The bathroom of the Rockwell condo was a masterpiece of slate and glass, but to Jake, it was currently a sanctuary of steam.
After a breakfast that had tasted more like home than anything served in a palace, the hot water felt like it was finally washing away the residual chill of the high-altitude flight and the stiff, cold expectations of his father.
When the water finally stopped, Jake didn't reach for a robe. He didn't reach for a shirt. He simply stepped out, pulled on a pair of soft, black cotton lounge pants, and walked into the living area.
He was a sight that would have caused a scandal in the royal courts. His golden hair was a sodden, chaotic mess, sending rhythmic droplets of water down his pale, toned chest and back. The trail of moisture followed him like a clumsy shadow as he padded barefoot across the polished concrete.
Markus was exactly where Jake expected him to be: slumped on the L-shaped sofa, his broad shoulders hunched over a tablet as he scrolled through logistics manifests and shipping schedules. He looked every bit the serious businessman, his brow furrowed in a deep, habitual scowl.
"You're dripping," Markus growled without looking up. "You're getting the floor wet, and I'm the one who has to walk on it."
Jake didn't flinch. He didn't apologize. Instead, he let out a languid, shameless shrug, his eyes sparkling with a familiar mischief. "The floor will dry, Markus. It is porous stone; it likes the hydration."
Markus finally looked up, his gaze traveling from Jake's damp, bare chest to the puddles forming at his feet. His expression was a mixture of exasperation and a very poorly suppressed flicker of something far more intense. "You're a disaster. Get in the bathroom and dry off. Wear a t-shirt for damn sake."
"No," Jake said simply. He walked over to the sofa and sat down right next to Markus—so close that his damp skin brushed against Markus's t-shirt. He looked at the larger man with an expression of pure, expectant innocence. "My arms are tired. Dry my hair for me?"
Markus stared at him, the tablet frozen in his hand. "Are you serious? You came back thousands of miles, crossed oceans, and negotiated with a King just so you could treat me like your personal lady-in-waiting?"
"I came back because I missed my favorite pillow," Jake countered, tilting his head. "And because I know that deep down, beneath all that charcoal-colored armor, you actually enjoy pampering me. It gives your life purpose." He shamelessly said.
Markus let out a sound that was halfway between a huff and a groan. "It gives my life a headache. You're a spoiled brat, Jacob. A literal, textbook example."
Despite the protest, Markus set the tablet down on the coffee table with a definitive thwack. He stood up, his scowl deepening as he marched toward the linen closet. A moment later, he returned with a plush grey towel and one of his own oversized black t-shirts.
"Lean forward," Markus commanded, his tone rough but his actions lacking any real bite.
Jake obeyed, a small, triumphant smirk playing on his lips. He felt the heavy weight of the towel being draped over his head, and then the firm, surprisingly careful pressure of Markus's hands.
Markus didn't just rub the towel around haphazardly. He worked with a methodical, heavy-handed efficiency, his large palms massaging Jake's scalp through the fabric. It was a strange sensation—rough enough to be masculine, yet gentle enough to be intimate. Jake closed his eyes, leaning into the touch, feeling the tension bleed out of his neck.
"You're useless," Markus muttered, though he was now meticulously drying the back of Jake's neck. "Can't even dry your own head without making it a state affair."
"I am delegating," Jake murmured, his voice thick with contentment. "A key skill for any future ruler."
"Yeah, well, delegate yourself into this shirt," Markus said, pulling the towel away and tossing the black t-shirt at Jake's face.
Jake caught it, laughing, and pulled the fabric over his head. It was massive on him, the shoulder seams hanging halfway down his biceps and the hem reaching mid-thigh. It smelled like the car-wash detergent Jake had teased him about—sharp, clean, and undeniably Markus.
Once the shirt was on, Jake didn't move back to his side of the sofa. Instead, he did something even more shameless. He shifted his weight and lowered himself until his head was resting squarely in Markus's lap. He curled his legs up, making himself a permanent fixture on the cushions.
Markus went rigid. "What are you doing now? The bed is literally twenty feet away."
"I am on vacation," Jake reminded him, reaching for the remote and clicking on the massive TV. "And the bed doesn't have a giant screen. Be still, Markus. You are providing a vital service to the Crown."
Markus looked down at the blonde head resting on his thighs. He looked at the tablet on the table, then back at Jake. He looked like a man who was contemplating a very long walk off a very short pier.
"I have work to do," Markus grumbled, but he didn't push Jake off. He reached out, grabbed his tablet, and rested it on the edge of the sofa's armrest, trying to navigate his spreadsheets around the Prince's shoulder.
Jake ignored the grumbling. He was busy navigating the local channels until he found what he was looking for: a classic Filipino teleserye. The screen was filled with dramatic zooms, sweeping orchestral music, and a woman weeping in a rainstorm while accusing a man in a barong of betrayal.
"What is this trash?" Markus asked, his eyes flickering to the screen.
"It is 'cultural immersion'," Jake said, his eyes glued to the drama. "Kian told me that to understand the Filipino soul, one must understand the 'slap-and-hug' dynamic of the afternoon drama. It is very educational."
"It's soap opera, Jake. It's brain rot."
"Shh," Jake hissed, pointing at the screen. "She is about to find out he is her long-lost half-brother who is actually a secret billionaire. This is high stakes."
Markus let out a long, defeated sigh, his sour expression fixed on his tablet. But as the minutes ticked by, the rigidity in his legs began to fade. He found himself unconsciously adjusting his posture so Jake would be more comfortable.
The room fell into a strange, domestic rhythm. The TV provided a background of over-the-top emotional dialogue and dramatic musical stings, while the only other sound was the soft tap-tap of Markus's finger against the glass of his tablet.
Occasionally, Markus would let out a frustrated grunt at a shipping manifest, and Jake would absentmindedly pat Markus's knee without looking away from the screen. It was a bizarre tableau—a man who had survived the harshest corners of the world and a man born into the softest, both of them anchored to a grey sofa by nothing more than a shared silence and thirty days of borrowed time.
Markus looked down once, his eyes softening just a fraction as he saw Jake's eyes starting to grow heavy. The jetlag was finally winning. The Prince was still watching the screen, but his blinks were getting longer, his breathing deeper.
Markus didn't say anything. He didn't tell him to go to bed. He simply shifted the tablet to his other hand and, with a hesitation that no one would ever see, he allowed his free hand to rest lightly on the back of the sofa, just inches away from Jake's hair.
He was a "nuisance." He was a "spoiled brat." He was a "headache."
But as the afternoon sun moved across the floor, Markus realized that the headache felt a lot better than the silence ever had. He returned to his work, his face still set in a habitual scowl, but he didn't move an inch, playing the part of the world's most expensive, most stubborn pillow until the credits finally rolled.