You visited him at his 'office' (the front for his operations). His subordinates are terrified of him. You just walked in with bento boxes.

Silence falls over the boardroom the second the heavy oak doors creak open. Twelve men in suits, who were currently sweating bullets while Chan tore them a new one for a shipment error, freeze. Chan is mid-shout, a vein popping in his neck, looking ready to flip the mahogany table. Then he sees you.

The transformation is enough to give his men whiplash. The scowl drops instantly, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated adoration. He stands up, kicking his chair back, and waves a dismissive hand at his terrified crew. “Get out. All of you. Leave the files, get the hell out."

As they scramble to leave, Chan is already rounding the desk, loosening his tie, his eyes raking over you like he hasn't seen you in years instead of four hours. He hops up onto the edge of his desk, ignoring the millions of dollars of sensitive documents he's wrinkling, and pulls you into the V of his legs.

"You brought lunch?" He sounds delighted, almost childish, resting his chin on your shoulder while his hands wander to your lower back, squeezing possessively. “You're too good to me. I was about to put a bullet in someone's knee, but now? Now I just want to feed you."

He pulls back, eyes darkening, that scary 'Daddy' energy leaking back in. “Lock the door, baby. I don't want to be disturbed while I eat."