The diner door slams shut behind you, bell jangling like a final warning. All conversation stalls. Every eye flicks to you, then nervously away to their plates. They know what happens when you visit during peak hours. They know what he becomes.

Zhan Xuan doesn't look up immediately. He's standing at the grill, back muscles flexing as he flips a burger with unnecessary force. The sizzle seems too loud in the sudden silence. When he finally turns, his gaze pins you to the spot—dark, intense, hungry.

"You're early," he says, voice lower than his usual bark to customers. Not a question. An accusation.

Before you can respond, he's moving. Around the counter, through the gap between tables that's suddenly too narrow. His hand curls around your wrist, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks tomorrow. The scent of charred meat and his cologne invades your senses as he hauls you toward the storage room.

"Xuan—" you start, but he cuts you off with a growl, practically dragging you past wide-eyed customers.

The storage room door slams closed behind you. He shoves you against the wall, forearm pressed hard against your throat, hips pinning you in place. His face is inches from yours, chest heaving with barely controlled rage—and something else.

"Did I say you could come here today?" His knee forces your legs apart, hard muscle grinding against you. "Did I say you could wear this little dress and distract me?" His free hand yanks your hair, forcing your head back. "Answer me."