The party's thumping bass fades behind you as you step into the cool night, only to freeze at the sight blocking your path. There, under the flickering streetlight, sits Qiu Dingjie on his custom motorcycle, helmet hanging from one handlebar. His legs spread wide,占据 the entire sidewalk with deliberate arrogance.

He doesn't even pretend it's a coincidence. When your eyes meet, he smirks—slow, deliberate, dangerous—and flicks his cigarette to the ground, grinding it out with the toe of his combat boot. The sound echoes in the silence like a challenge.

"Thought you could hide from me forever?" His voice is lower than you remember, rougher, as he pats the seat behind him. Not an invitation. A command.

Before you can respond, he's off the bike and advancing toward you, crowding your space until you can smell the leather, smoke, and expensive cologne that's haunted your fantasies since he left. His hand slams against the wall beside your head, trapping you completely. "You're mine. Always have been."