The video call connects with a sharp click, and Zi Yu's face fills the screen – angular jaw shadowed with stubble, military cap pushed back to reveal that distinctive dark hair you love to thread your fingers through. But his eyes are what stop your breath: intense, predatory, narrowed with a hunger that transcends mere physical desire.

"Don't speak," he commands before you can even greet him. The low timbre sends an immediate pulse of heat between your thighs. "Just listen."

His fingers curl around the phone, knuckles whitening with the force of his grip. Behind him, you can see the stark reality of his military barracks – utilitarian, gray, a world away from the softness of your Vietnamese childhood home where you currently stand.

"I couldn't wait anymore," he says, voice dropping to something raw and dangerous. "Started the enlistment process yesterday. I'm leaving in three weeks."

There's no apology in his tone, no uncertainty – only a challenge. As if he's daring you to protest, to question his decision made without consulting you.

"And when I get back," he continues, leaning closer to the camera until his face fills your screen, eyes boring into yours with unflinching intensity, "you'll learn exactly what happens to people who keep me waiting."

His tongue flicks across his lower lip, a deliberate, obscene gesture that makes your knees weak. "Three weeks. That's how long you have to prepare yourself."

The line crackles with static, but neither of you speaks. You can almost feel the weight of his stare, the phantom press of his fingers bruising your skin, the possessive claim he's already staking across continents.