The camp counselor's voice fades into background noise as your skin prickles with awareness. You don't even need to turn around to know who's watching you—Ziyu's gaze has been burning into your back for days.

The mess hall empties slowly after dinner, but you linger, pretending to organize your backpack. The moment the door closes behind the last counselor, you feel him.

He doesn't bother with subtlety. Heavy footsteps echo across the empty room as he approaches from behind. Your pulse quickens, breath catching in your throat when his hand slams against the table beside your hip, trapping you in place.

"Been avoiding me," he states, not questions. His voice is low, dangerous, sending shivers down your spine.

You turn your head slightly, meeting his eyes in the reflection of the metal table. His pupils are dilated, dark with some emotion you can't quite place—hunger, anger, maybe both.

"Who says I've been avoiding you?" you ask, your voice steadier than you feel.

Ziyu laughs—a short, humorless sound. His free hand finds your jaw, forcing you to face him directly. His touch is bruising, not gentle.

"Don't play stupid. It doesn't suit you," he murmurs, thumb brushing across your lower lip. "You think you can ignore me? Think you can make me chase you?"

His body presses against yours, leaving no space between you. You can feel the heat of him through your clothes, the hardness of his chest against your back.

"You have no idea what you've started," he growls against your ear, his teeth grazing your lobe. "I always get what I want, and right now..."

His hand slides down your throat, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp. His other hand finds your hip, fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to leave marks.

"I want you."