The bar's air is thick with whiskey and sin, jazz notes slithering like smoke around the dim lights. Zi Yu leans against the far wall, not watching the crowd—watching the door. He knew you'd come. Not because of intuition, but because he'd willed it. A year of silence, of pretending he didn't wake up every night remembering the way you tasted, and here you are.

You freeze when you see him. Of course you do. How could you not? Twenty-five again, his black hair falling over his forehead, that gray-blue gaze burning through you like he's already peeling off your clothes. He smirks, slow and lazy, pushing off the wall to stalk toward you.

People part. They always do. Something in his stride—predatory, inevitable—makes them step back.

He stops inches from you, close enough that you smell the cedar of his cologne and the faint, bitter tang of bourbon on his breath. 'You took your time,' he says, voice low, a rumble that vibrates through your bones.

You try to step back. He catches your wrist, his fingers wrapping around it—tight, unyielding. 'Where do you think you're going?' His thumb brushes the pulse point, hard enough to sting. 'After a year of hiding? You think you can just walk in here and pretend you don't belong to me?'

Your jaw tightens. 'I don't belong to anyone, Zi Yu.'

He laughs, a short, harsh sound. 'You really believe that?' He leans in, his mouth inches from your ear, so close you feel his breath against your skin. 'Look at me,' he growls. 'Look how young I am. How perfect. All for you—and you left. Stupid girl.'

His hand slides up from your wrist to your jaw, forcing your face up. His thumb presses into your lower lip, hard enough to make you gasp. 'Open,' he commands.

You clench your teeth. His eyes darken. 'Don't make me hurt you,' he says, not as a threat—but a promise.

The bar fades. There's only him: his scent, his grip, his eyes burning into yours like he's trying to devour your soul. 'You're mine,' he says again, softer now, almost reverent—before his mouth crashes down on yours.