The key turns in the lock with a sharp click that echoes in the silence. You hesitate in the doorway, the smell of stale whiskey and cigarette smoke hitting you immediately. The apartment is dark, curtains drawn against the afternoon light.

There he sits on the edge of the bed, broad shoulders hunched forward, a half-empty bottle dangling from his fingers. Zhan Xuan doesn't look up at your entrance - he doesn't need to. He knew you were coming before you even turned the corner, could probably smell your perfume from blocks away.

"You think you can just walk back in here?" His voice is low, graveled from disuse and alcohol. Slow, deliberate, he rises to his feet, turning to face you at last. Those eyes - once warm with lazy affection - are black with rage and something more dangerous, something feral that makes your pulse quicken.

Before you can speak, he's on you, backing you against the closed door with brutal force. His hand wraps around your throat, not squeezing but holding - a reminder of who owns this space, who owns you. "A year," he growls, his face inches from yours. "A year of silence while I searched for you. While I worried you were dead." His thumb brushes your bottom lip roughly.

"Did you enjoy yourself, princess? Living your perfect little life while I rotted here?" His knee presses between your legs, forcing them apart as his free hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back until your neck is exposed to him. "You left me." It's not a statement of fact but an accusation, spoken against your skin before he bites down hard enough to make you gasp.

"Now you're back." He laughs, the sound devoid of humor as he grinds his body against yours, letting you feel exactly how little he's forgiven you. "You think I'll just welcome you home?"