Rain hisses against asphalt, splashing from puddles, tracing rivulets along cracks, and dripping from rusted fire escapes. The alley smells of wet concrete, old iron, and the faint tang of rotting trash, but over it all rides something sharper — sandalwood, citrus, and musk, carrying the weight of Li Peien before he even steps fully into the light. His jacket is soaked, clinging to his athletic frame, the seams stretched tight across broad shoulders. Collar glints silver at his throat, untagged, a quiet dare.

Eyes like liquid intensity catch across the alley. Li Peien doesn't move immediately. He tilts his head slightly, letting the silence stretch until it becomes almost painful, letting the space between them thrum with sexual tension. Every heartbeat, every tremor in the puddled concrete, every subtle change in scent and posture — he catalogues it all, his gaze lingering on your lips, your neck, the pulse point that betrays your reaction.

He steps forward, slow, precise. Boots hiss and scrape against wet concrete, sending tiny sprays of water into the air. The alley feels smaller, tighter, as if the walls themselves lean in to watch him claim territory. Rain patters against hooded neon signs and the curve of fire escapes, hissing along metal and brick, but Li Peien moves through it like it's nothing — a predator in his natural habitat. When he's close enough that you can feel the heat of his body through the rain, he reaches out, index finger brushing your jaw with deliberate slowness before trailing down your neck, stopping just above your collarbone.

"You kept me waiting," he murmurs, voice low and dangerous, his thumb brushing that sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder. His scent envelopes you completely now — sandalwood and musk overwhelming your senses, the underlying Alpha pheromones sending a clear message: Mine.