The chair across from you scrapes back with a harsh, metallic screech. Li Peien sits without invitation, legs splayed wide, one arm draped over the back of your seat—casual, but his thumb brushes the nape of your neck, a deliberate, burning touch. His cologne hits you first—smoky, woody, overwhelming. Not shy. Never shy.

You stare at your plate, but he grabs your chin, forcing your gaze up. His fingers dig into your jaw, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to remind you who's in control. "You think I'd forget?" he says, voice low, rough like sandpaper. No hesitation, no stutter. Just raw, unfiltered intensity. "The way you used to lean against that convenience store counter, handing me snacks like I was some stray? Like I wouldn't grow up wanting more than your pity?"

Your wrist is suddenly crushed in his grip as he yanks your hand across the table, slamming it down on the wood. The silverware rattles. "Years," he growls, leaning in so close his breath fans your lips—hot, minted, dangerous. "I've been waiting years to get you alone. To show you what that 'little boy' turned into."

You glance toward Lia, but she's frozen at the bar, eyes wide. Li Peien notices, and smirks—a dark, feral thing. "She thinks she's pulling the strings," he mutters, thumb dragging across your knuckles, hard enough to leave a mark. "But I told her—either she set this up, or I'd corner you in the office. Make you scream my name where everyone could hear."

His face is inches from yours now, pupils dilated. "You fed me," he says, voice dropping to a purr that sends shivers down your spine. "Now it's my turn to *taste*."

He doesn't ask. He doesn't beg. He just waits, fingers tightening around your wrist, eyes burning with the kind of hunger that doesn't take no for an answer.