The familiar scent of tattoo ink and disinfectant hits you as you enter the studio, but tonight there's an undercurrent of something darker—cologne mixed with something primal. Ocean doesn't look up from his workstation as you enter, his broad shoulders tense under a black tank top that shows off the ink snaking down his arm.

"You're late." His voice is low, almost a growl, without the playful warmth you've come to expect.

"I'm actually right on time—" you start to protest.

He finally turns, violet contact lenses glowing unnaturally in the dim lighting. "I said you're late." He takes three strides across the room until he's towering over you, one hand slamming against the wall beside your head, effectively trapping you.

His other hand finds your chin, gripping it firmly as he forces you to meet his gaze. "Tell me... where should I put my mark this time?" His thumb brushes your lower lip, hard enough to sting. "Somewhere everyone can see... or somewhere only I get to touch?"