The low, rhythmic thud of a basketball hitting hardwood and the frantic squeak of sneakers against a court echoed through the living room, a stark contrast to the dramatic orchestral swells of the teleserye that had lulled Jake to sleep.
Jake stirred, the fog of a deep, jetlag-induced nap slowly lifting. The first thing he registered was the warmth. It wasn't the artificial warmth of a heater or the suffocating weight of a royal duvet; it was the solid, radiating heat of a living, breathing engine.
He realized he was still draped across the sofa, his head pillowed on the firm, muscular thighs of Markus Saavedra.
Most people—especially most Princes—would have sat up immediately, smoothed their hair, and offered a dignified apology for such an undignified position.
Jake was not most people.
Instead of retreating, he leaned into the comfort. With a slow, deliberate movement that could only be described as feline, he shifted his weight. He rolled over from his side onto his stomach, turning his face inward until he was staring directly at Markus's midsection.
He let out a contented sigh and buried his face against Markus's abdomen, his cheek pressing into the hard, corrugated ridges of muscle beneath the thin fabric of the black t-shirt.
He could feel them—the distinct, iron-strong results of a life spent lifting crates and surviving the yard. Markus was built like a fortress, and Jake was currently trying to burrow into the foundations.
Above him, the tablet hit the coffee table with a startled clack. Markus's entire frame went rigid, his breath hitching in his throat. The NBA game continued to play on the screen—the Lakers making a fast break—but Markus's focus was entirely localized on the blonde head currently nuzzled into his stomach.
"Are you... are you ever going to get up?" Markus's voice was a low, strained rasp. "Or my lap is your new permanent residence?"
"I am comfortable," Jake's muffled voice came from the depths of Markus's shirt. "Your abs are like a very expensive, very ergonomic heated mattress. Why would I leave?"
Markus let out a long, frustrated exhale, his hands hovering awkwardly in the air as if he didn't know whether to push Jake away or pull him closer. "Are you always like this? Is this a royal thing? Do you just find the nearest person and turn them into furniture?"
Jake pulled back just enough to look up at Markus, his chin resting on Markus's stomach, his expression flat and unimpressed. "Do you see me doing this to Kian?"
"I don't know what you do in your spare time," Markus grumbled, his ears beginning to pink.
"I do not," Jake stated firmly." He let a small, mischievous glint enter his eyes. He reached up, tracing a finger absentmindedly along the hem of Markus's shirt. "I chose to stay with you instead of Kian's for a reason. It is because I fell in love with you at first sight."
The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush a truck. Markus stared down at him, his mouth slightly agape, his face rapidly darkening to a shade of crimson that rivaled a Manila sunset.
"Stop," Markus finally managed, his voice cracking. "Stop saying shameless things. Just... stop."
Jake let out a delighted, soft laugh, shifting back into the warmth of Markus's body. "It is the truth. From the moment you scowled at me in that airport, I knew you were exactly the kind of 'nuisance' I needed in my life. I am only shameless with you, Markus. You should feel honored."
"I feel like I need a drink," Markus sighed in total defeat, slumping back against the sofa cushions. "You're a nightmare, Jacob. A literal, walking nightmare."
Jake smiled, closing his eyes against the steady beat of Markus's heart. "A nightmare you tucked into bed this morning."
They sat in silence for a few minutes, the sounds of the game filling the air. But Jake's mind, always curious and now fueled by the intimacy of the moment, wouldn't stay still. He tilted his head back, looking up at Markus's sharp jawline.
"Markus?"
"What now? Do you want a foot rub? A crown polished?"
"Have you ever been in a relationship?" Jake asked, his voice losing its teasing edge and becoming genuinely curious. "An actual one? Or do you have an ex-girlfriend hiding in the shadows somewhere?"
Markus's gaze remained fixed on the TV, but his expression shifted into something more guarded, more clinical. "No. I don't do relationships. My life hasn't exactly been conducive to 'long-term commitments.' Between the streets, the yard, and building this company... I don't have the patience for it. I just hook up. It's easier. Less paperwork."
