As the night wound down and the bill was settled, Kian pulled Jake aside.
"Alright, Your High—I mean, Jake. I've got three apartments lined up for you. One in Makati, one here in BGC, and a villa in Alabang. All have 24-hour security. You'll be safe while you figure out your next move."
Jake looked at the tablet Kian was holding, showing pictures of gleaming marble floors and infinity pools. It looked exactly like the life he had just fled. It was beautiful, sterile, and lonely.
He looked over at the bar. Markus was standing there, saying something to Kaito, his posture relaxed but his presence still commanding the space.
An impulse, wild and irrational, took root in Jake's mind.
"I don't want those," Jake said.
Kian blinked. "What? Is the decor not to your liking? I can have them renovated—"
"I want to stay with him," Jake said, nodding toward Markus.
The silence that followed was heavy. Kian's jaw practically hit the floor. Behind them, Isaak paused with his glass halfway to his lips. Markus, hearing his name, turned around slowly.
"Come again?" Markus asked, his voice dangerously low.
"I want to stay with you," Jake repeated, his voice gaining strength. "In your home."
"Not a chance," Markus said immediately. He walked over, his boots thudding heavily on the floor. "Kian, tell your friend he's dreaming. I don't do roommates. Especially not roommates who probably need a manual to figure out how a toaster works."
"I felt safe with you at the airport," Jake argued, stepping closer to Markus, despite the height difference. "You don't look at me like I'm a... a thing to be displayed. You look at me like I'm a person you don't like. I prefer that."
Markus let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "You want to live with me because I'm an asshole? That's a new one. Look, kid, I live in a condo, not a palace. I eat over the sink, I work late, and I have a strict policy: only hot and beautiful girls are allowed to crash at my place. You? You're just a headache in a designer suit."
The "hot and beautiful girls" comment stung Jake in a way he didn't expect. He felt a flash of heat in his cheeks—not from embarrassment this time, but from a strange, competitive fire.
"I can pay," Jake said.
"I have millions, Jake. I don't need your lunch money," Markus retorted. He turned to Kian. "Get him to the Makati penthouse before he starts asking for a bedtime story."
Markus grabbed his jacket and walked out without a backward glance.
Kian sighed, looking at Jake with a mix of pity and amusement. "He's a tough nut to crack, Jake. He's been through a lot. Prison changes a man—makes him protective of his space. Maybe the Makati place is better?"
Jake didn't answer. He watched the door where Markus had disappeared. All his life, people had told him 'yes' because they had to. Markus had said 'no' because he wanted to.
"Kian," Jake said softly. "Where exactly is his condo?"
"Jake, don't—"
"As your friend, I am asking. Where does he live?"
Kian groaned, rubbing his temples. He knew that look. It was the look of a spoiled Prince who had finally found a toy he wasn't allowed to play with. "He's going to kill me. He's in the North Tower of the Rockwell Center. But Jake, he's serious. He doesn't let anyone in."
"He hasn't met me yet," Jake said, a small, determined smile playing on his lips.
Two hours later, Jake stood in front of a heavy oak door on the 42nd floor. He had his duffel bag in one hand and a bag of takeout he'd blindly ordered from a street vendor in the other. He didn't have a key, and he didn't have an invitation.
He knocked.
When the door swung open, Markus stood there in nothing but gray sweatpants, his chest bare and covered in ink—tattoos that looked like jagged lines and ancient script. His hair was damp, and he looked thoroughly annoyed.
"You've got to be kidding me," Markus growled.
"I brought food," Jake said, holding up the greasy bag of Filipino street skewers. "And I don't know how to use a toaster, so you'll have to show me."
Markus stared at him, then at the bag of food, then back at the blonde man who looked entirely too out of place in a dimly lit hallway. For a long minute, neither of them moved.
"You're a persistent little brat, aren't you?" Markus stepped back, not quite opening the door fully, but leaving enough space. "Fine. You stay tonight. Tomorrow, you're gone. And if you touch my weights or my scotch, I'm throwing you off the balcony."
Jake stepped inside, the scent of sandalwood and expensive leather hitting him. He had no intention of leaving tomorrow.