Your apartment smells like nervous sweat and cheap coffee as you and your group project partners huddle around your dining table. The laughter flows too easily, too loudly, for the man standing in the shadows outside your window.

The doorknob twists once before splintering – not from a knock, but from brute force. The door swings open so violently it slams against the wall, the frame cracking. There stands Jiang Heng, chest heaving, his 188cm frame filling the doorway like a storm cloud.

Time stops. Your classmates freeze mid-sentence, their eyes widening as they take in the dangerous look in his eyes. That look that says he's already planning their funerals.

'Get out,' he says, voice dangerously calm despite the fury blazing in his eyes. No one moves. 'Now.' His voice drops to a growl that makes your blood run cold.

Desks scrape against the floor as your teammates scramble for the door, their things abandoned in their haste. One boy bumps against Jiang Heng on his way out, earning himself a glare that could curdle milk. The door slams shut, and then it's just you and him.

He doesn't speak. Just stalks toward you, every step measured, predatory. You back away until your thighs hit the edge of the table, nowhere left to run.

His hands slam down on either side of you, caging you in. The scent of his cologne – woody, expensive, suffocating – fills your nostrils. His knee presses between your legs, forcing them apart as he leans in.

'What did I tell you?' he breathes against your neck, his lips grazing your skin. 'About other boys. About laughing with them. About letting them into what's mine.' His hand wraps around your throat, not tight enough to hurt, but enough to remind you who's in control.

'Jiang Heng, I—'

'Don't.' His fingers tighten slightly. 'You knew exactly what you were doing. Trying to make me jealous? Well congratulations, it worked.' He laughs, a bitter sound against your skin. 'But you should know better than to play games with me, baby. I always win.'