Chapter 1-Collision Course

The first time she met him, he knocked the breath out of her. Literally.

Aubrey hit the pavement on her ass, sketchbooks scattered, coffee soaking into her jeans, and a sharp fuck echoing off the old brick walls of West Hall.

"Jesus Christ—watch it!" she barked, brushing her hair out of her face as she looked up ready to go full scorched earth.

And then she saw him.

Tall, broad, leaning back like he hadn't just plowed into someone full force. Smoke curled from his lips—he was holding a cigarette like it was part of him. Dirty blonde hair, messy, wind-tousled, his jaw shadowed in stubbled and mouth curled into a smirk that made her pulse stutter.

His hoodie was unzipped, showing just a tight, worn T-shirt that clung to muscle like a sin. Tattoos licked up both arms—black, intricate, and way too sexy for someone with that kind of reckless calm.

"Shit," he said, eyes dropping to her soaked jeans, "I owe you coffee and an apology. But mostly coffee."

Aubrey narrowed her eyes. "You should owe me crutches. That was a full-on linebacker hit."

He crouched down, gathering her scattered pencils with long fingers. "You're fine. No broken bones. Maybe just a bruised pride."

His voice was a low rasp, dark and gravel-soft—like midnight after too many cigarettes and whispered secrets. She wanted to be annoyed.

She was annoyed.

But also--

Goddamn.

He handed her the sketchbook last, pausing when his thumb brushed hers. His eyes met hers—smoky grey, slow-blinking. Calm like still water before a storm.

"Name's Noah," he said.

Aubrey stood, shoving her things into her bag. "Good for you."

He grinned, all crooked charm and a spark of challenge. "You always this friendly, or just saving it for me?"

"I reserve my friendliness for people who don't knock me over like I'm a traffic cone."

"Noted." He exhaled a slow drag of smoke. Still—if you want that coffee..."

She was already walking away.

"Not a chance."

But her cheeks were warm, and her heart was beating way too fast.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Aubrey didn't see him again for three days.

And then she saw him everywhere.

Outside the art building. Leaning against a tree during her Wednesday studio class. Smoking under the overhang by the east quad, where the rain turned to mist and made him look like he walked out of a dream.

He never approached. Just watched.

And then Thursday night, she walked into a basement party under Sigma House and found him sitting on the arm of a battered leather couch, surrounded by half-drunk girls and red Solo cups. His shirt was tighter this time, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, veins flexing down his forearms as he sipped straight whiskey from the bottle.

He saw her. And smiled.

She rolled her eyes.

Then turned.

Then turned back, because he was already walking toward her—slow, deliberate, like he knew she wouldn't move.

"You again," she said, lifting her cup to her lips. "What, is that fate?"

"No," he said, low, dipping into her space. "But if it was, you'd taste like it."

She blinked. "That doesn't make sense."

He grinned, stepping even closer. "Neither do you. Yet here I am."

The bass throbbed through the floor. Her drink was warm. He smelled like cigarettes and something woodsy—like cedar and musk and heat.

"Still not giving you my name," she muttered.

He leaned in so his mouth was near her ear, voice a velvet knife. "Still not asking."

His fingers brushed her waist, barely there. Her stomach clenched.

"I should walk away," she said, but didn't move.

He looked at her like she was something rare and dangerous. "Then why haven't you?"

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They danced. Or something like it.

Aubrey had never felt so watched, so touched without touching, as when Noah stood behind her, hands hovering at the curve of her hips, letting her move—testing her rhythm, her tension.

The air was thick. Her breath shallow.

And when she leaned back against him, when her ass brushed against the line of his cock--

He groaned.

A sound so quiet, so real, she felt it in her spine.

Noah's hands didn't grope. They claimed.

One slid around to rest on her stomach, fingers splayed low, just above the button of her jeans. She let him. God help her, she let him.

His lips brushed the back of her neck. Not a kiss. Not quite.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered, voice frayed.

"I should."

"You won't."

She spun in his arms, breath caught. Their mouths were inches apart. Her eyes darted to his lips.

"Why me?" she asked.

His eyes were storm-grey, pupils dilated. "Because you don't run. And I'm so fucking tired of chasing."

The world tilted.

And she kissed him.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------It wasn't soft. It wasn't slow.

It was hungry, chaotic, lips crashing, tongue tasting. Noah's hands tangled in her hair, gripping tight as she pressed against him like she needed to crawl inside his skin.

He kissed like a man who knew how to ruin a girl. Like he wanted to ruin her.

And she wanted to let him.

His thigh pushed between hers. She ground down instinctively—needed friction, needed more. Her moan was muffled in his mouth, but he felt it—he growled against her lips like an animal breaking its leash.

Then his hand slid lower. To her ass. Gripping hard.

And fuck, she whimpered.

People were around. The party was still raging. Someone screamed lyrics behind them.

She didn't care.

She wanted him to press her against the wall. Take her right there. Shirt up, jeans down, fingers inside her until she came and came and cried for it.

But he didn't

He pulled back. Breathing ragged. Eyes wild.

"This is a mistake," he said.

"Maybe," she whispered.

He touched her face, thumb brushing her bottom lip. "I'm not a good idea, Aubrey."

She froze.

"You know my name."

"Of course I do," he said. "I've been trying not to say it for days."

Silence spun between them. Thick. Sweet. Too fucking much.

"You're serious, aren't you?" she said.

He looked like a man walking a ledge. "You make me want to stop running."

And just like that--

The butterflies hit.

Low in her belly, soft and terrifying. A flutter of something she hadn't felt since before she learned what heartbreak really tasted like.

He was a danger zone.

She wanted him anyway.

Maybe because of it.