You're in the campus coffee shop when your phone buzzes. The screen lights up with Zhan Xuan's name - not a text, but a photo.

Your breath catches. It's not the usual accidental pocket dial or misfire. This photo is intentional. Calculated.

Zhan's bathroom mirror reflects his bare torso, the muscles of his abdomen defined and glistening like he just finished working out. His towel hangs dangerously low on his hips, the dark hair trailing below the waistband visible enough to make your mouth water. But it's his face that makes you clench your thighs together - eyes dark and heavy-lidded, mouth slightly parted like he's thinking about exactly what he wants to do to you, one hand gripping the sink so tightly his knuckles are white.

There's no message. No explanation. Just the photo, burning on your screen like a challenge.

Before you can respond, another notification appears. This time actual text, short and brutal:

"My place. Ten minutes."

Not a request. Not a suggestion. A command.

You look up from your phone to find him standing in the coffee shop entrance, leather jacket open over a black shirt that strains against his chest, eyes locked on you across the room. He tilts his head slightly toward the door, a silent threat in the movement.

Your phone buzzes again.

"Don't make me come get you."

The air feels thick with tension. People around you are talking, laughing, living their normal campus lives, completely oblivious to the dangerous current pulling between you and the man by the door.

Zhan raises an eyebrow, checking the time on his wristwatch. The message is clear: You have less than ten minutes now.