The morning sun in Manila does not creep; it colonizes. It pierced through the slight gap in the heavy blackout curtains of the Rockwell condo, a singular, relentless beam of gold that danced across the black silk sheets.
Markus was a light sleeper. In the pits, and later in the yard, a deep sleep was a luxury that could cost you your teeth or your life. He usually woke with his heart already at a steady, combat-ready rhythm.
But this morning was different. He felt a warmth that didn't come from the sun, a weight on his chest that was soft, rhythmic, and strangely... grounding.
His brain, still foggy with the remnants of a dream about a match he'd won years ago, took a few seconds to register the reality of his situation.
His right arm was numb, pinned beneath a weight. His left arm was wrapped firmly around a narrow, firm waist. There was a scent—not the copper of the ring or the bleach of the prison—but something like expensive soap and a hint of vanilla. He shifted slightly, and a soft, contented sigh vibrated against his skin.
Markus opened his eyes.
Buried against his chest was a mop of messy blonde hair. Jake had apparently migrated across the "invisible line" during the night, seeking the heat of Markus's large frame.
The Prince's face was pressed into the crook of Markus's neck, his breathing slow and even. Jake's own arm was draped over Markus's tattooed ribs, his fingers curled loosely into the fabric of Markus's sweatpants.
They weren't just sharing a bed. They were tangled. They were, by all traditional definitions of the word, cuddling.
For a man who hadn't let anyone into his personal space for three years, the realization hit Markus like a physical blow to the solar plexus. A jolt of pure, unadulterated panic surged through him. His blood turned to ice, followed immediately by a flush of heat that climbed from his neck to his ears.
What the hell am I doing?
The instinct to flee, to defend, and to distance himself all collided at once. In a flurry of uncoordinated, flustered movement, Markus didn't just pull away; he reacted with the explosive force of a man who'd just realized he was holding a live grenade.
His legs coiled and snapped outward. It wasn't a calculated move—it was a survival reflex. His foot caught Jake squarely in the hip.
"Oof!"
The sound of the impact was followed by a dull, heavy thud as Jake was launched off the side of the California King.
"What in the—!" Jake's voice was a confused, sleep-thickened rasp from the floor.
Markus scrambled to a sitting position, his chest heaving, his hair standing up in every direction. He looked over the edge of the bed. Jake was sprawled on the dark concrete floor, tangled in a black duvet, looking up at Markus with wide, betrayed eyes.
"You... you kicked me," Jake gasped, rubbing his hip. "I was asleep, and you literally kicked me out of bed."
"You were touching me!" Markus roared, his voice more defensive than he intended. He was trying to hide the fact that his heart was hammering a hole in his ribs. "I told you! No touching! You were... you were practically glued to me, you brat!"
Jake sat up, his blonde hair a halo of static. He looked down at the floor, then back at Markus, a slow flush of pink creeping into his porcelain cheeks. "It's a natural human instinct to seek warmth. The air conditioning was set to twenty degrees! I was freezing."
"Use a blanket! Use a coat! Don't use me!" Markus jumped out of bed, his bare feet slapping against the floor. He felt exposed, not because he was shirtless, but because for a split second before the panic, he'd actually felt comfortable. And that terrified him. "Get up. If you're healthy enough to use me as a space heater, you're healthy enough to be useful."
Jake stood up with as much dignity as a man in silk pajamas could muster after being drop-kicked. "Useful? I believe I am a guest."
"The 'guest' promotion expired at sunrise," Markus snapped, grabbing a clean t-shirt from a drawer and pulling it over his head. "This isn't a hotel, and I'm not your staff. Kian told me you're 'seeking perspective.' Great. Perspective lesson number one: in this house, if you eat, you work. I have a conference call in an hour. You're making breakfast."
Jake froze. The word breakfast echoed in his mind like a death knell. "I... beg your pardon?"
"Breakfast. You know, the meal after you wake up?" Markus walked toward the kitchen, his gait still tight with lingering embarrassment. "I want eggs, over-easy. Some garlic rice—there's leftover rice in the fridge. And coffee. Black. No sugar."
Jake followed him into the kitchen, his eyes darting around the stainless steel appliances as if they were alien technology.
"Markus, perhaps we should order something? I'm sure there are wonderful cafes in the area that deliver—"
"No delivery," Markus said, leaning against the counter and pointing at the stove. "You wanted to stay here. You wanted the 'real' experience. This is it. Household chores. I pay the mortgage, you do the labor. Consider it your rent."
Markus turned on his heel and headed toward his small home office, leaving Jake standing alone in the middle of a kitchen that cost more than most people's houses, but felt like an active minefield.
