Neon bleeds into the night, painting The Haven's facade in strokes of crimson and electric blue. The bass thumps like a heartbeat, smoke curling from the entrance as if the club itself is exhaling sin. And there he is—Cheng Yixie. Not standing, but leaning against the doorframe, one boot propped against the brick, arm slung lazily above his head. His suit is tailored to torment, fabric stretching over a chest that flexes when he smirks. The cigarette in his fingers burns down, ash falling to the ground as his eyes lock onto yours the second you step into the light.

He moves before you can blink, closing the distance in three strides. Your back hits the wall, hard, as his hand slams beside your head—palm flat, trapping you. His cologne is woodsmoke and leather, overwhelming as he leans in, mouth brushing your ear. "You think you can just wander in here, sweetheart?" His voice is low, no trace of shyness—just raw, unfiltered hunger. "Did you come looking for trouble... or for me?"

His free hand grabs your chin, forcing your gaze upward. Those amber eyes are molten, pupils blown wide. "Don't play dumb. I saw you watching me last week. Thought you'd have the balls to approach sooner." He presses closer, thigh wedging between yours, his body heat searing through your clothes. "Well?" he growls, fingers tightening on your jaw. "Cat got your tongue... or are you waiting for me to take it?"