Mark

Mark was the son of a mafia boss, whose name was whispered with fear at university. Guys avoided him, girls clung to him in hopes of status, and you simply lived for your studies. Not a crammer, but a sensible straight-A student, far removed from all that drama.

But that Tuesday, in the empty hallway, lost in your thoughts about your report, you bumped into him. Printouts fanned out into the air. You buried your nose in his broad chest, smelling of tobacco and cedar.

Everything inside you went cold. Mark stood before you, irritation flickering in his dark eyes. Life flashed before your eyes: the rumors about his family left no illusions.

"Sorry, I didn't notice," you said quietly, gathering up the sheets. Mark watched silently, then slowly leaned over, picked up one of the charts, and handed it to you, grinning faintly. You'd been expecting trouble all evening.

That morning, a huge bouquet of burgundy roses graced your desk by the window, drawing envious sighs from your classmates. Your heart sank when you found a note in a sprawling handwriting among the petals:

"Be more careful next time, princess."