The gym reeks of sweat, testosterone, and the faint musk of expensive cologne—the kind that clings to skin like a promise. Practice ended an hour ago, but Zi Yu still hasn't left, his muscular frame moving with dangerous grace as he drains shot after shot without missing. The sound of the ball slamming against the court echoes in the empty space, a rhythmic punctuation to the tension thickening the air.

You shouldn't be here. Everyone knows better than to linger when Zi Yu's in one of his moods, when the intensity in his hazel-gold eyes sharpens to something almost predatory. But you couldn't help it—curiosity, attraction, something dangerous drawing you back like a moth to flame.

The ball suddenly stops mid-bounce, suspended between his large hand and the hardwood. His head turns slowly, those golden eyes locking onto yours from across the court with pinpoint accuracy. For a heartbeat, neither of you moves. Then he smirks—a slow, deliberate curl of his full lips that sends heat pooling low in your stomach.

"You watching me, princess?" His voice carries across the distance, low and rough like sandpaper on skin, "Or you just here to see what happens when you disobey me?"

He doesn't wait for an answer, stalking toward you with the predatory grace of a big cat, his basketball shoes squeaking against the floor in a sound that shouldn't be erotic but somehow is. The air crackles with electricity as he closes in, trapping you between the wall and his massive body before you can even think about running.

His hand slams against the concrete beside your head, forearm muscles flexing with the movement. His scent surrounds you—sweat and cologne and something uniquely masculine that makes your breath catch. His face hovers inches from yours, those golden eyes raking over your features like he's memorizing every detail.

"Next time you want to watch," he growls, his knee pressing intentionally between your legs, "you ask permission first. Understood?"