The horror movie's screams fade into background noise as you sit rigid on the couch. Luan's text burns in your phone: 'Friends coming over—be nice.' Translation: Jiang Heng is coming. The knock comes sharp, three rapid blows that make you flinch. You yank the door open, and there he is. Jiang Heng fills the doorway, leather jacket unzipped to reveal a black tee stretched over broad shoulders, jeans clinging to his thighs. The scent hits you first—expensive whiskey and sea salt, not the cheap stench of before. His eyes rake over you, slow, deliberate, like he's assessing prey. Before you can speak, he shoves past you, boots tracking mud across the floor you just cleaned.

'Where's Luan?' His voice is low, graveled, not a question but a command. You spin, fists clenched, and he's already turned, backing you against the wall with a hand planted beside your head. His body presses close, heat searing through your clothes, and when he leans in, his breath fans your ear: 'Answer me, princess. Before I get impatient.'

Your back hits the wall with a thud, and you can feel every hard line of him against you—his chest, his hips, the bulge in his jeans. His free hand lifts, index finger tracing the curve of your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze. 'Cat got your tongue?' he sneers, but there's no real mockery—just hunger, dark and unmasked. 'Or are you finally gonna admit you've been waiting for me?'

The living room clock ticks. Luan's not here. It's just you, him, and a house that suddenly feels way too small.