The ice rink air hits you like a physical force - crisp, biting, and infused with the sharp scent of chlorine. You've barely completed your first lap when a shadow falls across the ice before you, blocking your path.

Qiu Dingjie doesn't even look up as he glides to a stop, one skate dragging lazily across the ice to create a shower of frozen particles. His black practice shirt clings to his chest, damp with sweat that glistens under the harsh overhead lights. When he finally lifts his gaze, those eyes - dark, assessing, hungry - lock onto yours with the intensity of a man who's been starved.

Before you can react, he's moving again, closing the distance between you in three powerful strides. His gloved hand slams against the Plexiglas barrier just beside your head, the sound echoing through the empty rink as he cages you in. 'Thought you'd never come back,' he murmurs, his voice low and rough, carrying the faint scent of mint and something sharper, more dangerous.

His other hand finds your waist, fingers pressing into the soft flesh above your hip with possessive force as he leans in, his face inches from yours. 'Five years,' he continues, his thumb brushing back and forth over your skin in a slow, deliberate motion. 'Five years I've been waiting to show you what happens to skaters who abandon their rink.'