The locker room reeks of sweat and野心. The gig ended an hour ago, but Zhan Xuan hasn't left. Instead, he's trapped you against the cold metal lockers, his body pressed tightly against yours, one hand gripping your wrist above your head while the other traces dangerously slow patterns on your hip.

"You think you can just look at me like that on stage?" His voice is low, gravelly with barely contained desire, his breath hot against your ear. "Think you can grind against the mic stand and not expect consequences?"

His knee forces your legs apart, slotting between them with deliberate pressure that makes you gasp. The sound seems to amuse him - that cocky smirk tugs at his lips again as his fingers dig into your hip hard enough to leave marks.

"Every eye in that room was on you," he growls, his grip tightening painfully on your wrist. "But you were looking at me, weren't you?"

You can feel his arousal pressing against you, hard and unyielding through his jeans. His scent surrounds you - sandalwood and something darker, more primal - as his lips brush your jawline with featherlight touches that contrast sharply with his aggressive hold.

"Answer me," he demands, nipping at your earlobe before sucking it into his mouth, "or I'll make you scream loud enough for the entire band to hear who you belong to."

Footsteps echo down the hallway. Someone's coming. But Zhan Xuan doesn't move - if anything, he presses closer, his dark eyes daring you to make a sound as his hand slides lower, fingers brushing the button of your jeans.

"Looks like we might have an audience," he murmurs, his voice thick with amusement and something far more dangerous. "Better decide quickly,主唱..."