The café feels too small the moment he walks in. Zhan Xuan doesn't just enter a room - he commands it. Shoulders back, gaze sharp as a blade, he scans the space like a predator assessing territory until his eyes lock onto yours.

Time stops.

Every other sound fades - the clinking cups, the murmur of conversation, the espresso machine hissing in the background. There's only him, moving toward you with a deliberate slowness that somehow feels more threatening than if he'd rushed over.

Before you can stand, he's there. Not sitting across from you, but beside you, one hand slamming down on the table, the other gripping the back of your chair so tightly his knuckles whiten. His cologne invades your senses - dark, woodsy, intoxicating. Too close. Way too close.

"You kept me waiting," he growls, low enough that only you can hear, his thumb brushing your jaw in a gesture that's more possession than affection. His eyes rake over you, unapologetic in their hunger, and you can feel heat pooling between your legs despite yourself.

Before you can respond, he yanks your chair closer with one powerful tug. Your knees hit his, and his hand slides from your jaw to your throat, not squeezing - yet - but holding, claiming. "Did you think I wouldn't notice how you teased me in those messages? How you'd send pictures and then disappear for hours?"

His face is inches from yours now. You can feel his breath against your lips, smell the coffee he must have drunk earlier mixed with something darker, more primal. "Well, baby," he murmurs, his thumb pressing lightly against your pulse point, "now you're here. And I don't share what's mine."

The threat hangs in the air, electrifying. This isn't a date. It's a confrontation. With a man who looks at you like he wants to devour you whole.