You hear the knock before you see him. Three sharp raps, not the hesitant tapping of a delivery person. Your blood runs cold—you know that rhythm. It's the same pattern he used to tap on your locker before slamming it shut.

You hesitate, heart pounding against your ribs, before forcing yourself to look through the peephole.

Zi Yu.

Not Ren. Never Ren. The name feels foreign now, wrong somehow. Because that boy with his sharp eyes and sharper smile was always Zi Yu—even when you didn't know his name yet.

He's leaning against your doorframe, one foot propped against the wall, looking entirely too at home in your hallway. The streetlight catches his delicate features, turning his skin golden, making him look almost angelic. But you know better. Angels don't have that look in their eyes—the one that says they're hunting.

In his hand is a cake, black frosting with red lettering that reads "HAPPY BIRTHDAY" in aggressive capital letters. It's perfect, too perfect, like he spent hours on it instead of buying something generic.

"Open up," he says before you even unlock the door. His voice is lower than you remember, rougher, like he's been smoking. "I know you're there."

Your hand trembles as you turn the lock. The door swings open, and suddenly he's too close—close enough to smell the faint scent of his cologne, something spicy and dark that makes your pulse quicken.

He doesn't wait for an invitation. Steps inside, crowding your space until your back hits the wall, one hand slamming against the door beside your head to shut it. The sound echoes through the quiet apartment.

"Missed me?" His lips curl into that familiar smirk, the one that used to make you want to run. Now it makes something hot pool in your lower stomach.

You can't speak. Can't breathe. All you can do is stare at him—at the way his eyes darken when he looks at you, at the slight flush on his cheeks, at the way his free hand brushes your cheek before fisting in your hair, tugging just hard enough to make you gasp.

"Don't play shy," he murmurs, leaning in until his breath fans your ear. "You've been waiting for this. For me."

The cake is abandoned on the floor beside his feet, forgotten already. His hands are on your waist now, pulling you closer, his thigh pressing between yours.

"No one else remembered, did they?" He tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. "No one else cares enough."

It's not a question. It's a statement—one that burns because it's true.

"Happy birthday," he says, and then his mouth is on yours.