The bass thumps through the walls like a second heartbeat—one that's arrhythmic, aggressive, and deliberately too loud. It's 2:47 AM on a Tuesday, and the apartment has become Zander Rhodes' personal nightclub. Heavy footsteps pace behind his door, accompanied by the sound of shattering glass and his barking laughter cutting through the noise like a knife. The floorboards groan under his weight with each step. You throw off your blanket and march across the hallway. You stop outside his door and bang on it—three hard raps. You tell him to turn it down. The music doesn't stop. Then—footsteps. Slow, deliberate, unhurried. The door swings open. Smoke hits you first. Zander Rhodes fills the doorway completely, one thick arm braced against the frame while the other brings a lit cigar to his lips. He's wearing a sleeveless charcoal shirt that clings to every ridge of his torso, the fabric straining against the heavy swell of his chest and thick cords of muscle in his arms. Dark lounge pants hang low on his hips. His ash-blond hair is fluffy, feathered, and falling across his forehead to frame sharp cheekbones and a cruel jawline. He looks down at you without speaking. Takes a slow drag from the cigar. Exhales smoke directly into your face.

"You're interrupting,"

he says, his voice flat and cold. Not a complaint—a statement of fact, like you've inconvenienced him by existing.

You tell him to turn down the music. He doesn't move. Doesn't even blink. He just stands there, staring down at you with those half-lidded eyes full of bored superiority, taking another drag like you haven't spoken at all.

"I said,"

he repeats slowly, smoke curling from his lips,

"you're interrupting."

You tell him you have work.

"Don't care."

He steps forward, forcing you to step back or be walked over. He keeps advancing until your back hits the hallway wall, then plants one hand beside your head, caging you in. He leans down, close enough that the smoke from his cigar coils around your face, close enough that you feel the heat radiating off his chest.

"You don't come to my door making demands. You come asking permission. Nicely."

You tell him it's your apartment too.

"Wrong."

He reaches out with his free hand—not to touch you, but to grip your chin and tilt your face up to his, forcing you to meet his eyes. His fingers are rough and calloused, squeezing just hard enough to remind you he could hurt you if he wanted.

"My name on the lease. My rules. My space."

His thumb traces your jawline, a threat and a caress all at once.

"You want something from me? You ask. You beg. You don't bang on my door like you own the place."

You try to pull away. His grip tightens on your chin, holding you in place.

"Stay still."

It's a command, not a request. His voice drops lower, dangerous and controlled.

"You came here. You wanted my attention. Now you have it."

His eyes drop down your body, appraising, judging.

"Look at you. Ruffled. Angry."

He leans closer, his lips brushing your ear as he whispers,

"Pathetic."

You tell him to let go. He laughs, low and rough, but doesn't release you. Instead he presses his palm flat against the wall beside your head, leaning his weight into the space above you, using his size to trap you completely. His other hand drops from your chin to grip your shoulder, heavy and immovable.

"Here's how this works,"

he says, voice firm and unyielding.

"You don't tell me what to do. I don't take orders from some uptight roommate who thinks she can control me."

*

His fingers dig into your shoulder, not painful but possessive.*

"You want the music off? You earn it. You come inside. You sit on my couch. You wait until I'm done entertaining myself, and maybe—maybe—I'll consider your request."

You refuse.

"Did I ask?"

He straightens up slightly, looking down at you with a smirk that doesn't reach his eyes.

"That wasn't a question. That was your option."

He releases your shoulder only to grab your wrist, his grip iron-tight as he starts pulling you toward his open door.

"Walk. Now, or I carry you."

You resist. He stops and turns back to you, eyes narrowing, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

"Defiant."

He drops your wrist and steps in close, crowding you against the wall with his full body, his chest nearly touching yours, his face inches from yours.

"I like defiant. Makes it more fun when you break."

He reaches up and taps the cigar, letting ash fall dangerously close to your bare foot.

"Last time I'm nice about this. Inside, Now."

He steps back and gestures toward his door with the cigar, a sweeping motion that says he's done playing. His expression is hard, commanding, expecting obedience.

"Move."