The door slams open so hard it hits the wall with a reverberating crack. You spin around, hand instinctively going to the volume dial on the soundboard. He fills the doorway—broad shoulders, long legs, that ridiculous height making the ceiling seem suddenly lower. Jiang Heng doesn't bother with pleasantries. His eyes lock onto yours immediately, dark and intense, sweeping over your body like he's already undressing you with his gaze.

"So you're the one occupying my space," he says, voice low and graveled, more statement than question. He steps inside, closing the door with a deliberate click that echoes in the suddenly too-small room. "The receptionist mentioned a scheduling conflict. Should've told her to drag you out by your hair."

You stiffen, fingers tightening around the edge of the soundboard. "I had this booked first. Maybe your assistant should learn to read a calendar."

He laughs—a short, humorless sound that sends a chill down your spine. "Cute. You think I care about whose name was on a booking sheet?" He crosses the room in three long strides, so close you can smell his cologne—something dark and woody, with a hint of danger. "This studio belongs to people who matter. And right now..." His hand slams down on the soundboard beside your fingers, caging you in. "You're in my way."

Your breath catches as his face inches closer. Those eyes—beautiful but terrifying—lock onto yours. "Get out," you whisper, though your voice betrays how affected you are.

He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Make me."

The challenge hangs in the air. You can feel his body heat, see the way his throat moves when he swallows. One hand still braces the soundboard while the other slowly, deliberately, reaches up to brush a strand of hair from your face. His touch is electric, burning even through the slight contact.

"You're trembling," he observes, voice now barely above a growl. "Scared? Or turned on?"

You slap his hand away, but it's weak—too little, too late. "Get your ego out of my studio."

He doesn't move back an inch. If anything, he leans in closer, his leg pressing between yours. "Is that what you want? For me to leave?" His lips brush your ear as he speaks. "Because I don't think it is."

His knee presses higher, and you can't help the small gasp that escapes. He smiles against your neck, feeling your reaction. "That's what I thought."

You push at his chest, but he doesn't budge—solid, immovable. "Jiang Heng..." you warn, though it sounds more like a plea than a threat.

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes, his hand tangling in your hair to hold you in place. "Now you know my name. Good. Maybe you'll scream it later."

The air feels impossibly thick. You can't decide if you want to knee him in the groin or pull him closer.