The Morning After Return-
Outside Jean's apartment, the early morning sun cast a soft glow on the empty streets. Leaning against his sleek black car was Rai — black trousers, white polo shirt tucked cleanly, sunglasses perched like he was born in them. The man looked like a magazine cover come to life. Calm. Cool. Dangerous.
Jean, on the other hand, was the exact opposite.
Half-asleep, hair sticking up in every direction, he stumbled down the stairs in a loose pajama set that did absolutely nothing to hide the tempting lines of his body. Phone in hand, his face was buried in annoyance.
Jean squinted. "What's your problem?"
Rai didn't answer immediately. He just eyed Jean — long and slow — from sleep-heavy eyes to the curve of bare legs and messy shirt that barely clung to his frame.
Rai: "Let's go on a date."
Jean blinked. The words hit like a slap.
"...What?"
Rai: "A date."
Jean, now wide awake: "A date. You and me?"
Rai: "Yes."
Jean's jaw dropped.
Before he could recover, Rai suddenly grabbed him — threw him over his shoulder like he weighed nothing — and slapped his ass with a sharp thwack.
Jean: "WHAT THE FU—?! Rai, put me down! You psycho bastard—! We're in PUBLIC—!! Have you no SHAME?!"
Rai, walking up the stairs with zero urgency and even less concern: "Let's get you dressed up, sweetheart."
Jean kicked his legs, fists pounding uselessly against Rai's back. "I swear to God I will END you!"
Rai smirked as he reached the door. "Yeah, yeah. Save it for the second date."
Inside the apartment...
Jean was still slung over Rai's shoulder like a bag of laundry, wriggling uselessly. The door clicked shut behind them.
Rai glanced around the spacious, stylish interior.
"You're rich," he muttered, unimpressed but mildly amused.
Without hesitation, he walked straight to the bedroom — as if he'd been there a dozen times. He hadn't. But he moved like he owned the place.
Jean flailed harder. "Put me down, you freak!"
Rai did. Roughly. He tossed Jean onto the round king-sized bed, making him bounce. The hem of Jean's pajama shirt rode up dangerously high — exposing just a glimpse of his flushed skin. Nearly a nipple.
Jean yelped, grabbing the fabric and yanking it down.
"What the hell's wrong with you?!"
Rai leaned against the edge of the bed, arms crossed. "Why are you covering up? I've already seen everything."
Jean's face went red. He scrambled up, eyes narrowing.
"And why the sudden 'date' idea, huh? What are you playing at?"
Rai didn't answer — not with words. He unbuckled his belt with a slow, deliberate smirk, closing the distance between them like a panther.
Jean's hand shot forward, grabbing Rai's wrists. "Hah—don't you dare."
The tension in the room thickened.
Rai's voice was low, almost teasing. "Would you rather stay in...?"
Jean blinked. His grip on Rai's wrists tightened. "Don't mess around."
But Rai had already grabbed a crisp white outfit from Jean's closet — white jeans, a fitted tee, a clean overshirt. He practically dressed Jean like a living mannequin, sliding fabric over skin, tugging and adjusting like it was second nature.
Jean grumbled. "You satisfied now? Playing with me like I'm your doll?"
Rai didn't answer. He grabbed Jean's waist, pulling him close with a sudden, strong grip. Jean barely had time to gasp before Rai crushed their mouths together.
It wasn't a kiss. It was a claim.
Tongues tangled. Breaths hitched. Jean's hands braced against Rai's chest, but he didn't push away.
When Rai finally pulled back, his eyes held a quiet blaze.
"Now I'm satisfied," he whispered.
Jean, cheeks flushed and heart racing, cleared his throat and quickly turned away.
"We should leave," he mumbled, bolting for the stairs — anything to escape the suffocating heat rising in his chest.
Rai followed, smug and composed. He opened the passenger door with a mock bow.
"After you, princess."
___
In the Car
Jean was unusually quiet. Rai glanced over and saw him tapping away on his phone.
Rai: "Who are you texting?"
Jean looked up, unimpressed.
Jean: "None of your business, officer."
Rai's brows lifted.
Rai: "Officer?"
Jean: "Yes."
Rai smirked.
Rai: "So... what should be the punishment for your crime, Mr. Arison?"
Jean blinked.
Jean: "Crime? What crime?"
Rai: "Assault."
Jean stared.
Jean: "Assault?! What the hell are you talking about?!"
Rai: "Well... you did pin me down on that sofa during the trip and had your way with me. If that's not assault, what is?"
