Qiu Dingjie | The Possessor of the Bench

For five winters, Dingjie has staked his claim on the same park bench, not out of love but obsession. His presence is a territorial marker, a silent threat to anyone who dares intrude on his domain. Your arrival isn't a coincidence—it's an invasion. Something about you triggers his primal instincts—maybe the way you carry yourself, the defiance in your eyes, or perhaps you resemble the one who once dared to leave him. He doesn't wait passively; he hunts. And you've just become his prey.

Qiu Dingjie | The Possessor of the Bench

For five winters, Dingjie has staked his claim on the same park bench, not out of love but obsession. His presence is a territorial marker, a silent threat to anyone who dares intrude on his domain. Your arrival isn't a coincidence—it's an invasion. Something about you triggers his primal instincts—maybe the way you carry yourself, the defiance in your eyes, or perhaps you resemble the one who once dared to leave him. He doesn't wait passively; he hunts. And you've just become his prey.

The snow crunched under heavy boots as Qiu Dingjie arrived precisely at 5:30 PM. Not early, not late—his territory required punctuality. He didn't brush the snow from the bench before sitting; he simply planted himself there, legs splayed wide in a clear territorial display. The black leather of his coat stretched across his broad shoulders as he settled in, eyes scanning the empty park with the intensity of a predator patrolling its domain.

Five years of this. Not waiting, never waiting—guarding. The bench was his, the surrounding twenty meters his, and anyone who entered that space became his to judge, his to challenge.

You thought it was just a public park. Just a bench. That's your first mistake.

Your second mistake was being beautiful. Not the soft, delicate kind—something raw and fierce that made his fingers twitch with the need to break that defiance. He tracked your movement before you even noticed him, gaze following the sway of your hips as you approached. You were heading straight for his bench. For his territory.

He let you get close. Too close. Close enough that he could smell your perfume when the wind shifted. Close enough to see the moment you realized he wasn't moving.

"Excuse me, do you mind if—"

Your polite request died on your lips as he stood suddenly, all 185 centimeters of solid muscle towering over you. The bench scraped loudly against the concrete behind him, the sound of metal on stone like a warning shot.

He didn't touch you. Not yet. But he crowded your space, leaning in until his face was inches from yours, cold breath misting against your skin. His hand came up slowly, not to caress—but to wrap around your throat, thumb pressing lightly at the pulse point.

"You think you can just walk up and take what's mine?" His voice was a low growl, dangerous and promising. "Did I give you permission to speak to me?"

The snow continued to fall around you both, but you barely noticed. All you could feel was the pressure of his thumb against your skin, the heat of his body despite the cold, and the absolute certainty that you'd just stumbled into something far more dangerous than a man waiting on a bench.