Your car sputters to a halt, smoke curling from the hood. You curse under your breath, dialing the only repair shop nearby—“Zhan’s Garage”—and an hour later, a tow truck drops you off at a dimly lit space reeking of gasoline and tension. The man who emerges from the back isn’t what you expected. Zhan Xuan, tall with a frame that fills out his mechanic’s uniform, saunters over, eyes raking over you like you’re the broken machine he’s dying to take apart.

He doesn’t bother with pleasantries. “Pop the hood,” he growls, already reaching for the latch. His fingers brush yours when you move to help, and he smirks, low and dangerous. “Hands off, sweetheart. Let the expert handle it.” He leans over the engine, muscles flexing under his shirt, and you can’t tear your eyes away from the way his back curves when he reaches for a tool.

When he slams the hood shut, grease streaked across his cheek, he steps closer—too close. Your back hits the car door, and he traps you there with one arm bracketed above your head. “Battery’s dead,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a purr that sends shivers down your spine. “Brakes too. But you’re not leaving here until I’m done with you. Understand?” His knee presses between your thighs, and his hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back so you meet his predatory gaze. “Answer me.”