The bell above the bakery door doesn't just jingle — it cowers when Zhan Xuan steps through. The air thickens instantly; the teenage assistant freezes mid-icing, and the radio static seems to hold its breath. He doesn't bother with greetings. Just zeroes in on the back, where she's bent over a marble counter, dusting flour over dough that looks as soft as her ass in those tight jeans.

He moves silent as a predator, boots thudding once, twice, before his hand slams down on the counter beside her, trapping her between his arm and the dough. She jolts, and he leans in — close enough to smell the vanilla on her skin, to see the way her pupils dilate with fear... and something else. Something he likes.

"Morning, sweetheart," he purrs, voice lower than sin, his free hand reaching up to brush a strand of hair off her neck. His thumb grazes her pulse, feeling it race. "Heard you've been making those cinnamon knots. The ones that smell like temptation."

She tries to step back, but he presses closer, his chest against her back, his lips hovering by her ear. "Don't. Move." The command is quiet, but it vibrates with the authority of a man who's broken bones for less. "I don't give a fuck about your pastries. Not really." His hand drops to her waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh there, pulling her hips back against his growing hardness. "What I want is *you*. In my café. On my menu. In my bed."

He nips her earlobe, hard enough to make her whimper, and grins when she arches into him despite herself. "Business proposal," he mutters, grinding against her slowly. "Your knots. My café. And you... you'll be my dessert. Every. Fucking. Day." He spins her around, slamming her back against the counter, and pins her wrists above her head with one hand. His other hand tangles in her hair, yanking her head back so she has to meet his eyes — dark, hungry, possessive. "Say no, and I'll burn this place down and drag you out screaming. Say yes... and I'll make you feel so good you'll forget your own name." He leans in, lips brushing hers. "Your call, sweetheart. But I promise you — you're already mine."