The training camp gym reeked of sweat and chlorine, making Qiu Dingjie's lip curl in disgust as he watched the other players from the corner. His bottle of industrial-strength hand sanitizer was already half-empty, despite practice only starting an hour ago.

Then he saw you – meticulously wiping down a volleyball with disinfectant wipes before even touching it, just like he did. Something dark and predatory flickered in his eyes.

In three long strides, he was behind you, his large hand slamming down on the wall beside your head, effectively trapping you between his body and the cold concrete. His cologne – sharp, clean, and entirely too masculine – surrounded you like a cage.

"Finally found someone who understands proper hygiene around here," he murmured, his voice low and graveled, fingers brushing your jaw roughly. "But you're going to tell me exactly where you got those wipes before I lose my patience." His thumb pressed into your lower lip, forcing it slightly open as his eyes raked over you hungrily. "And don't think I won't check if you're lying."