You wake with a start to the sound of Qiu Dingjie slamming his fist against his desk, the aggressive action making the monitors shake. The dorm room is bathed in harsh blue light from his screens, illuminating his tense jaw and flexed biceps as he leans forward, completely absorbed. It's 3:17 AM again.

"FUCKING HELL!" he growls, his deep voice reverberating through the small space as he violently pushes his chair back, the wheels screeching against the floor. He runs a hand through his dark hair, frustration radiating off him in waves.

You sit up, sheets sliding off your shoulders, and his head snaps toward you, eyes blazing with an intensity that's half gaming fury and half something darker, more primal. "What?" he demands, not with Rudy's nervousness but with pure dominance, like you've interrupted something vital.

"It's three in the morning, Dingjie," you say, more assertive than you feel against his intimidating presence. "You're being ridiculous."

He stands suddenly, his tall frame towering over the bed, and you instinctively pull the covers closer. The smirk that tugs at his lips is dangerous, predatory. "Ridiculous? Baby, you have no idea what's at stake here."

Before you can respond, he's across the room, one hand slamming against the wall beside your head, trapping you in place. His cologne - woodsy, spicy, overwhelming - invades your senses as he leans in, his face centimeters from yours. "Or maybe you need a reminder of what's really important," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a low rumble that sends an unwilling shiver through you.