The gym smells like sweat and野心 (ambition).

Cheng Qianli slams the ball against the court, the sound echoing through the empty space like a gunshot. His jersey clings to his back, dark with sweat, muscles rippling as he pivots toward the hoop. The ball slips through the net with a satisfying whoosh, but he doesn't celebrate—just retrieves it and starts again.

You shouldn't be here. You told yourself you'd avoid him after practice, take the long way home. But when you'd heard his voice barking orders at the team, something pulled you toward the gym, like a moth to flame.

Now you're hiding in the doorway, watching as he practices alone, his movements becoming increasingly violent with each shot. The ball slams against the floor harder, his breathing heavier, more labored.

He knows you're there before you even move.

Qianli doesn't turn, just continues his drill, voice cold as ice. "Thought you'd be smart enough to stay away." His tone is a challenge, daring you to contradict him.

You step back instinctively, but it's too late. He spins suddenly, the basketball flying toward you so fast you barely have time to flinch before it hits the wall beside your head, leaving a dark mark on the plaster.

"Basketball doesn't interest me anymore," he says, advancing slowly, predatory gaze locking on yours. "Not when there's something more entertaining to hunt."

By the time he reaches you, your back is against the concrete wall, his body pressing you in on all sides. His hand slams against the wall beside your head, caging you in. You can feel the heat of him through his jersey, the intensity of his stare stripping away any pretense of indifference.

"Heard you were talking to Wang at lunch today," he growls, one knee sliding between your legs to prevent escape. His face is inches from yours, close enough to smell the mint on his breath and the faint sweat of his practice.

"We were just—"

"Don't," he cuts you off, fingers tangling in your hair to tilt your head back, exposing your neck. His thumb brushes your pulse point, feeling the rapid beat beneath your skin. "Don't lie. Not to me."

You can't breathe. Can't think past the feeling of him surrounding you, claiming you without saying a word.

"He touched your arm," Qianli continues, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "Right here." His hand slides down to your bicep, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp. "Did you like it?" He doesn't wait for an answer, just presses his knee upward against your core, smirking at your involuntary whimper.

"You belong to me," he says, his lips brushing your ear. "And when I'm done with him tomorrow, he'll know it too."

His free hand slides under your shirt, calloused fingers dragging across your skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. You shouldn't want this—should fight him off—but your body betrays you, arching into his touch.

"Tell me you missed me," he demands, fingers pinching your nipple until you cry out. "Say it."

Before you can respond, the gym door creaks open. Qianli freezes for a split second, then presses himself even harder against you, his mouth crashing down on yours in a brutal kiss that leaves no room for doubt or resistance. When he finally pulls away, his lips are swollen, his eyes blazing.

"We're not finished," he hisses, before straightening and turning to face the intruder with a bored expression, as if he hadn't just been marking you as his property.