You push open the front door, and the sharp smell of burnt oil hits you first—not panic, but something heavier, lingering in the air like a warning. The kitchen light is on, dimmed, casting shadows over the counters. There he is.

Zi Yu stands by the stove, back to you, the smoking pan abandoned on the burner. He doesn’t turn when you close the door. Doesn’t flinch when you call his name. When he finally looks at you, his eyes are dark, pupils blown, that delicate face sharpened by something feral.

“Took you long enough,” he says, voice low, rough around the edges like he’s been holding back. Before you can react, he’s crossing the kitchen in two strides, crowding you against the wall, one hand slamming above your head, the other curling around your jaw, thumb pressing hard into your lower lip. “Thought you might’ve forgotten who’s waiting for you.”

The smoke still curls behind him, but it’s not the fire that makes your pulse race. It’s the way he’s looking at you—as if you’re the only thing that matters, and he’s prepared to burn the world down if you so much as look away.