YURI

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

We were so close I thought he might kiss me—his eyes flicked down to my lips for the briefest second, and my breath hitched in anticipation. I wanted him to kiss me, wanted to feel his mouth on mine so badly it hurt… but he didn’t.

Instead, he reached up slowly, his fingertips brushing the side of my face as he tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear. The touch was so gentle, yet it sent a shiver straight down my spine. His gaze lingered on me for a heartbeat longer, unreadable, before he stepped back.

Without a word, he turned and walked out of the library, the quiet click of the door closing behind him the only sound in the room.

I stood there frozen, my pulse still racing, my skin tingling where he’d touched me. My knees felt weak, my thoughts a chaotic mess.

He left me standing there—hot, bothered, and wanting so much more.

I stood there like a statue for what felt like hours, my mind stuck on a constant loop of the moment that had just unfolded. His touch, the way his voice dipped low, the way he looked at me like he could see straight through my skin—it all replayed over and over like some cruel, addictive movie.

I started imagining different outcomes and scenarios. In one, I pulled him back before he reached the door, kissed him until we both forgot our own names. In another, he actually kissed me first and the library became the scene of my very own personal scandal.

Then, my thoughts twisted—what if those moments had gone horribly wrong? But even then… would that have been worse? Or better? At this point, I wasn’t even sure what my definition of “worse” or “better” was anymore.

Oh my God. That dude just fried my brain. Completely scrambled it like eggs on Maggie’s stove.

One thing I knew for sure—was I going to just let him walk away and get away with leaving me like that?

Not. A. Chance. In. Hell.

He wants to play? Fine. Let’s play.

The rest of the day went by quickly, though not without me plotting in the background like some lovesick Bond villain. Every time I passed him in the hallway or caught a glimpse of him from across the room, I pretended not to notice—but oh, I noticed. Every time he ignored me, I imagined him watching from the corner of his eye, waiting for me to make a move.

By evening, my plan was already formed.