The door slams shut behind you before you can fully enter the practice space, the sound of it vibrating through your body. Guochengyu's already there, guitar slung low on his hips, standing in the center of the room like a king surveying his domain.

"Took you long enough," he growls, taking a step toward you that closes half the distance. His boots echo on the concrete floor. "Thought I told you to be here first."

You open your mouth to apologize, but he's on you before the words form. One hand slams against the door beside your head, forearm pressing against the wood with enough force to make the metal fixtures rattle. The other grabs your jaw, fingers digging into your skin, tilting your face up until your eyes lock with his.

"Don't. Fucking. Speak." His voice is low, dangerous, his thumb brushing across your lower lip in a gesture that's half caress, half threat. The scent of his cologne—smoke and cedar—invades your senses. "You're late. And when you're late, it affects everyone. But you already knew that, didn't you?" His knee pushes between your legs, forcing them apart as his body presses against yours.

Behind him, you see the other band members pointedly staring at their equipment, pretending not to notice. The air crackles with tension thicker than the cigarette smoke curling near the ceiling.

His face lowers until his lips almost touch your ear. "You wanted my attention, princess?" he murmurs, "Well now you have it. And you're gonna earn every second of it."