Jake approached the stovetop. It was a sleek, induction surface with no visible knobs. He tapped the glass. Nothing happened. He tapped it again, harder. A small red light blinked at him and let out a sharp beep.
"Oh dear," Jake whispered.
He opened the refrigerator. It was a cavern of efficiency. He found the "leftover rice" in a plastic container. It was cold and clumped together. He found a carton of eggs. He took two out, holding them as if they were priceless Fabergé eggs.
Garlic rice, he thought. How hard can it be? It's just... rice and garlic.
He found a clove of garlic in a wire basket. He didn't have a knife—Markus probably kept those hidden—but he found a silver letter opener on a side table that looked sharp enough. He began to saw at the garlic, his brow furrowed in intense concentration.
Ten minutes later, he had managed to hack the garlic into irregular, thumb-sized chunks. He managed to turn on the induction stove by sheer luck, but he didn't realize that the "Power Boost" setting was not meant for delicate cooking. He placed a heavy pan on the heat and tossed in a massive glob of butter he found.
The butter didn't melt; it shrieked. It turned brown, then black, within seconds.
"Keep it together, Jacob," he muttered to himself, his royal lineage providing him with a stubbornness that surpassed his skill.
He threw the garlic chunks into the smoking butter. A cloud of acrid, pungent smoke billowed up instantly. Coughing, he dumped the entire container of cold rice on top. The rice stayed in a solid, rectangular brick, sitting defiantly in the middle of the scorched garlic.
Then came the eggs.
He tried to crack one on the edge of the pan as he'd seen chefs do on television. Instead of a clean break, the shell shattered into a dozen tiny pieces, the yolk and white sliding into the pan and instantly seizing onto the hot metal. He tried to "whisk" it with a fork, but the fork scraped against the pan with a sound that could peel paint.
In the office, Markus was trying to focus on a logistics report regarding a shipping delay in Batangas, but the smell of something burning was becoming impossible to ignore. Then came the sound—a shrill, piercing whistle.
The smoke alarm.
Markus bolted out of his chair. "Jake!"
He ran into the kitchen to find the Prince standing in a cloud of grey smoke, waving a silk dish towel frantically at a ceiling sensor. The pan on the stove was a blackened mess of charred carbon and what looked like yellow plastic.
Markus lunged for the stove, slamming the power off. He grabbed the pan and threw it into the sink, the cold water creating a violent hiss of steam that filled the room.
"What the hell were you doing?" Markus yelled, coughing as he opened the balcony door to let the smoke out. "I asked for breakfast, not a chemical fire!"
Jake stood there, his face streaked with soot, a piece of eggshell stuck to his forehead. He looked utterly defeated. "I... I followed your instructions. I used the rice. I used the garlic. I used the heat."
"You used all the heat!" Markus looked at the pan—a high-end Le Creuset—now effectively ruined. He looked at the counter, which was covered in rice grains and garlic juice.
"Jake... did you honestly not know how to fry an egg?"
Jake looked at his boots. "I have never... had to. At the palace, if I am hungry, I ring a bell. A tray appears. I didn't even know garlic came in a skin. I thought it was just... a paste."
Markus stared at him. He wanted to be angry. He wanted to yell and kick him out right then and there. But the sight of the most "expensive" man he'd ever met, looking like a disgraced chimney sweep over a ruined egg, was too much.
A low rumble started in Markus's chest. Then a chuckle. Then, finally, a full-bellied laugh.
"A paste?" Markus gasped, leaning against the counter. "You thought garlic grew as a paste?"
"It's a logical assumption!" Jake snapped, though his own lips were twitching. "Most things I eat come in a finished state."
Markus shook his head, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. "Man, Kian really did drop a disaster on my doorstep. You're not just 'delicate,' Jake. You're a liability."
"I told you I didn't know how to use a toaster," Jake reminded him softly.
Markus sighed, the last of his irritation—and his morning embarrassment—fading away. He looked at the mess, then at the Prince who was clearly out of his element but hadn't quit.
"Fine. Clean this up," Markus ordered, handing Jake a sponge. "And I mean clean it. If I find one grain of rice on this counter when I get back, you're sleeping in the hallway. I'm going to go buy us some Jollibee."
"Jollibee?" Jake asked, eyes brightening at the prospect of food he didn't have to kill himself to make. "Is that a local delicacy?"
"Something like that," Markus muttered, heading for the door. "Just stay away from the stove, Your Highness. I'd like to keep my lungs."
As the door clicked shut, Jake looked at the sponge in his hand. It was rough and damp. He looked at the blackened pan. He had no idea what he was doing, but as he started to scrub, he realized something.
He was covered in soot, his hip hurt from being kicked, and he was currently a janitor for an ex-convict. And yet, for the first time in his life, he didn't feel like he was waiting for his life to start.
It had already begun.