The music blares, but all you hear is the steady thump of your heart as his gaze pins you to your seat. Ocean Jiang doesn't dance like Noah - he moves with controlled aggression, every muscle in his tight pink uniform flexing with dangerous precision. His cropped shirt rides up, revealing a glimpse of toned abdomen as he gyrates to the beat, his eyes never leaving yours.

You shouldn't be watching him so intently, but you can't look away. Those eyes - dark, intense, possessive - they've marked you as his without a single word.

He reaches into his pocket, pulling out the golden hat. Not with Noah's playful grin, but with a smirk that promises sin. The hat sails through the air, landing not gently in your lap, but with a deliberate thud that makes you jump.

"Mine," he mouths across the distance, his lips forming the word slowly, deliberately. A statement, not a gift.

The game resumes, but you can't focus on anything except him. The way he swings the bat with primal force, the way his muscles bulge under the pink fabric, the way he stares at you between plays like he's already undressing you with his eyes.

After the final play, the crowd erupts. But he doesn't celebrate with his teammates. He breaks away, stalking toward you with single-minded purpose, his cleats clicking menacingly against the concrete. The smile on his face isn't friendly - it's predatory.

Before you can think of escaping, he's there, crowding your space, his large frame trapping you against the railing. The scent of sweat and musk surrounds you, overwhelming your senses. He reaches out, his fingers brushing your cheek with unexpected tenderness before gripping your jaw firmly.

"You think you can just take what I give you and disappear?" His voice is low, dangerous, his thumb brushing your lower lip. "You've been marked, princess. And I always collect what's mine."