Jason woke up with a stiff neck and the unpleasant sensation of his spine grinding against the couch armrest.
For a moment, he just stared at the ceiling, mind sluggish, eyes trying to focus. The living room light was still on, one of the cushions had slid to the floor, and his coat hung half-off the armrest like it had been trying to escape.
His shoes were still on.
And the faint smell of alcohol clung to him like guilt.
How the hell did I even get in here…?
Bits of last night came back in disjointed fragments — dropping Son Liying off, congratulating himself for pulling off the impossible, stealing the most untouchable heroine away from the original male lead's script. That alone had been worth celebrating. The drinks had been his idea. The empty glasses had been the bartender's gift.
After that… nothing but black.
He must've sleepwalked inside. Or maybe teleported. Neither would've surprised him at this point.
Groaning, he sat up, muscles protesting as his back cracked. "Ugh. I smell like regret."
One sniff under his arm confirmed it. "Yep. Shower time."
Hot water pounded against his skin, loosening muscles, clearing the haze in his head. The steam wrapped around him in thick, swirling tendrils, blurring the edges of the glass and making the small space feel even smaller.
He let the heat sink into his bones, tilting his head under the spray, eyes closing as his thoughts drifted.
The faint sound of the bathroom door opening pulled him back.
Through the misty shower glass, a figure moved — small waist, deliberate step, familiar sway of the hips. Even blurred by condensation, he'd know that silhouette anywhere.
Daisy.
Jason swiped a palm across the glass, clearing just enough to confirm.
She didn't look at him, didn't speak — just walked to the counter, grabbed something, and left.
He smirked faintly. That's it?
But then the door creaked open again. She was back. Again, she took something, silent as a ghost, and left.
Now she had his attention.
The third time the door opened, Jason was ready.
She stepped inside, clearly not expecting him to be watching. Their eyes met through the steam. Hers flicked down briefly — not enough to be obvious, but enough for him to notice.
"Forget something?" he asked, voice low over the hiss of water.
Her lips twitched — not quite a smile, but not nothing either. She stepped closer, the hem of her robe brushing her knees.
"You're in my way," she murmured, reaching past him for a bottle on the inner shelf.
He caught her wrist. Not hard, just enough to stop her.
"I don't think I am."
The air between them thickened, heat from the steam mixing with a different kind entirely.
Daisy didn't pull back. Instead, she tilted her head, studying him like she was deciding whether to push or walk away.
She pushed.
Her fingers slid to the collar of his neck, trailing down over his chest before curling around his side. "Still drunk?" she asked quietly.
"Clear enough," Jason replied. "Clear enough to notice you keep coming back in here."
Her lips tilted, and before he could say more, she stepped in, closing the space entirely. Her thigh brushed firmly between his, her body pressing flush to his as if she intended to stake her claim right there against the slick wall.
Then she kissed him.
It wasn't tentative. It wasn't polite. It was a collision — heat, urgency, and the kind of contact that made the spray from the shower feel cold by comparison.
Jason's free hand found the small of her back, pulling her tighter, his other settling instinctively against her hip and the warm curve just beyond it. She moved deliberately against him, the press of her thigh and the rhythm of her hips leaving no doubt what she was doing.
The shower felt smaller now, every brush of skin sharper, every breath louder. It wasn't about dominance or surrender — it was a test, each daring the other to break first.
When she finally pulled back, her breathing was uneven, but her gaze was steady. "Don't think this means anything," she said, though the faint hitch in her voice undercut the words.
Jason's lips curved. "Wouldn't dream of it."
Minutes later, she slipped out, leaving only the sound of her footsteps fading down the hall.
Jason leaned against the wall, letting the water run over him until his pulse steadied. Then he shut it off, stepping out into the cooler air.
A towel slung low around his waist, another running through his damp hair, he wandered into the bedroom. His phone was buzzing on the nightstand — calls, messages, notifications stacking up.
He reached for it, but before he could check the screen, an incoming call lit it up.
The name made him pause.
He answered. "Good morning, Uncle Derek."
"Good morning to you too, young master Jason," came the deep, steady voice.
Derek wasn't actually his uncle, but the man had been with the Yun family for decades — the personal assistant to Jason's grandfather. He'd been there for every milestone in the lives of the Yun grandchildren, the ever-present shadow of family tradition.
"Congratulations on the engagement," Derek said warmly.
Jason smirked faintly. "Thank you."
"Well, I'm calling to inform you of the upcoming family evaluation meeting this Friday."
Jason froze mid-step. "It's already that time?"
"Yes, sir. I suggest you prepare. The elders will be watching closely."
Jason's lips curved slowly. "Noted. Thanks for the heads-up, Uncle."
"As always, young master, have a good day. I have other calls to make."
"Take care," Jason replied before hanging up.
He set the phone down and walked to the window, watching the skyline through the morning haze. The family evaluation wasn't just a meeting — it was a battlefield dressed in polite smiles greetings and careful words.
Every gesture would be weighed. Every phrase dissected.
"Guess I'd better step up my game. Wouldn't want my fellow family members to be disappointed, now would I?"