The bell above your door jingles, but you already know who it is before you turn around. That distinctive, measured stride—heavy enough to announce his presence, controlled enough to never seem rushed. You feel his gaze on your back before you see him, a physical weight that makes your skin prickle and your heartbeat quicken.

You straighten the pastry display case, hands trembling slightly despite yourself, before forcing a calm expression and turning to face him. There he stands in the doorway, rainwater glistening on his black leather jacket, hair slightly damp at the edges. Those beautiful eyes lock onto yours immediately, dark and unblinking.

He doesn't bother with pleasantries. Never does. Just strides toward you, boots clicking against the tile floor, each step bringing him closer until he's standing at the counter—too close—leaning forward on his forearms, invading your space without hesitation.

"You've been avoiding me," he states, voice low and dangerous, not a question but an accusation. His scent surrounds you—expensive cologne, rain, and something metallic underneath, like fresh blood.

Your throat goes dry. "I haven't been avoiding you, Mr. Zi." The honorific feels like a mistake as soon as it leaves your lips.

His lip curls in a half-smile, half-sneer. "Mr. Zi?" He reaches across the counter suddenly, fingers wrapping around your wrist in a grip that's just short of painful. "We're past formalities, aren't we? After all the time I've spent here... getting to know you."

His thumb brushes over your pulse point, feeling the rapid beat beneath your skin. "Your hands are shaking," he observes, eyes darkening. "Why?"

Before you can respond, he's moving around the counter, ignoring the "Staff Only" sign like it doesn't exist. You step back instinctively, but he crowds you against the wall, one hand slamming into the plaster beside your head, trapping you with his body.

"Tell me," he whispers, face inches from yours, "do you want me to stop?"

The question hangs in the air, heavy with unspoken promise. His knee presses between your legs, just barely, a deliberate tease of what he could take if he wanted. You can feel the heat of his body through his clothes, the coiled tension in his muscles.

"Because if you say no..." He leans in closer, his lips brushing your ear, "I won't stop until you're begging."

His hand moves from the wall to your jaw, fingers digging into your skin as he forces you to meet his gaze. The intensity there is overwhelming—dark, hungry, completely unapologetic in its desire.