"Because so far, all I see is a boy with good posture and bad manners."
Micheal didn't step back.
"And all I see is a girl who wants attention but hates when someone doesn't chase her."
That stung—but it excited her.
She turned and walked a few steps away, then glanced back over her shoulder, one brow raised, eyes half-lidded.
"Walk with me."
He hesitated.
Just long enough to make a point.
Then followed.
The Blind Spot – Her Territory
She led him down a narrow corridor—out of view. Janitor hallway. Dim light. Silent.
"Grayson doesn't watch this hall," she said, almost casually. "Too low-profile. No cameras. No interruptions."
She turned to face him now, leaning back against the wall, fingers playing with one of her shirt buttons—not unfastening it, just reminding him it's there.
"See, Micheal… this school doesn't need rules. It needs memory. You make a girl feel something here, and she remembers. That's how boys survive—or burn."
She stepped closer.
"And you? You've got every girl in that room remembering something—whether they admit it or not."
She reached up, fingers brushing the front of his shirt—not clawing, not tender. Exploring.
"You wear defiance like cologne. It smells expensive."
Micheal's voice dropped, steady.
"You always get this close, or am I special?"
"You're interesting," she said. "Special? We'll see."
Her hand flattened against his chest—just for a moment.
Testing.
Feeling the steady, unshaken heartbeat under her touch.
Then she leaned in. Barely a whisper from his ear.
"Just know… whatever you think you're doing here?"
"You're playing my game now."
She pulled back, smiled sweet and sharp, and walked away like she hadn't just set the fuse on a bomb.
Micheal stayed in the corridor a moment longer, watching her figure disappear around the corner.
He exhaled.
Slowly.
Because that?
That wasn't a challenge.
That was an invitation to war disguised as a whisper.
The corridor was quiet.
Too quiet.
The kind of silence that didn't happen at St. Augusta unless something was wrong—or about to be.
Anjali stood just inside the blind spot. The grin on her face wasn't flirtatious. It was controlled chaos. The kind that had broken boys before him.
"So here's the game, Micheal."
She moved toward him, heels slow, hips swinging, shirt unbuttoned just enough to remind him she knew exactly what she was doing.
"Make me want to kiss you."
She smiled wider, eyes narrowed like a cat circling a cornered mouse.
"But you don't get to touch me. Not even once."
"I can touch you. Whisper. Trail fingers down your neck if I feel like it."
She leaned in.
"But if you lay even one finger on me—"
She held up her phone, already open.
Her thumb tapped once.
Video clips played.
Boys.
Their faces are familiar now—names whispered in the margins of school life. Each one looked broken. Scared. Or worse—still hoping it wasn't real.
"He touched my wrist," she said softly. "That's all it took. I posted that he cornered me. Used the word molestor."
"His parents revoked his name from their estate."
Swipe.
"This one tried to play tough. Laughed at the game. I posted screenshots of a conversation I edited. He's gone. Vanished."
She looked back at Micheal now.
Eyes deadly calm.
"You don't get to walk away. That is the game."
He stared at her. "And if I win?"
She smiled again.
"I'll post something new."
She pulled up a draft.
Typed two lines right in front of him:
"Micheal Marshall — Best kisser at St. Augusta. Dangerous lips. And even I lost the game."
She looked him dead in the eye.
"No one's ever gotten that."
"No one's ever won."
She saved the draft.
"This one's waiting. You win, I post. No tricks."
"But if you lose..."
She tapped the folder again, the one labeled with every past victim.
"You become the next 'monster.' And believe me, this place eats monsters."
Micheal didn't respond right away.
Not with words.
He just stared at her, jaw tight, calm as a fuse just waiting for fire.
Then—
"So I'm either a predator... or your fantasy."
"Exactly," she whispered, brushing past him, fingertips grazing just near his wrist—but not touching. Never touching.
"And right now, Micheal?"
She leaned toward his ear, voice like syrup laced with cyanide.
"You're already playing."
The corridor was still.
