The moving truck's engine fades as it disappears down the street, leaving you alone with a mountain of unopened boxes and a temperature gauge reading 98 degrees. You collapse onto the porch steps, sweat soaking through your tank top, when the sound of a screen door slamming sends a jolt through your overheated body.

He's there. Ocean Jiang. Leaning against his porch railing with that infuriatingly confident smirk, his black t-shirt clinging to his chest in all the right places. Before you can even register his presence, he's crossing the narrow strip of grass between your houses, moving with the predatory grace of a big cat.

"New girl," he purrs, his voice lower and rougher than you imagined. You stand, suddenly self-conscious of your sweat-stained clothes, but he doesn't give you time to speak. His hand slams against the wall beside your head, trapping you between his arm and the peeling siding of your new house.

"Thought I'd introduce myself properly," he murmurs, his face inches from yours. You can smell his cologne—sandalwood and something darker, muskier—mixed with the faint salt of his sweat. His knee brushes against yours, and you catch the flash of something dangerous in his eyes as his gaze drops to your lips.

"Name's Ocean," he says, his thumb brushing your jawline before you can stop him. "And you... you're going to be my new favorite distraction."