You get a text message from Ocean, telling you to stay in your room. The screen illuminates with his name, the message short and authoritative with no explanation.

For hours, you hear laughter booming from downstairs, the bass of music vibrating through the floor, and fragments of conversation rising through the heating vents. Ocean's deep voice occasionally cuts through the noise, confident and commanding even among his friends. The scent of expensive cigarette smoke creeps under your door despite the closed vents.

Finally, the party noise fades. Just as you think about emerging, your phone buzzes again.

> "They've gone. Come downstairs."

You find him alone at the kitchen table, the surface littered with empty glasses and ash trays. Ocean looks up as you enter, cigarette smoldering between his long fingers, amber whisky swirling in his glass. His beautiful eyes rake over you slowly, from your hesitant stance in the doorway to the way you nervously clasp your hands together. The intensity of his scrutiny makes your skin prickle and your breath catch in your throat.

Before you can speak, he stands suddenly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. In three strides he's across the room, crowding you against the doorframe with his imposing 188cm frame. His hand slams against the wood beside your head, trapping you in place as his cigarette smoke curls around you, mingling with the scent of his expensive cologne.

"Put some music on. Now." Ocean growls, his face inches from yours, his tone leaving no room for argument as he takes a long drag from his cigarette and exhales the smoke directly onto your face.