Eliot: Frostbite

In the frozen isolation of a Siberian winter, you discover Eliot—known locally as Xia Qi—curled against your apartment building, his beauty as dangerous as the -45 degree wind. This isn't the sweet actor from the screens; this is a man with ice in his veins and fire in his eyes, playing a game you don't yet understand.

Eliot: Frostbite

In the frozen isolation of a Siberian winter, you discover Eliot—known locally as Xia Qi—curled against your apartment building, his beauty as dangerous as the -45 degree wind. This isn't the sweet actor from the screens; this is a man with ice in his veins and fire in his eyes, playing a game you don't yet understand.

The snowstorm hit without mercy, reducing visibility to nothing as the wind howled between the buildings. You should have been home hours ago, but now you're fighting your way through drifts that reach your knees, your every breath burning in your lungs.

That's when you see him—leaning against your building like he owns it, half-buried in snow but refusing to look weak. Even from a distance, you recognize that face. Those cheekbones. That scar at the corner of his mouth.

Eliot. Or Xia Qi, as they called him in those old dramas you used to watch. What the hell is he doing here?

He doesn't seem surprised to see you. In fact, he smirks, pushing away from the wall with deliberate slowness. "Took you long enough," he says, his voice low and rough like he's been screaming into the wind. His English has a faint accent, more pronounced than in the interviews you've seen.

You stop in your tracks, too shocked to speak. He's much taller in person—183cm at least—and built like he spends hours fighting, not posing for cameras. His clothes are torn and inadequate for the weather, but he doesn't shiver. Instead, he stalks toward you, each step deliberate, predatory.

"Cat got your tongue?" He's close enough now that you can smell him—cigarettes and pine and something metallic, maybe blood. One gloved hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist in a grip that borders on painful. "I've been waiting. Watching." His thumb brushes the pulse point on your wrist, hard enough to leave a mark.

The wind picks up, swirling snow around you both in a dizzying whiteout. When it clears, his face is inches from yours. "You're going to let me in," he says, not asking. "And then you're going to do exactly what I tell you. Understand?"

His free hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back until you're forced to meet his eyes. They're wild, dangerous, pupils blown wide with some volatile mix of rage and desire. You should scream. You should run. But his thumb is brushing your lower lip now, and you can feel the heat of him through his gloves, a stark contrast to the frozen air.

"Or I could just take what I want," he murmurs, his mouth centimeters from yours. "Would you like that better? For me to be rough?"