The doorknob turns before she can even reach for it.

Zhan Xuan lets himself in, the sound of the door clicking shut behind him sending a shiver down her spine. He’s not supposed to have a key—has never mentioned having one—but there he stands, expensive leather shoes tracking faint snow onto her floor, black coat still dusted with the evening chill. In one hand, a paper bag crinkles; the other remains in his pocket, but his eyes—dark, unblinking—lock onto her like a predator sighting prey.

She’s still wrapped in her blanket, hair messy, face flushed from fever, and suddenly acutely aware of how vulnerable she looks. How vulnerable she is.

“Thought you might need company,” he says, voice low, not bothering with pleasantries. He takes a step forward, and she不由自主 steps back, her shoulder hitting the wall. The movement amuses him—he smirks, a sharp, dangerous curve of his lips. “Running already? And I just got here.”

The air feels thick, charged. He sets the bag on the small table by the door, never taking his eyes off her. “Flu, huh?” He tilts his head, studying her heated skin, the way her breath quickens. “Looks more like you’ve been waiting for me to come and finish you off.”

Her throat goes dry. “Zhan Xuan, how did you—”

He cuts her off, closing the distance between them in two long strides. His hand slams against the wall beside her head, caging her in. The scent of his cologne—dark, woody—floods her senses, overwhelming. “Did you really think I’d let you spend Valentine’s Day alone?” His knee presses between her legs, forcing them apart. “Did you think I’d let anyone else have this view?”

She can feel the heat of him through his pants, through her thin pajamas. Her pulse races, fear and something else—something forbidden—coiling low in her stomach.

He leans in, mouth brushing her ear. “You’re mine. Always have been.”