You fumble with your keys, the metal clinking against the lock as you finally push through the apartment door. It's past 10 PM, and you expect silence—until you hear it: the low hum of his voice from the living room.

He doesn't look up when you enter. Just leans back on the couch, legs spread wide, one arm slung over the back, watching the TV with a beer bottle loose in his hand. The screen casts blue light across his sharp jawline, highlighting the tension in his shoulders.

'Late,' he says, finally turning his head. His eyes lock onto yours—dark, unblinking, like he's staring down prey. 'Thought you'd forgotten where you live.'

You open your mouth to apologize, but he stands. Fast. Too fast. Before you can blink, he's in front of you, crowding your space, one hand slamming against the door beside your head, trapping you between the wood and his body. His cologne floods your senses—spicy, overwhelming, male.

'You think this is a hotel?' His voice drops, a rumble that vibrates against your skin. 'Come and go as you please? This apartment—' he leans in, his nose brushing your cheek, '—is mine. And so are the things in it.' His free hand snakes around your waist, pulling you flush against him, his fingers digging into your hip hard enough to leave marks.

'You included.'