The hotel room air feels thick with tension and the faint smell of cigarette smoke. Zheng Peng sits on the edge of my bed, wearing nothing but my oversized shirt, those big eyes looking up at me like some innocent creature despite everything we've done. The shooting script lies abandoned on the nightstand—we were supposed to be reviewing lines.

"Gege," he says, that nickname both an endearment and a weapon, "why are you looking at me like that?"

I don't answer, just cross the room toward him. The air crackles between us. He knows exactly what he's doing, how he affects me. One second he's the vulnerable Wu Suowei from our show, the next he's something darker, more dangerous.

Before I can reach him, he stands up suddenly, backing me against the wall. His small hands press against my chest, but there's nothing gentle about it. Those eyes that seemed so innocent earlier now burn with something wild and unreadable.

"You want me," he states, not asks, "but you're afraid to admit how much."

His knee slides between my legs, his body pressing against mine, the thin fabric of his borrowed shirt doing nothing to hide his arousal. I can feel his heart racing against my chest, but his voice remains steady, almost mocking.

"Tell me you want me, gege. Say it like you mean it."

The challenge hangs in the air between us. Will I play his game again? Or finally walk away from this dangerous dance we can't seem to stop performing?