No cameras. No noise.
Just Anjali. Micheal.
And a game laced in danger.
He didn't blink when she laid down the rules.
He just said:
"Fine. Let's play but If I beat you at your own game, you don't just lose… you join me."
Thoughts rushed in Anjali's mind:
If she accepts... it proves he owns her in a way no kiss ever could.
If she refuses… She admits she's afraid she'll lose.
Yet she agreed and said:
Let the show begin then
Her smile deepened—not surprised, but definitely interested. Slowly, deliberately, she reached up with both hands.
And undo another button.
The fabric of her shirt parted just enough to show the delicate edge of her black bra—lace, tight against skin, teasing contrast against her golden-brown tone.
"Most boys would've already looked down," she said softly, eyes locking onto his. "You didn't."
Micheal's reply came slow, even:
"You're used to making them fall.
I'm not here to trip."
She tilted her head. "We'll see."
She stood straighter, chest lifted slightly, just enough to shift his line of sight. A silent dare.
But he didn't take it.
He stepped closer.
So close now their breath mingled.
He didn't touch her. He didn't need to.
Instead, he raised his hand—fingers loose, wrist relaxed—and slid it slowly through the air.
Not on her skin.
An inch away.
From her cheek… down the curve of her jaw… to the space near her throat.
She felt the heat of his hand as if it were touching her directly. The air between them thickened.
His fingers trailed downward—never touching—until they hovered just beside her collarbone, his knuckles grazing nothing and still setting fire in their wake.
Her lips parted—but she didn't speak.
Her pulse betrayed her—he saw it in the gentle jump at her neck.
"Tell me," he whispered, voice barely there.
"Still feeling in control?"
Anjali's fingers twitched at her side.
She wasn't used to this.
Not boys holding back. Not boys toying.
She leaned in, her voice now lower, rougher.
"You're walking a razor line, Micheal."
"And you're sweating in the shade," he murmured, never moving his hand.
"You're playing with fire."
"You lit the match."
She exhaled.
But it wasn't from exhaustion.
It was from the heat.
From restraint.
From realizing—for the first time—this one might actually win.
And worse?
She might want him to.
They stood in silence—close enough to burn, yet untouched.
Anjali's shirt hung loose now, one button from dangerous, two from disaster. Her body was a sculpture of poise and provocation. But Micheal?
He didn't blink.
He moved.
Slowly.
His fingers rose—not shaking, not hesitant—and hovered near the edge of her shirt.
"You said I can't touch you," he murmured.
"You never said anything about your shirt."
And with that, he undid the next button.
Click.
Her eyes widened—but she didn't stop him.
"This still part of the game?" he asked softly.
"Still not touching me," she whispered, throat suddenly dry.
His fingers worked another button—exposing the curve of her chest now, just shy of full reveal. The lace edge of her bra pressed against the open fabric. Her skin caught the cold air—and the heat of him.
Then he moved lower.
Slid his hand downward—not touching—but letting the heat of it radiate over her waistline. Barely above the skin.
Her breath hitched.
Her abs tightened reflexively. She'd never felt untouched pressure like this.
And then—
He leaned in.
Inches from her lips.
His breath brushed against her lower lip—warm, controlled, intentional.
Anjali's spine arched slightly.
Her eyes searched his, half-lidded now, confused by the hunger building in herself, not his.
"He's going to kiss me."
"He's finally breaking."
She waited.
She wanted it—more than she expected.
She almost leaned in—
But he didn't.
He stopped.
Just an inch away.
Close enough to burn, but not touch.
His lips hovered near hers. His breath laced with hers.
She could taste the air between them.
But he never closed the distance.
Anjali's chest rose, slowly, visibly.
She tried to speak—but there was no sound, only her body betraying her: heat pooling, breath shortening, control slipping.
Micheal smiled—not cruelly. Calmly.
"I can play by the rules," he whispered.
"You just didn't expect I'd be better at your own game."
She stared.
Chest exposed. Shirt parted. Body tense.
