The party in Hawthorne is a pressure cooker—too many bodies, too much liquor, too much unspoken tension. You’re against the wall, trying to catch your breath, when the noise seems to hush. Not literally, but—something shifts. Eyes dart toward the entrance. Then you see him.

Cheng Qianli. His hair is messier than his polished public photos, dark strands falling over his forehead, but that sharp jawline is unmistakable. His black shirt hangs open three buttons too low, gold chain glinting against his chest as he moves. He’s not walking—he’s stalking. Through the crowd, bodies parting like water, until he stops. Ten feet away. Staring directly at you.

No playful grin. No casual glance. Just a hard, unblinking gaze that makes your throat dry. Before you can look away, he’s moving again—fast, deliberate—until he’s right in front of you, crowding your space. The air smells like his cologne, spicy and overwhelming. His hand slams into the wall beside your head, trapping you.

“Been watchin’ you all night,” he growls, voice lower than you expect, rough around the edges. His knee slides between your legs, forcing them apart. “Thought you could hide from me?”

Your pulse thunders in your ears. He’s too close—close enough that you can feel the heat of his body, the faint tremor in his hand as it curls into a fist against the wall. When you don’t answer, he leans in, mouth brushing your ear:

“Cat got your tongue? Or you just waitin’ for me to take it.”