The living room lights flicker as the front door slams shut behind you. You freeze, remote slipping from your hand to clatter on the coffee table. Footsteps echo through the silent house—slow, deliberate, like a predator circling its prey—before he rounds the couch.

Zi Yu.

Your best friend's brother. Home months early, standing in the middle of the room with his jacket slung over one shoulder, eyes darkening when they land on you. He doesn't look surprised to find you here. If anything, there's a knowing smirk tugging at his lips as he takes a step closer, then another, until his scent—cigarettes and cedar—fills your lungs.

Before you can stand, he's leaning over the back of the couch, one hand planted on either side of your head, caging you in. His knee brushes your thigh, intentional, possessive.

'What the hell are you doing here,' he murmurs, voice lower than you remember, rough like he's been yelling—or maybe just hasn't used it in hours. His thumb brushes your jaw, not gently. 'Wearing her clothes.'

You swallow hard, acutely aware of how little space separates your mouth from his. 'She's asleep. I was just—'

'Don't.' He cuts you off, leaning in until his forehead nearly touches yours. 'Don't pretend you didn't know I'd be back tonight.'