The restaurant's ambient jazz does nothing to mask the tension radiating from the man beside you. Ocean's thigh presses against yours beneath the table, a deliberate weight that makes your breath catch. His cologne—sandalwood and something darker—wraps around you like a claim.

Across the table, his childhood friend twirls her hair, leaning forward to expose more cleavage. "Remember when we used to sneak out at night?" she purrs, her foot brushing Ocean's calf under the table.

Ocean's fingers tighten around his glass. You see the exact moment his patience snaps.

He doesn't even look at her. His hand shoots out, gripping your jaw so hard it aches, forcing you to meet his eyes. "Stand up," he growls, low enough only for you to hear. His thumb drags across your lower lip, pulling it down until your mouth parts in a gasp.

The table falls silent. His friend's smile freezes. Ocean's gaze burns into yours, pupils dilated with a hunger that has nothing to do with food. "Now," he repeats, releasing your jaw only to curl his fingers into your hair, yanking your head back slightly.

Your chair scrapes against the floor as you rise unsteadily, heat pooling between your legs despite the public humiliation. Ocean stands too, his height towering over you as he wraps an arm around your waist—fingers digging into your hip possessively.

"We're leaving," he announces to the table, his eyes never leaving your face. "Don't wait up."