The dinner following Kaito's unceremonious eviction was a quiet affair. Markus had ordered a simple spread of grilled fish and vegetables from a nearby bistro, sensing that Jake's stomach might need a break from the glorious, deep-fried intensity of Jollibee.
They ate in a comfortable silence, the kind that usually takes weeks to build but had somehow been fast-tracked by the chaos of the last forty-eight hours.
As the last of the meal was finished, Jake stood up with a sudden, localized burst of energy. He gathered the plates with a clatter that made Markus flinch.
"I will do these," Jake announced, his chin tilted at a determined angle.
Markus raised a skeptical eyebrow. "The dishes? You? We've already established that you and the kitchen are currently engaged in a cold war, Jake."
"I am a fast learner," Jake countered, already heading toward the sink. "And I cannot be a 'nuisance' forever. You provided the meal; it is only right that I provide the labor. Go. Take your shower. You look like you've been carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders all afternoon."
Markus hesitated. He looked at the expensive ceramic plates—part of a set Kian had given him when he moved in—and then at the Prince, who was currently staring at the dish soap as if it were a complex chemical formula.
"Don't use the whole bottle of soap," Markus warned, standing up and stretching, his t-shirt riding up to reveal the hard line of his stomach. "And for God's sake, don't try to use the garbage disposal unless you want to lose a finger. I'm not in the mood to go to the ER."
"I shall be a paragon of domestic efficiency," Jake promised.
Markus grunted, a sound that was becoming his trademark response to Jake's royal optimism, and disappeared into the master suite.
Ten minutes later, the condo was filled with the sound of rushing water from the shower.
Jake stood at the sink, elbow-deep in suds. He was actually enjoying himself. There was something meditative about the warm water and the bubbles. He scrubbed a plate with the intensity of a man polishing a crown, feeling a strange sense of pride. He was working. He was being useful.
Then, disaster struck in the form of physics.
A porcelain dinner plate, slick with soap and royal ambition, slipped from Jake's fingers like a wet fish. He lunged for it, his hand hitting a glass bowl in the process. The plate hit the edge of the zinc counter with a sickening crack before shattering onto the concrete floor. The glass bowl followed, exploding into a glittering mosaic of shards.
"Oh, no," Jake whispered, staring at the wreckage. "No, no, no."
In the bathroom, the sound of the shattering porcelain cut through the white noise of the shower like a gunshot. Markus's survival instincts, honed in a world where a loud noise usually meant a cell raid or a blindside hit, took over instantly.
He didn't think. He didn't dry off. He grabbed the nearest towel, wrapped it haphazardly around his hips, and bolted out of the bathroom.
Jake was standing in the middle of the kitchen, frozen, his hands still covered in bubbles, looking down at the broken shards with an expression of pure horror. He didn't hear the bathroom door slam; he didn't hear the frantic footsteps.
Suddenly, a pair of large, damp hands grabbed his shoulders and spun him around.
"Are you hit? Are you bleeding?" Markus's voice was a low, urgent rasp.
Jake blinked, his breath catching in his throat. Markus was standing inches away from him, his skin still glistening with droplets of water. The towel was slung low on his hips, revealing the sharp, V-taper of his waist and the intricate tattoos that crawled up his damp chest like living shadows. The scent of steam and cedarwood soap rolled off him in waves.
"I... I broke the plate," Jake stammered, his eyes wide as they traveled over the sheer, physical reality of the man in front of him.
Markus didn't seem to care about the plate. His hands moved from Jake's shoulders to his arms, then his hands, turning them over to check for cuts. His touch was clinical but strangely tender, his brow furrowed in genuine concern.
"I don't care about the plate. Did the glass catch you?"
"I'm fine," Jake whispered, his voice failing him. "I just... I'm so sorry. I wanted to be helpful."
Markus let out a long, shuddering breath. The adrenaline began to recede, leaving behind a sudden, stinging realization of his own state of undress. He let go of Jake's hands, his face flushing a dark, embarrassed red that rivaled the heat of the shower.
"Stay there," Markus commanded, his voice returning to its usual gruffness. "Don't move. You'll step on a shard with those soft feet of yours."
Markus grabbed a broom from the utility closet and swept the wreckage with a focused, almost angry efficiency. Once the floor was clear, he turned back to the sink, his back to Jake.
"Go," Markus said, gesturing toward the bathroom with his head. "The water is still hot. Take your shower. I'll finish this before you manage to burn the house down with a sponge."
"Markus, I can—"
"Go, Jake," Markus repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Before I change my mind and make you sleep on the balcony."
Jake didn't argue. He hurried toward the bathroom, his heart hammering against his ribs for a reason that had nothing to do with broken porcelain.
When Jake emerged forty minutes later, dressed in fresh pajamas and smelling of Markus's soap, the kitchen was spotless. Markus was in the bedroom, but the door was open. Jake walked in hesitantly, stopping at the threshold.
Markus was stripped down to his sweatpants again, but he wasn't in bed. He was mid-maneuver, whipping a fresh, crisp white sheet over the mattress with the precision of a drill sergeant. The black silk sheets—the ones Kaito had drooled and sweated on—were piled in a heap in the corner.
"It reeked of tequila and bad decisions," Markus muttered, not looking up as he tucked in the corners. "I'm not sleeping in Kaito's heartbreak leftovers. And neither are you."
Jake felt a warmth spread through his chest. "Thank you."
Markus finished the bed and stepped back, pointing a stern finger at the left side. "There. Fresh sheets. Now, listen to me, Your Highness. I am exhausted. It has been a long day of crying tech moguls and broken dishes."
Jake climbed into the bed, the cool cotton feeling like a luxury after the day's events. He watched as Markus climbed into the other side, the mattress shifting under his weight.
Markus turned onto his side, facing away from Jake, but he paused, looking over his shoulder with a gaze that was sharp and warning.
"I mean it this time, Jake," Markus growled. "There is a border. It is an invisible, sacred wall. If you cross it—if I wake up and find you wrapped around me like a koala again—I don't care if you're a Prince or the Pope. I am throwing you straight through that window. 42nd floor. You'll have a lot of 'perspective' on the way down. Clear?"
Jake pulled the duvet up to his chin, his eyes sparkling in the dim light of the bedside lamp. "Perfectly clear."
"Good. Sleep."
"Markus?
"What now?"
"You checked if I was bleeding before you checked the plates," Jake said softly.
The silence that followed was long and heavy. Markus didn't move. He didn't retort with a sarcastic comment. He just reached out and clicked off the lamp, plunging the room into shadows.
"The plates were cheap," Markus's voice came through the dark, sounding further away than he actually was. "Go to sleep, brat."
Jake closed his eyes, a small smile tugging at his lips. He stayed strictly on his side of the bed, the "sacred wall" firmly in place. But as he drifted off, he realized that for a man who claimed to be made of stone, Markus was remarkably easy to see through.
The Prince was in a strange land, in a stranger's bed, with nothing to his name but a duffel bag. And yet, for the first time in his life, he didn't feel like he was waiting for a ribbon-cutting. He felt like he was home.