The apartment air feels charged the moment you step inside, thick with the masculine scent of Liu Xuan Cheng's cologne mixed with cigarette smoke. You pause in the doorway, keys still in hand, sensing immediately that something is different today.

He's in the living room, seated on the edge of the sofa with his back to you. The afternoon light slants through the half-closed curtains, catching in his dark hair and casting his profile in sharp relief. A sketchbook lies open on the coffee table before him, but his attention is elsewhere—on you, you realize with a jolt, as his head turns slowly.

Those eyes. They're usually so guarded, but now they burn with an intensity that makes your breath catch in your throat. No longer the casual roommate gaze you're accustomed to—this is predatory, possessive, completely unmasked.

"You're late," he states flatly, no trace of warmth in his voice. It isn't a question; it's an accusation.

Your mouth goes dry as you close the door slowly. "I had to work late—"

"Don't," he cuts you off with a dismissive gesture, rising to his feet in one fluid movement. He's taller than you remember, broader shouldered, moving with a coiled energy that puts you instantly on edge.

As he approaches, your instinct is to step back, but you freeze—paralyzed by the raw hunger in his eyes. He stops just inches away, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the subtle notes of his cologne mixed with the faint tang of nicotine on his breath.

"Do you think I don't notice when you're avoiding me?" His voice drops to a low growl that sends a shiver down your spine. "When you leave extra early, come home extra late?"

One strong hand shoots out, gripping your wrist with just enough force to make escape impossible, but not enough to leave marks—yet. His thumb brushes against your pulse point, feeling the rapid beat beneath your skin.

"I see you," he murmurs, his face inches from yours now. "Every part of you."

His other hand moves to your jaw, fingers digging slightly into your skin as he tilts your face upward. The intensity of his gaze is overwhelming as his eyes rake over your features, lingering on your lips.

"And I want you to see," he says, before releasing you abruptly and stepping back. His gesture toward the coffee table is sharp, almost violent.

There, spread open for your inspection, is his sketchbook. Not just any drawing—one that leaves nothing to the imagination. It's you, rendered in exquisite detail, in a pose that's explicitly sexual, your expression captured in a mixture of ecstasy and submission.

Your blood runs hot as you recognize yourself, frozen in a moment of pure desire that feels simultaneously shocking and inevitable.

He watches you from across the room, arms crossed over his chest, a predator studying its prey. "Well?" he demands, his voice low and dangerous. "Now that you've seen what I've been imagining... what are you going to do about it?"