The smell of Jollibee—sweet, nostalgic, and undeniably greasy—was currently the only thing keeping the peace in the Rockwell condo. It was barely 9:00 a.m., the morning sun still climbing high over the Makati skyline, casting long, sharp shadows across the concrete floor.
Jake sat at the zinc-topped island, gingerly holding a piece of Chickenjoy as if it were a holy relic. He had discovered that the "local delicacy" was a revelation; the skin was crispier than any duck confit he'd had in Europe, and the sweet spaghetti was so bizarrely comforting it made him forget, for a moment, the soot still smudged behind his ears.
Markus sat opposite him, eating with the efficient, silent intensity of a man who viewed food as fuel. The tension from the morning's "cuddle-gate" had settled into a wary truce, though Markus still looked like he was ready to bolt if Jake so much as leaned in his direction.
"So," Jake said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. "The bee. He is very jolly. Is he the King of this country?"
Markus paused mid-bite, staring at Jake with a look of profound disbelief. "It's a mascot, Jake. A giant plastic insect. Please, for the love of God, don't say that to anyone outside this room. They'll think you've had a stroke."
"I am merely trying to understand the culture," Jake sniffed, his royal pride prickling. "You said I was a liability. I am educating myself."
"Educate yourself faster," Markus muttered, reaching for his pineapple juice.
Before Jake could retort, a heavy, frantic pounding erupted at the front door. It wasn't the polite knock of a neighbor or the rhythmic rap of security. It sounded like someone was trying to vibrate the door off its hinges.
Markus was on his feet in a second. The casualness vanished, replaced instantly by that lethal, coiled stillness Jake had seen at the airport. He didn't go for a weapon, but the way his weight shifted onto the balls of his feet suggested he didn't need one.
"Stay back," Markus commanded, his voice a low vibration.
He checked the peephole, his shoulders relaxing only slightly before he swung the door open.
A man practically fell into the foyer.
It was Kaito. But it wasn't the polished, sharp-eyed titan Jake had met at the lounge the night before. This Kaito was a walking disaster. His expensive silk shirt was unbuttoned halfway, wrinkled and stained with something that smelled suspiciously like expensive tequila. His hair was a bird's nest, and his eyes were bloodshot and watery. He reeked of a three-day bender and heartbreak.
"Markus," Kaito groaned, his voice cracking. "She's gone, man. She's really gone. She blocked me on everything. She even blocked my LinkedIn, Markus! Who does that?"
Markus caught him by the shoulders before he could face-plant onto the concrete floor. "Kaito? What the hell? I thought you were in Singapore for the tech expo."
"I flew back," Kaito sobbed—actually sobbed—as he draped himself over Markus's broad shoulders. "I couldn't stay. Every time I saw a Merlion, I thought of her smile. Everything is a metaphor for my pain, Markus! The world is a cold, dark place!"
Jake watched from the kitchen island, his Chickenjoy forgotten. He had never seen a grown man, let alone a man of Kaito's stature, disintegrate so completely. Back at the palace, "heartbreak" was handled with a quiet trip to the Swiss Alps and a discreet press release. This was... operatic.
"Easy, easy," Markus said, his voice surprisingly gentle. He didn't push Kaito away. Instead, he allowed the man to cling to him, guiding him further into the living room.
Kaito pulled back, grabbing Markus's face with both hands. "You're my brother, you know that? When I heard you were out of the 'place,' I told Kian, I said, 'Markus is the only one who gets it.' You know what it's like to lose years. I just lost three years to a woman who thinks I'm 'too emotionally unavailable.' Am I unavailable, Markus? I'm right here! I'm so available I'm leaking!"
"You're drunk, Kaito," Markus said, though there was a flicker of a smile on his face—a genuine, affectionate warmth that Jake hadn't seen him direct at anyone yet. "And you smell like a distillery fire."
"I need comfort," Kaito declared, his head lolling. He looked past Markus and spotted Jake, who was still frozen with a forkful of spaghetti halfway to his mouth. "Oh. Hey, Princey. You still here? Good. You're pretty. Pretty things make the world hurt less."
Without waiting for a response, Kaito untangled himself from Markus and began a zig-zagging march toward the hallway.
"Wait, where are you going? We're eating breakfast," Markus called out.
"Your bed," Kaito called back over his shoulder. "It's the only place that doesn't smell like her. Don't wake me up until the economy collapses or I stop feeling like I've been hit by a truck. Whichever comes first."
Jake watched in stunned silence as Kaito disappeared into the bedroom.
A moment later, the sound of a heavy body hitting the mattress echoed down the hall, followed almost immediately by a loud, rattling snore.
Silence returned to the condo, save for the hum of the AC and the smell of fried chicken.
Markus sighed, rubbing his face with his hands. He looked exhausted. He turned back toward the kitchen, eyeing the leftover Jollibee. "Well. I guess Kaito is staying the night."
Jake felt a sudden, sharp spike of irritation. It wasn't just annoyance; it was a hot, bubbling sense of injustice that started in his chest and worked its way up to his throat. He set his bone down on the plate with a clatter.
