The morning light over Makati was relentless, a bright, unforgiving blade that sliced through the bedroom. Usually, the sun was Markus's alarm clock, a signal to return to the world of logistics, spreadsheets, and the cold, hard reality of his empire. But this morning, the signal was delayed by a sensation of profound, heavy warmth.
Markus shifted, his consciousness slowly bubbling to the surface. He felt soft hair tickling his chin. He felt a narrow, firm shoulder tucked perfectly into the hollow of his chest. Most notably, he felt his own arm—the one he usually kept tucked under his pillow or at his side like a weapon—wrapped tightly around a slender waist, his hand splayed flat against a stomach that definitely didn't belong to him.
His eyes snapped open.
The "invisible, sacred wall" had not just been crossed; it had been demolished, its borders erased and replaced by a tangle of limbs and black cotton sheets. And, to his absolute horror, the primary aggressor was not the Prince.
Jake was pinned beneath him, his back against Markus's chest. The younger man was already awake, his head tilted back slightly to look at Markus with a look of pure, unadulterated triumph.
"Good morning," Jake whispered, his voice smooth and entirely too smug for someone who had spent the night being used as a body pillow.
Markus froze. He didn't pull away—not yet—because his brain was currently rebooting, trying to process how the man who had spent three years in a prison cell avoiding human contact had turned into a "koala" in the span of eight hours.
"You," Markus croaked, his voice thick with sleep. "You moved."
"I didn't move an inch," Jake countered, a slow, delighted grin spreading across his face. "I stayed exactly on my side of the meridian. You, however, seem to have developed a late-night wandering habit. You migrated, Markus. You colonized my side of the bed. You are currently holding me like I am the last life jacket on a sinking ship."
Markus retracted his arm as if Jake's skin had suddenly turned into white-hot iron. He scrambled backward, nearly falling off his own side of the bed in his haste to create distance. His face was no longer the cool, stoic mask of a CEO; it was a vibrant, burning shade of crimson that reached the tips of his ears.
"I... the AC must have been too high," Markus stammered, rubbing his neck frantically. "My body was just seeking a heat source. It was an autonomic response. It didn't mean anything."
"Oh, really?" Jake sat up, crossing his arms and leaning back against the headboard, looking like a King presiding over a very flustered court. "Because last night, there was a very specific threat involving a 42nd-floor window. I believe the terms were: 'If I wake up and find you wrapped around me, out you go.' So, Markus... by your own logic, when are you jumping?"
Markus stared at him, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. The embarrassment was so physical he could feel it vibrating in his chest. "I... you should just throw me out the window then," he grumbled, pulling a pillow over. "Go ahead. Lift me up. Toss me over. End my misery."
Jake let out a short, melodic laugh. He moved closer—not out of sleep this time, but with a deliberate, playful confidence. "I would love to, really. It would be a very poetic end to my stay. But there is a slight logistical problem, Mr. Logistics."
Markus. "What?"
"You are carved out of granite," Jake said, his eyes traveling over Markus's broad, tattooed shoulders with a gaze that was entirely too bold. "You weigh significantly more than I do. I am a Prince, not a weightlifter. I couldn't even lift your arm, let alone your entire, stubborn body."
Before Markus could respond, Jake did something completely shameless. He lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Markus's neck and burying his face in the crook of the larger man's shoulder, pinning the pillow between them.
Markus went rigid, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. "What—what are you doing? Get off!"
"No," Jake's voice came muffled from his chest. "You spent all night using me for warmth. Now it's my turn. It's freezing in here, and you're basically a human furnace. Consider this a royal tax."
"Jake! This is—this is highly inappropriate!" Markus tried to pry him off, but Jake clung on with the surprising strength of a man who had finally found something he wasn't willing to let go of. "I'm your host! I'm an ex-con! I'm dangerous!"
"You're warm," Jake corrected.
Markus let out a frustrated growl. The embarrassment had reached its peak, crossing over into a strange, agitated energy. His "kick" reflex, the one that had protected him in the pits, flared up. He didn't use full force—he wasn't trying to hurt the guy—but he gave a sharp, definitive shove with his leg.
Thump.
For the second time in twenty-four hours, Jake hit the floor.
"Ow!" Jake yelled, popping his head up from the side of the bed, his hair a chaotic mess. "You are a very violent man, Markus! Is this how you treat all your 'guests'?"
"Only the ones who don't understand personal space!" Markus yelled back, jumping out of bed and grabbing a clean shirt from the floor. He was moving fast now, the adrenaline of the quarrel finally clearing the fog of sleep. "Get up! Wash your face! We're leaving in fifteen minutes."
Jake stood up, rubbing his hip and glaring at Markus. "Leaving? Where? Are we going to the mall for more fried chicken?"
"No," Markus said, pulling his shirt over his head and looking at Jake with a grim, business-like expression. "You said you wanted perspective. You said you wanted to be useful. Well, the 'vacation' part of this arrangement is over. I have a company to run, and since you're currently living on my dime and breaking my plates, you're coming with me."
Jake blinked, his eyes widening. "To your office?"
"To the warehouse," Markus corrected.
"And listen to me, Jake. This isn't a field trip. This isn't a royal tour where you walk around and nod at people while they throw flower petals at your feet. It's hot, it's loud, and it's a lot of work. You're going to be a shadow. My shadow. You listen, you stay out of the way, and if I tell you to move a box, you move a box."
Jake straightened his silk pajama top, a flicker of genuine excitement—and a hint of nervousness—crossing his features. "I can move a box."
"We'll see," Markus muttered, heading for the kitchen to find caffeine. "And for the record? If you ever mention the 'cuddling' to Kian or Kaito, I will find a window that's even higher than this one."
"My lips are sealed," Jake promised, though the twinkle in his eye suggested that the Prince was far from finished with his host.
The drive to the outskirts of the city was a stark contrast to the glitz of BGC and the quiet luxury of Rockwell. As Markus's SUV wove through the industrial zones, the skyscrapers gave way to sprawling corrugated-metal warehouses and the constant, rhythmic roar of heavy machinery.
Markus was in full "Commander" mode. He was on his Bluetooth headset, barking orders in a mix of English and Tagalog, his voice sharp and decisive. Jake sat in the passenger seat, watching him with quiet fascination. This was the man who had built an empire from a trash bag of belongings.
"We're here," Markus said, pulling the SUV into a massive lot filled with black and gold semi-trucks bearing the logo 'SAAVEDRA MOVE'
As they stepped out of the air-conditioned car, the heat hit Jake like a physical weight—heavy, humid, and smelling of diesel and hot asphalt.
Thousands of workers were moving with frantic, coordinated precision.
Markus turned to Jake, adjusted his sunglasses, and pointed a finger at him. "Last warning, Princey. Leave the 'Your Highness' attitude in the car. Around here, I'm the boss, and you're just the new guy who doesn't know how to use a toaster. Got it?"
Jake took a deep breath, the grit of the air settling in his lungs. He felt small, out of place, and entirely thrilled. "Got it, Boss."
Markus grunted, though there was a brief, almost imperceptible nod of approval. "Good. Let's get to work."