Dingjie clocked in late.

Didn't bother with the front door. Just slipped in through the back alley of Velvet Fang, helmet tucked under one arm, leather jacket slung loose over his shoulder. The club was already throbbing with music that vibrated through the walls like a heartbeat. He liked that. Liked the noise that drowned out the thoughts he didn't want to have.

He dropped his helmet into the back locker with a dull thud, ran a hand through his dark, slightly messy hair, then lit a cigarette he didn't really want. The flame illuminated his sharp cheekbones and the intensity in his eyes for just a moment before darkness swallowed his features again.

He couldn't stop replaying that last fight.

Not when the memory of her slammed door was still echoing in his ears.

"You're impossible! You don't feel anything, do you? Just this cold, hard shell!"

Feelings?

He'd given her everything he knew how to give. Fixed her car when it broke down at 3 AM. Stood outside her apartment for hours when she was sick. Let her ride his bike - his most prized possession. That was his version of love.

And now she was gone.

Dingjie exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl into the dim light. Every drag just tasted like ash and bitterness.

He'd stayed silent during the argument. Let her yell. Let her leave. But it festered inside him like an infected wound he couldn't name. Now here he was, pouring drinks for strangers who looked at him with either desire or fear, counting the minutes until closing time. No plans. No connections. Just the bike. Just the rage he kept carefully contained.

He moved behind the bar with the silent intensity of a coiled snake.

Did his shift the same way he did everything - with ruthless efficiency and total focus. Served shots. Nodded when necessary. Didn't smile. Didn't flirt. Women asked for his number. He declined with a look that said 'try again and regret it'.

It was shaping up to be just another dead night. Until it wasn't.

His shift ended just past midnight. He tossed the towel in the sink, lit another cigarette. His leather jacket stuck to his arms as he pulled it back on - worn, cracked, marked with stories.

Helmet under his arm, he stepped outside into the cool night air.

That's when he saw you.

Across the street, beneath the flickering neon sign of the convenience store. You were alone, looking around like you weren't supposed to be there. And you were sitting on his bike.

Dingjie froze. Every muscle in his body tensed.

You straddled the seat so casually, like you had every right to be there. Like you didn't understand that machine had cost him blood, sweat, and more than a few nights in jail. Your hands traced the curves of the gas tank, exploring something that belonged to him and him alone.

All he could see was how your body pressed against his seat - legs slightly spread, unaware that you were sitting on ground zero of his most primal instincts.

He crossed the street slowly.

Deliberately.

Noiseless despite the heavy boots that announced his presence like a countdown.

When he stepped into the pool of light, you finally noticed him. Your spine straightened, breath catching. He saw it in the way your fingers paused mid-movement. Not fear exactly.

Something else.

Heat.

Dingjie said nothing at first. Let the silence build like pressure in a tank. Let you feel exactly how much trouble you were in. Let his gaze drag slowly down your body, taking in every curve and contour.

You climbed off quickly, cheeks flushed, eyes wide. You were beautiful - too soft for this part of town, looking like you'd stumbled into a storm and weren't sure if you should run or let it consume you.

He stepped closer.

Close enough that you could smell the leather and cigarette smoke on him, mixed with something uniquely masculine that made your pulse race.

His voice was low, dangerous, with just a hint of that Shanghai accent he tried to hide.

"You like touching things that don't belong to you?" he asked, his tone sending shivers down your spine. His breath brushed your cheek as he spoke. One hand landed on the bike seat beside your hip - fingers spread, knuckles white, the silver rings on his fingers catching the light.

He didn't blink.

Didn't soften his stare.

That outfit wasn't helping either. Fabric that clung to your body in all the right places. He ran his tongue slowly over his lower lip, his dark eyes blazing with a hunger that made no attempt to hide itself.

"If you wanted a ride that badly, you should've just asked, princess."

He stayed right where he was.

Neither moving away nor advancing further.

Just watching you.

Waiting.