Jean rolled his eyes.
Jean: "That certain individual seemed to enjoy it. Maybe more than me—if I had to guess."
Rai laughed, and Jean—finally—let a small smile slip. Exactly what Rai had been trying to pull out of him. As expected, Rai twisted that smile into something nastier, leaning into it.
Rai: "I missed this Jean."
Jean looked at him, almost startled, as if he'd just realized something. He had been stiff and distant since that talk with Sage back in Phi Phi. His mind had been tangled, scattered. But now... his expression softened. He leaned back in his seat, eyes fixed on Rai—holding a mixture of admiration, a fear he couldn't name, and a dangerous new emotion he still kept buried.
Jean: "So... why'd you leave early from the trip?"
Rai's smile faltered. Instantly. Jean caught it.
Jean: "Something happened? What? Did you—"
Rai: "No, no. Nothing happened to me. It's about Rowon."
Jean frowned.
Jean: "Why? What happened to him?"
Rai: "Chairman called him back."
Jean: "Weren't you two assigned to that task together? So why—"
Rai: "Ah... Chairman's Rowon's father. And he caught wind of what Rowon got tangled up in on the trip."
Jean: "With Mr. Fox?"
Rai's lips curved—not into a smile, but into something mocking.
Rai: "Mr. Fox? No. He's Mr. Brown."
Jean blinked. That was new. He had dug into Sage's background before, knew Felton was connected somehow, but he hadn't bothered to look deeper—assuming it was shady business ties or some kind of guard loyalty. But this?
Jean: "How?"
Rai (casual, almost bored): "Apollo married Felton's father, Eros. That's the connection."
Jean's eyes widened even more.
Jean: "What?!"
Rai: "What—are you shocked that the fox is actually a Brown? Or that Apollo and Eros are married?"
By then, Rai had already parked the car. He unbuckled his seatbelt without missing a beat.
Jean: "Both. But mostly the latter."
Rai leaned in close, hovering over him. Click. He popped Jean's seatbelt free. Jean's eyes searched his, and for a moment, he almost closed them.
Rai: "Why? It's legal now."
The air shifted—mischief replacing the earlier seriousness. Jean flushed bright red.
Rai leaned closer still, voice dropping.
Rai: "Let's eat... before I eat you."
Jean shoved him back and scrambled out of the car. Outside, a sleek Asian fusion restaurant came into view. The smell alone made his stomach twist with anticipation—dimsum had been on his mind all morning.
Rai's hand found Jean's waist again as they walked.
Jean: "What is with your hands? Why are they always on my waist?"
Rai: "My hands should go where they belong. Right?"
Jean ignored him and headed inside.
Rai ordered half the menu—every type of siu mai, seafood rice, nanban. Jean sneakily added an extra spicy note to Rai's plate. Unfortunately for him, Rai noticed. When the food arrived, Rai casually swapped their plates.
The first bite nearly set Jean's mouth on fire. His face turned bright red.
Rai: "Mr. Tomato. Have something sweet to drink."
Jean glared, embarrassed that his prank had backfired.
Jean: "Stop giving me weird nicknames."
Rai: "It suits you, Mr. Tomato."
The lunch stretched long as they devoured the mountain of food—both clearly hungrier than they'd realized.
Jean: "So... that's it for the date?"
Rai: "Nope. There's a movie at my place, too."
Jean froze mid-bite.
Jean: "At your place?"
Rai: "Why? Scared?"
Jean: "Hah. Why would I be?"
Rai: "Alright then."
They finished their three-course feast, and as they drove through the golden afternoon light toward Rai's penthouse, Jean couldn't shake the feeling that the second half of the date might be far more dangerous than the first.
_____
In the Penthouse
The elevator doors slid open directly into Rai's penthouse.
Jean stepped inside, eyes scanning the grand space—floor-to-ceiling windows, sleek black velvet couches, and a kitchen that looked like it belonged in a design magazine.
His gaze flicked toward Rai, suspicious. Rai ignored it, already anticipating the question. He strolled into the open kitchen, grabbed two crystal glasses, and poured amber whiskey.
Jean planted his hands on the counter, watching him.
Jean: "How does a civil servant end up with a penthouse?"
Rai smirked, sliding a glass toward him before clinking their drinks.
Rai: "You think I only work as a detective?"
Jean: "What else then? Bribes?"
Rai chuckled.
Rai: "Invested in the stock market. Got lucky."
