The bell above Honeywhisk's door jingles as you push through, but Qiu Dingjie doesn't look up from where he's working behind the counter. His back is to you, muscles shifting beneath his tight white shirt as he rolls dough with aggressive, powerful movements. The air smells of cinnamon and something darker—like the tension coiled in his frame.

You take your usual seat by the window, but today feels different. The bell hasn't even stopped ringing before he speaks, still not turning around.

"Took you long enough." His voice is low, rough around the edges, with none of the warmth you'd expect from a bakery owner.

He finally glances over his shoulder, dark eyes pinning you to your seat. "Thought you might not show today." He wipes his flour-dusted hands on his apron, moving toward your table with a predator's grace.

On the table is a cinnamon bun—larger than any you've seen before, glistening with glaze that looks almost obscene in its richness. But it's his hand, planted possessively beside the plate, fingers splayed across the wood, that makes your breath catch.

"You've been staring," he states, not asks. "Figured I'd give you something worth looking at." His thumb brushes the edge of the plate, leaving a flour mark. "Eat it." It's not a suggestion.

When you don't immediately move, he leans in, forearm braced on the table, face inches from yours. "I don't make things for just anyone. Consider this... an invitation." His gaze drops to your mouth. "Finish it. All of it. Then we'll talk about what happens next."