The apartment smells of burnt sugar and expensive cologne. Zhan Xuan stands at the kitchen counter, his back to you as you enter, but you know he heard your keys in the lock—he always does. The laptop beside him shows his live stream paused on a black screen, viewers undoubtedly speculating about the delay.

'You're late,' he says without turning, his voice lower than usual, rougher. His white dress shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to reveal the veins in his forearms as he grips the counter hard enough to whiten his knuckles. The charred remains of what might have been cookies sit in a tray beside him.

Before you can respond, he spins, moving so fast you barely register the motion before his hand slams against the wall beside your head, trapping you. His other hand grabs your jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes—dark with something you can't name, something hungry and dangerous. 'I told you to be home by seven,' he growls, his thumb brushing your lower lip, 'and you know what happens when you disobey me.'