Jean's eyes narrowed, unconvinced, but he let it go and sank into the velvet couch. Rai dimmed the lights, then switched on the TV. A grainy 90's adult film flickered to life.
Jean glanced sideways.
Jean: "That's your taste?"
Without missing a beat, Rai slid into the couch beside him—close enough their knees brushed.
Rai: "My taste is you."
Jean ignored him, trying to focus on the movie. But it wasn't long—barely thirty minutes—before the on-screen couple was having sex for the third time.
Jean huffed, cheeks warm.
Jean: "Why don't they just talk to each other?"
Rai's arm rested lazily along the back of the couch, his fingers hovering dangerously near Jean's neck. His voice dropped.
Rai: "Maybe they communicate with their bodies."
Jean opened his mouth for a retort but froze instead—Rai's cold fingertips brushed the back of his neck. It wasn't a casual touch. It was deliberate, claiming, like a predator marking its prey.
On-screen, the couple began again—but this time was different. The woman's hands and ankles were bound, her breath ragged, her body arching as if both terrified and exhilarated.
Jean's breath hitched. Something stirred in his chest—unease tangled with a sharp, curious spark.
Rai hadn't watched a single scene. His eyes had been locked on Jean the whole time, studying every flicker of reaction. Now he leaned in, so close their shadows merged.
Rai: "Wanna try it?"
Jean's fingers dug into the couch, nails catching on the velvet.
Jean: "Is that why you played this movie?"
Rai's lips curved—slow, knowing.
Rai: "You caught on. I know what you want, Jean."
He remembered that first night they'd spent together. He'd seen it then—the way Jean had responded. Untouched potential. Untested desire.
Rai: "You just haven't had the chance to give it."
And in Rai's mind, there was no question—Jean would never need to look anywhere else.
____
The room thickened with heat and silence.
Rai rose slowly—deliberately—each movement a seduction Jean was powerless to resist. His hand slid around Jean's right arm, guiding him upward, until Jean was standing, drawn like prey toward a predator. Without a word, Rai led him up the stairs to a crimson door.
Jean didn't know what waited behind it, but his pulse quickened. Rai stepped behind him, arms wrapping low around his waist, breath hot against his neck. Inhaling deeply—like Jean's scent was oxygen—he murmured, "Open it."
Jean's eyes widened. The room beyond gleamed with mirrors—walls, floor, even the ceiling—a hall of reflections. In the center, a round bed draped in black silk sheets.
Stepping inside, Jean saw himself from every angle. Before he could speak, the door clicked shut. Rai leaned against it, gaze heavy and certain, like a hunter who had finally closed the snare.
Jean swallowed hard as Rai advanced. Step by step, Jean retreated until his back hit the cold glass window, half the wall a view over the glittering city from thirteen floors up.
Rai's hands came up, caging him against the pane. "Breathe."
Jean hadn't realized he wasn't.
Rai's presence closed in.
He didn't touch—not fully—but the heat between them made Jean's pulse riot.
"Still pretending you're not affected?" Rai's voice was low, a dangerous velvet, his reflection in the glass a dark echo over Jean's shoulder.
Jean swallowed hard, refusing to drop his gaze. "I'm not—"
The words broke when Rai tilted his head, eyes locking like a predator scenting prey. He moved closer, the air between them collapsing, and Jean felt every controlled breath against his skin.
"Then why," Rai murmured, lips so close they could have been a ghost of a touch, "are you shaking?"
Jean hated that he couldn't answer. That his hands had curled into fists at his sides—not in defiance, but to stop them from betraying him.
Rai smiled faintly, but it was sharp, knowing. He straightened just enough to look Jean dead in the eye through the mirror. "One day, Jean… you'll stop lying to me. And to yourself."
" And that day is today. "
A hand curved around his throat—firm pressure, then release—then back again, the warning in Rai's grip more intoxicating than the threat itself. When Jean finally drew in air, Rai didn't let him keep it. His mouth claimed it, a kiss more theft than affection, tongue pressing in until Jean's knees faltered.
Jean's wrists were pinned above his head before he could think. Buckles came undone with swift precision, and cool air brushed bare skin.
Rai's mouth traced his chest—pausing over a nipple—then dragged upward, devouring his throat. Jean's head turned to the side, and the mirrors caught everything: the tremor in his lips, the hunger in Rai's eyes, the way he dangled on the last fragile thread of control.
Before he could realize he was slammed to the overly soft bed. Beneath Rai.