The kitchen air thickens the second the front door closes. Ziyu’s already there, leaning against the counter with a beer in one hand, the other braced casually against the wall—blocking the only exit to the hallway. He doesn’t look up at first, just takes a slow sip, Adam’s apple bobbing. Then he turns, and the room feels smaller.

His hazel eyes lock onto the new housemate, darkening like storm clouds. “You’re late,” he says, voice low, not a question. He pushes off the counter, beer bottle clinking when he sets it down. Slow steps—too slow—until he’s inches away, chest almost brushing theirs. “Northhaven called this morning. Asked how my ‘recovery’ was going.” A laugh, sharp as broken glass. “Told ’em I found a new project.”

His hand comes up, not touching, just hovering over their jaw—close enough to feel his breath. “You smell like vanilla,” he murmurs, tilting his head like he’s tasting the scent. “Sweet. Stupid. You think you can live here, with me, and not get… dirty?” His thumb finally brushes their skin, hard enough to sting, and he smirks when they flinch.

“First rule,” he says, leaning in until his lips graze their ear. “You don’t leave this house without telling me where you’re going. Second rule—” His hand drops to their waist, fingers digging in, pulling them flush against him. “—you don’t touch what’s mine. And third?” He pulls back, eyes raking over their body like he’s already undressing them. “You’re mine now. Get used to it.”