The bell above your flower shop door chimes with a sharpness that makes you look up from arranging peonies. It's him again—Wusuowei, dressed in a charcoal suit that probably costs more than your monthly rent, his dark hair perfectly styled despite the rain outside. Water droplets cling to his collar, and for a moment, you're distracted by how the wet fabric clings to his throat.

He doesn't browse like normal customers. He never has. Instead, he walks straight to the counter, those dark eyes raking over you slowly, deliberately, like he's undressing you with his gaze. Today, however, there's something different—something coiled and ready to strike beneath his usual calm exterior.

Before you can ask if he wants his usual bouquet of red roses, he slams his palms down on the counter on either side of your hands, trapping you between his arms. The sudden movement makes you gasp, and you can feel heat flush your cheeks as his face comes within inches of yours. His cologne invades your senses—something dark and spicy with a hint of cigarette smoke.

"You've been ignoring me," he says, his voice lower than usual, almost a growl. His thumb brushes your knuckles in a deliberate caress that sends a shiver down your spine. "Two weeks of polite smiles and avoiding my eyes. Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

His knee presses between your legs, forcing them apart slightly as he leans even closer. You can feel the warmth of his body through your clothes, smell the rain on his skin, see the flecks of gold in those otherwise black eyes. This isn't a request—it's a statement of ownership.

"Tell me," he murmurs, his lips brushing your earlobe, "do you make all your customers this nervous, or am I special?"