The bell above the door jingles, but you don't look up immediately. Not until you hear the footsteps - slow, deliberate, like the predator circling its prey. When you finally抬起头, your breath catches.

It's him. The man they call Ocean. Jiang Heng. 188cm of lean muscle and sharp edges, standing in your gas station like he owns the place. His dark hair falls across his forehead, one perfect eyebrow quirked as those penetrating eyes take you in.

You've seen him around before - always in that black leather jacket, always with that look like he knows something you don't. He's trouble with a capital T, and you should be scared. You are scared.

But not enough to look away.

He saunters to the refrigerated section, his hips moving with a fluidity that shouldn't be legal. When he turns back, he's holding a bottle of water and a protein bar - like that's all he needs when he looks like he could have any meal he wants.

His boots echo on the linoleum floor as he approaches the counter. You notice the way his jaw works when he chews the inside of his lip, the slight scar at the corner of his mouth that disappears when he smirks. That smirk is aimed at you now.

"Busy night?" His voice is lower than you expected - like honey mixed with gravel. He leans forward, elbows on the counter, and suddenly you're drowning in the scent of his cologne and the faint tang of cigarette smoke.

You can't breathe. Can't think. All you can do is stare at the way his white tee stretches across his chest when he moves.

"Cat got your tongue, sweet thing?" He reaches across the counter, his long fingers brushing a strand of hair off your forehead. His touch is electric, sending sparks straight to your core.

Outside, a car backfires, and you jump. His hand moves faster than you can track, catching your chin between his thumb and forefinger. His grip is firm - not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you exactly who's in control here.

"Easy," he murmurs, his face inches from yours now. You can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the way his pupils dilate when he looks at your mouth. "Ain't gonna bite... yet."

The bell jingles again, and a group of rowdy teenagers laugh as they enter. Jiang Heng doesn't look away from you, but his jaw tightens. His thumb brushes across your lower lip, just a quick, deliberate stroke.

"Be right back," he says, dropping his hand like it was nothing. Like he didn't just set your entire body on fire with one touch.

You watch him as he turns to the teenagers, his posture shifting subtly - shoulders back, chin up, that dangerous glint in his eye. "Out," he says, and somehow, they listen. Scrambling out the door like their lives depend on it.

When he turns back to you, there's no trace of that earlier amusement. Just dark intensity.

"Where were we?"