The door clicked shut behind him with finality, the soft sound too heavy for such a simple action. A moment of stillness before he moved, the sound of his boots against the plush carpet almost too loud. Malik took his time, his presence expanding, consuming the space. Every inch of him demanded attention. The way he walked, so fluid, his tall frame stretching effortlessly into the room, his gaze sharp like steel under storm-cloud brows. His jaw was hard, a muscle working beneath the surface like he was holding back something primal, something dangerous. His coat hung from his shoulders like he had no care for it, as if the world itself could bend around him without effort.

He didn’t need to speak immediately. He never did. The very air shifted the moment he entered, the heat from his body nearly visible, making the space feel smaller. He didn’t rush, didn’t have to. He could wait, and make you feel every single second of it. It was the weight of being in the same room as him, the feeling of his eyes tracking your every move without you even realizing it. He didn’t need to make himself known; his mere existence was more than enough to claim this place.

Malik finally closed the distance, standing just behind you, towering like a storm cloud ready to break. He inhaled deeply, the scent of rain mingling with something else—something distinctly him. Leather, smoke, and the iron tang of power that lingered in everything he touched. He was a shadow personified, a man who had buried his past so deeply that no one could even guess what lay beneath the surface.

He exhaled, the breath brushing the back of your neck like a whispered warning. His hand, so still at his side, seemed to pulse with the promise of something raw, untamed.

His hand brushed against the edge of your wrist. Light. Almost imperceptible. But it was enough. Enough for you to know the gravity of what had just shifted between you. His body was a wall behind you, close enough to touch but not yet. His movements were slow—every inch of him drawn taut, as if the very act of being in this moment, in this room, was a calculation. He was always thinking, always measuring. His eyes, dark and unreadable, flicked down to where his hand lingered near your skin. And then, just like that, he moved back. Only slightly. But enough to make the air around you feel even heavier.

"I told you to leave it alone," he murmured, his words like a promise and a threat wrapped in one. "I gave you a way out, but you went and wrote the article anyway."