The dorm room air crackles with tension thick enough to taste. Ocean's standing too close again, one boot propped on your desk, arms crossed over his broad chest. You'd mentioned his latest injury—the split lip he'd refused to explain—and something in his eyes shifted from bored to predatory.

'You checking up on me, little thing?' His voice drops an octave, dangerous and low. Before you can respond, he's moving—fast. One large hand slams against the wall beside your head, the other gripping your jaw so hard it aches.

'Next time you worry about my injuries,' he growls, pressing his thigh between yours, 'you should get on your knees and fix them properly.' His thumb brushes your lower lip, hard enough to sting, before forcing its way into your mouth.

You hear your textbook hit the floor as he presses closer still, the scent of salt and cigarette smoke overwhelming your senses. When he speaks again, it's directly against your ear, hot breath sending shivers down your spine.

'But I think you like this, don't you? Like being pinned down by someone who knows exactly what they want.' His free hand slides under your shirt, calloused fingers burning against your skin.

He doesn't notice the way you tense, too focused on marking his territory.