He hadn't touched her.
But he had her.
And that?
That was worse than losing.
Anjali's breath hitched as Micheal's lips hovered an inch from hers. Close enough to burn. Close enough to steal every rational thought from her head.
He didn't touch her. Didn't move.
And yet her body was reacting as if he had already taken everything.
Her chest rose and fell slowly. Her legs shifted. Her fingers curled at her sides.
And then—
She broke.
Her lips surged forward, aiming for his—
But Micheal moved.
Pulled back.
Just enough to leave her kissing air.
Her eyes snapped open in surprise.
He didn't smirk.
He didn't taunt.
He just watched.
Steady. Quiet. Unshaken.
"What are you doing?" she asked, the words thinner than she meant.
He raised an eyebrow, voice a whisper.
"Didn't say I was ready."
The heat between them flared again, but this time, it wasn't from him.
It was hers.
She stepped forward again, this time grabbing the front of his shirt—fingers twisting into the fabric just above his chest. A quick pull. Sharp. Aggressive.
She tried again.
Again, he moved—just enough. Just enough to deny her lips a second time.
Her grip tightened.
Eyes blazing.
Breath ragged.
What the hell is happening?
Why do I want this now?
Why won't he let me win?
He leaned in—closer to her ear this time, his breath ghosting across her cheek.
"You want them?"
His voice was velvet, low and firm.
"Ask for them."
Anjali froze.
Everything in her burned to refuse.
But her mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
Her body screamed yes. Her pride screamed no.
Ask?
Beg?
For him?
Micheal stayed exactly where he was. A statue made of heat and restraint.
Not mocking.
Not begging.
Just waiting.
The air between them was thick—almost vibrating.
Anjali's fingers still clutched his shirt.
But she wasn't pulling now.
She was holding.
Holding herself up.
Holding her composure together by threads.
Then, after several long, breathless seconds—
She let go.
Stepped back.
And crossed her arms tightly beneath her chest—lifting them subtly, reclaiming posture, but not control.
Her chin lifted. Her eyes narrowed.
"You win."
The words tasted like fire and ash in her mouth. Not because she hated saying them…
But because she didn't hate saying them as much as she thought she would.
Micheal stood perfectly still.
He didn't smirk.
Didn't gloat.
Because he knew:
If he'd kissed her—he'd have technically lost.
If he'd leaned in, even to claim the reward, he would've become the one reaching.
Touching.
Wanting.
And that was never the game.
The game wasn't about seduction.
It was about control.
And now?
She wanted him.
She admitted it.
And she couldn't take it back.
That was the real victory.
Anjali looked at him, arms crossed, lips set in a tight line—but behind her eyes…
Something cracked.
Something burned.
Something wanted more.
And Micheal?
He just whispered:
"Told you. I play better."
Then he turned.
And walked away.
Calm.
Untouched.
Unbroken.
The air was cooler in the corridor outside the blind spot. Quieter. Lighter.
Micheal walked slowly, unbothered. Steps measured. Shoulders relaxed.
Then—
Ping.
His phone vibrated once.
He glanced at the screen.
University News Group Notification
"MICHEAL MARSHALL – THE BEST KISSER ON CAMPUS?"
Anjali says: 'Dangerous lips. Controlled. Unshakable. And yes... I lost the game.'
He stopped walking.
Read it again.
The comments had already started underneath.
"Wait… Anjali posted that?"
"Didn't she blacklist three guys last year??"
"What the hell is happening this semester?"
Micheal stared at the screen for a moment.
Then—
A slow smirk curled across his lips.
Not arrogance.
Not ego.
Just confirmation.
She wasn't bluffing.
She followed through.
And now, the system knows he's not just another boy with a mouth—he's a man who didn't flinch when the queen threw fire.
More Importantly, Anjali a ig influencer of Augusta has joined him
He slipped the phone back into his pocket.
And kept walking.
Finally, he thought.
I've accomplished something here.
Now let's see how many more queens want to lose.