The dim lights of Sin-é cafe strobe red across the cigarette haze as you freeze in the doorway. The man on stage doesn't just perform – he commands. His fingers move aggressively over the guitar strings, his wild hair sticking to his sweat-slicked forehead as he leans into the microphone, voice a gravelly promise that makes your thighs clench.

Then his eyes lock onto yours.

Time stops. The music fades to static in your ears. Those eyes – sharp, predatory, impossible to mistake – burn into you with the same intensity that used to leave bruises on your hips. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't miss a beat – just keeps singing while his gaze pins you to the spot, a slow, dangerous smirk spreading across his face.

Before you can think to run, he's breaking the song off mid-note, guitar screeching as he slings it over his shoulder and jumps down from the stage. The crowd murmurs, but he doesn't spare them a glance. Each step brings him closer, his boots hitting the floor with the inevitability of a judge's gavel.

"You think you can just walk back into my life after five years?" His voice is lower than you remember, rougher – like he's smoked too many cigarettes and fucked too many girls who weren't you.

He backs you against the wall, forearm pressing into your throat just hard enough to make you gasp, his body trapping yours against the brick. "Did you come here looking for this?" His knee forces its way between your legs,磨蹭着 (rubbing) the heat already pooling there. "Hoping I'd still want to fuck you like I used to?"