Jake blinked, a strange, sharp pang of something—jealousy? curiosity?—striking his chest. "So... you have kissed people? Many people?"
Markus let out a dry, sarcastic snort. "I'm twenty-six, Jake. I've lived more in those twenty-six years than most people do in a century. Of course I've kissed people. And a hell of a lot more than that. We're almost thirty, for God's sake. We're not exactly virgins."
Jake felt a heat crawl up his own neck, a sudden, intense blush that made his skin prickle. He looked away, focusing very intently on a loose thread on Markus's sweatpants. The information shouldn't have surprised him—Markus was a grown man, a powerful, attractive man—but hearing him say it so casually made the world feel a bit more tilted.
"Oh," Jake whispered.
Markus looked down, noticing the sudden change in Jake's demeanor. He frowned, his voice dropping into a softer, almost confused tone. "What? Don't tell me you're shocked that I'm not some chaste monk. You're a Prince. You've probably had half the debutantes in Europe throwing themselves at you since you were sixteen."
Jake went silent. He bite on his lower lip, the shameless bravado of a few minutes ago vanishing completely. He felt small, suddenly, and very aware of the gap between his curated, sheltered life and the raw reality of the man beneath him.
"Actually," Jake said, his voice so quiet it was almost lost to the hum of the air conditioner. "I... I haven't."
"Haven't what?"-Markus.
"I haven't even had my first kiss yet," Jake confessed, the words coming out in a rush of shy embarrassment.
Markus froze. He didn't just stop moving; he seemed to stop existing for a second.
He looked down at Jake, his eyes wide, his eyebrows nearly disappearing into his hairline. "What? You're joking. You're doing that 'shameless' thing again."
"I am not," Jake insisted, finally looking up, his face burning. "My life has been... monitored. Every person I spoke to, every event I attended, was vetted by a committee. I was never allowed to be alone with anyone. And the people they wanted me to be with... it always felt like a transaction. A contract. I didn't want my first time—or even my first kiss—to be a matter of state policy."
Markus stared at him, the sarcasm and the gruffness completely drained from his face. He looked at Jake as if he were seeing him for the first time—not as a Prince, not as a brat, but as a young man who had been kept in a beautiful, golden box until he'd forgotten how to breathe on his own.
"You're twenty-five years old," Markus said, his voice hushed with a genuine, stunned realization. "And you've never... not even once?"
"No," Jake whispered, his heart hammering against his ribs. He felt incredibly vulnerable, stripped of his titles and his teasing. "I am shameless with you because you are the first person who ever looked at me and didn't see a throne. But the truth is... I am a complete novice."
Markus didn't say anything for a long time. The NBA game ended, the screen fading to a post-game highlight reel, but neither of them noticed. The air in the room had shifted, becoming thick and electric.
Markus reached down, his hand hovering over Jake's cheek before finally, softly, tucking a stray golden lock behind Jake's ear. His touch was no longer clinical; it was tentative, almost reverent.
"A Prince who's a virgin," Markus muttered, though there was no mockery in his voice. "Kian is never going to believe this."
"You are not to tell him!" Jake squeaked, his embarrassment returning in full force.
Markus let out a short, quiet laugh, but he didn't pull his hand away. He left it resting against the side of Jake's face, his thumb tracing the line of Jake's jaw. "Your secret is safe with me, Your Highness. I've kept worse things in the vault."
Jake leaned into the touch, his heart swelling with a strange, sweet ache. He was a Prince who had run away from a kingdom, only to find himself captured by a man who treated his innocence like a treasure rather than a joke.
"Thank you, Markus," Jake whispered.
"Don't thank me yet," Markus grunted, his scowl returning, though it was softer now. "You're still a headache. And you're still getting my shirt wrinkled. Get up."
Jake laughed, the tension breaking, and finally sat up. But as he looked at Markus, he knew that the "sacred border" hadn't just been crossed—it had been redefined.