"That's it?" Jake asked, his voice rising in pitch. "That is how you handle that?"
Markus looked up, blinking. "Handle what? He's heartbroken. He's been drinking. He needs to sleep it off."
"He just walked into your bedroom!" Jake stood up, gesturing wildly toward the hallway. "He is currently lying on the bed—your bed—without a single protest from you! He didn't even ask! He just claimed it!"
Markus shrugged, heading to the fridge to get a bottle of water. "So? It's Kaito. He's had a rough night."
"A rough night?" Jake marched around the island, his face flushing a deep, indignant red. "Markus, this morning—barely an hour ago—you literally kicked me. You launched me onto the floor like a piece of unwanted luggage because I was 'touching' you in my sleep! I was a 'stranger' and a 'liability' and a 'headache'!"
Markus unscrewed the cap of his water, taking a slow sip. "Yeah? And?"
"And he just hugged you!" Jake's voice was borderline shrill now, the pampered Prince within him taking the wheel. "He clung to you like a barnacle! He touched your face! He is currently drooling on your 'custom California King' sheets! And you didn't kick him! You didn't even tell him to go to the sofa! Why does he get the bed and the hugs, and I get the floor and the smoke alarm lecture? It is completely unfair!"
Markus set the water bottle down, his expression hardening. "Because, Jake, I've known Kaito for years. He's family. You? I met you yesterday. Kaito has earned the right to be a mess in my house. You're just... here."
The words hit Jake harder than the kick to the hip. It was the "perspective" he had been looking for, but it tasted bitter.
"I see," Jake said, his voice dropping to a quiet, shaky whisper.
He didn't argue further. Instead, he did something Markus wasn't prepared for: he shut down. Jake slowly walked over to the L-shaped sofa, sat on the very edge, and pulled his knees to his chest. He didn't look at Markus. He didn't look at the Jollibee. He simply stared at the wall, his lower lip trembling slightly as he disappeared into a silent, masterful royal sulk.
The silence in the room stretched from uncomfortable to unbearable.
Markus tried to ignore it. He sat back down and picked up a chicken wing, but the sight of the blonde Prince looking like a kicked puppy in silk pajamas was ruining his appetite.
Five minutes passed. Ten. Jake hadn't moved a muscle. He looked small, fragile, and utterly miserable.
"Oh, for the love of..." Markus groaned, slamming his napkin onto the counter. "Fine! Stop doing... that."
Jake didn't look up. "Doing what? I am merely occupying my designated 'nuisance' area."
Markus stood up and stomped over to the sofa. He stood over Jake, but the younger man refused to make eye contact.
Markus felt a strange, nagging pull in his chest. He hated this. He hated that he felt like the villain for having boundaries.
"Look," Markus grumbled, his voice losing its edge. "Kaito is a disaster. He's going to sleep for ten hours and wake up smelling like a bar mat. You want the bed? You can't have the bed right now. But you can... I don't know, what do you want?"
Jake finally looked up, his eyes glassy. "I want to be treated like I matter."
Markus let out a long, defeated sigh. He reached down, and for the first time without being prompted by a "kick" reflex, he put a hand on Jake's shoulder. It was a heavy, warm weight.
"Come here," Markus muttered.
He didn't wait for an answer. He grabbed Jake by the arm and pulled him up. He led the Prince back to the kitchen, but instead of making him stand, he pulled out his own high-backed leather office chair—the most comfortable seat in the house—and practically pushed Jake into it.
"Stay there," Markus commanded.
Jake watched, bewildered, as Markus began to move with purpose. The ex-convict, the man of granite and scars, started to... pamper.
Markus went to the cupboard and pulled out a bag of premium coffee beans. He didn't use the automated machine; he pulled out a French press. He boiled water to the exact temperature. While the coffee steeped, he went to the fridge and pulled out a fresh mango—the gold of the Philippines. With surgical precision, he sliced it into perfect, chilled cubes and placed them in a crystal bowl.
"Eat the mango," Markus said, sliding the bowl in front of Jake. "It's better than the chicken."
Next, he found a soft, cashmere throw blanket he usually kept in his office. He draped it over Jake's shoulders, tucking it in with a rough but careful efficiency. Finally, he poured a cup of the rich, dark coffee, added a splash of cream—just the way he'd seen Jake eyeing the fridge earlier—and set it down.
"There," Markus growled, leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed, his face a mix of embarrassment and stubbornness. "You've got the best chair, the best fruit, the best coffee, and the softest blanket I own. Are you satisfied, Your Highness?"
Jake looked down at the mango, then at the steam rising from the coffee. He looked up at Markus, who was looking everywhere but at him. The "pampering" was unrefined, delivered with a scowl and a grunt, but it was the most genuine thing Jake had ever felt.
"The mango is... very yellow," Jake said softly, his sulk finally breaking into a small, shy smile.
"Just eat it, Jake," Markus muttered, though the corners of his mouth twitched. "And if you tell Kaito I did this, I'm definitely throwing you off the balcony."
Jake took a bite of the mango. It was sweet, cool, and perfect. "I make no promises."