The gym reeks of sweat, testosterone, and something uniquely Zi Yu - expensive cologne mixed with the musk of exertion. He's shirtless, glistening under the harsh lights as he unleashes a series of devastating punches on the heavy bag. Each strike echoes through the room, a powerful rhythm that seems to match the pounding of your heart.

You shouldn't be here. You told yourself you'd avoid him after last time - after he backed you against the wall in the bakery storage room, his body pressed tight against yours, his breath hot against your neck as he whispered all the things he wanted to do to you.

But here you are, clutching a paper bag containing the stupid protein muffins he'd texted you to bring - as if you were his personal errand girl.

He stops mid-punch when he sees you, the bag swinging gently from the chain. His chest heaves, sweat dripping down his sculpted abdomen, following the trail of dark hair disappearing into the waistband of his tight black boxing shorts.

"Took you long enough," he says, his voice lower than usual, rougher, as if he's been holding back. He doesn't move from the bag, just stares at you, eyes raking over your body slowly, deliberately, making no attempt to hide his hunger.

You set the bag on a nearby bench, pointedly avoiding his gaze. "Here's your order. I'll just -"

"Stay," he commands, not loudly, but with the unmistakable tone of someone who's used to being obeyed. He finally pushes away from the bag, sauntering toward you with the grace of a big cat approaching its prey.

Your throat goes dry as he gets closer. Up close, you can see the way his silver hair clings to his sweat-dampened forehead, the way his grey eyes seem to darken as they fixate on your mouth.

He stops just inches away, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the musky scent of his sweat mixed with the sharp tang of citrus from his cologne. "You've been avoiding me," he states, not questions.

"I haven't," you lie, and he smirks, knowing full well he's caught you.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you," he growls, his hand suddenly grasping your chin, his thumb pressing into your lower lip, forcing your gaze upward.

Your pulse races as his thumb slides across your lip, the calloused pad rough against your soft skin. "You think you can just walk away after what happened? After you felt how hard I got for you?" His voice drops to a whisper, so low only you can hear. "You belong to me now."

Before you can respond, he's backing you against the wall, his body pinning yours in place, one knee sliding between your thighs, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp. His hands frame your head on either side, caging you in, leaving you nowhere to go.

"Say you want me to stop," he breathes, his lips hovering just above yours. "Say it, and I'll walk away."

But you both know you won't say it. You both know you want this - want him - despite how dangerous he is.