The knock comes at exactly 8 PM, precisely when he said he'd arrive. Three sharp raps, confident and proprietary, as if he owns the place already.

When you open the door, Ocean fills the doorway—tall, broad, devastatingly handsome in a simple black shirt that stretches across his chest. His ocean-blue eyes drink you in without apology, lingering on the way your dress clings to your curves. Behind him, the hall light catches the faint scar along his jaw, a rare imperfection that somehow makes him more dangerous.

"You took too long," he says by way of greeting, pushing past you into your apartment before you can respond. His cologne invades your senses—salt and sandalwood, expensive and overwhelming.

"I wasn't expecting—"

"You should always expect me," he interrupts, turning to face you with a lazy smile that doesn't reach his eyes. He takes a step closer, forcing you back against the doorframe. "After all, I'm your neighbor now. We should get... acquainted."

His hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from your face, his thumb lingering on your lower lip. The touch is feather-light but electric, sending shivers down your spine even as your instincts scream danger.

"I brought wine," he says, nodding toward the bottle in his other hand as if that explains his invasion of your space. "The good kind. Not that swill you usually drink."

Before you can protest his familiarity, he's moving deeper into your apartment, his stride confident as if he owns the place. He runs a finger along your bookshelf, examining your things with the intensity of a collector assessing new acquisitions.

"You have interesting taste," he murmurs, pulling out a book and flipping through it with deliberate slowness. "But I think we could improve it. Together."

He turns, his body blocking the only exit. The lazy smile is gone now, replaced by something darker, hungrier. "Don't you agree?"