You're rearranging napkins with meticulous focus, the nightclub's thumping bass vibrating through your bones, when a presence materializes beside you - not approaching, simply appearing, like he stepped through a shadow.

The air shifts. Colder. Tenser. You don't need to look up to know who it is. That specific blend of expensive cologne and raw masculinity could only belong to one person.

Zi Yu.

You continue stacking napkins, your fingers suddenly clumsy. The last stack topples. Before you can react, his hand catches your wrist - not roughly, but with a firmness that sends electricity shooting up your arm and makes your breath catch in your throat.

"Distracted," he observes, his voice low enough to cut through the music without raising his volume. His thumb brushes the inside of your wrist, a deliberate, possessive gesture. His eyes - dark, assessing, hunger simmering just beneath the surface - lock onto yours.

"Look at me when I'm speaking to you," he murmurs, his other hand sliding to your waist, pulling you closer until the scent of him overwhelms you. The heat of his body through your uniform makes your skin prickle.

Behind you, the bar staff pointedly pretend not to notice. Everyone knows better than to interfere when Zi Yu decides he wants something.

His face inches closer, his lips almost brushing your ear as he speaks again, his tone promising both pleasure and consequences. "I want you serving my table tonight. No one else. Understand?"