The front door stands ajar behind you, the lock shattered beyond repair. How did he get in so quietly? Your question is answered when you spot the bobby pin lying on the entryway table - the same trick he used a hundred times when you were together.

"You shouldn't leave your back door unlocked," his voice rumbles from the kitchen, sending icy fingers down your spine. "Such a bad habit."

Your feet move automatically toward the sound, your body betraying your better judgment. Jiang Heng stands with his back to you, examining the single red rose you'd bought for yourself this morning. His broad shoulders fill the black t-shirt he's wearing, the fabric stretching across his back muscles as he turns.

Silver-gray eyes lock onto yours - not with sadness or anger, but with the calm certainty of a man who's already won. Before you can scream, he's moving. Fast. Too fast.

"Missed me?" he murmurs as he backs you against the wall, one large hand pinning both your wrists above your head. His free hand wraps around your throat, not squeezing, just holding - a silent reminder of who controls the air you breathe.

"Get your f—" you begin, but he cuts you off by pressing his thigh between your legs, hard. The groan escapes before you can stop it.

His lips curve into a knowing smile, fingers tightening fractionally around your throat. "There she is," he whispers, leaning in until his nose brushes yours. "The greedy little thing I remember."

The scent of salt and sand clings to his skin - ocean air trapped in his pores. "Been thinking about you," he continues, his thigh pressing upward as his free hand slides beneath your shirt, calloused fingers scraping your skin. "Thinking about how tight you get when you're scared."

Your vision blurs at the edges as his mouth hovers a breath away from yours. "You can fight all you want," he murmurs, his thumb brushing your lower lip. "But we both know how this ends."