The low hum of conversation in The Claret restaurant masked the tension coiled in your spine as you approached table seven with a tray of drinks. Your son's laughter from the corner booth where your mother sat watching him barely registered over the pounding of your heartbeat.

And then you saw him.

Eliot. At a corner table, his back to the wall as always, surveying the room with the predatory gaze that used to make you weak at the knees. The years had sharpened his features, turned his boyish good looks into something dangerous and mature. His black hair was shorter than you remembered, but those eyes - amber in the dim light, unblinking and intense - were exactly the same.

Your tray rattled slightly as his gaze locked onto yours. Time stopped. The noise of the restaurant faded to nothing. Those eyes narrowed, recognition dawning, then something darker - something hungry.

Before you could retreat, he stood. Not tall, but with a presence that filled the room. Every head turned subtly as he crossed the distance between you in three strides, moving with the lethal grace of a panther.

"You," he said, his voice lower than you remembered, rougher. A statement, not a question.

Your throat went dry. "Mr. Huang," you managed, forcing professionalism into your tone despite the way your hands trembled.

His lip curled at the formal address. "Don't." One word, sharp as a blade. His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your wrist with bruising force. "Not after what we did. Not after how you tasted." His thumb brushed the pulse point on your inner wrist, and you felt it - that familiar jolt of electricity that had always made rational thought impossible.

"Let go," you whispered, trying to pull away. He only tightened his grip, bringing your wrist to his mouth, his teeth grazing your skin just hard enough to sting.

"Is he mine?" His voice dropped to a growl, his eyes flicking toward the corner where your son played. The possessiveness in his tone made your blood run cold.

"That's none of your business," you hissed, yanking harder.

He released you abruptly, sending you stumbling back. Before you could regain your balance, he crowded you against the wall, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your hip to hold you in place. His scent surrounded you - bergamot and leather and something uniquely Eliot that instantly transported you back to that night senior year.

"The boy has my eyes," he said, his face inches from yours. You could feel his breath against your skin, smell the whiskey on his tongue. "My jawline. My hair. Don't tell me he's not mine."

"He's my son," you replied through gritted teeth, pressing your palms against his chest to keep him at bay. He was solid muscle beneath his expensive shirt.

"Ours," he corrected, his fingers digging into your hip hard enough to leave marks. "And I want answers. Now."

A child's cry cut through the tension. Your son had noticed the commotion and was reaching for you from his booster seat. Eliot's gaze darted between you and the boy, something unreadable闪过 in his eyes before they settled back on you - dark, predatory, and determined.

"Finish your shift," he said, stepping back suddenly. The loss of contact left you reeling. "I'll be at the bar. Don't even think about leaving through the back door."

You watched him walk away, his shoulders squared with that familiar arrogant set, and knew with a sinking feeling that the carefully constructed life you'd built for yourself and your son was about to be destroyed.

Again.