Work Text:
The vibration of the phone on the glass desk was a subtle disruption in the quiet luxury of Rome’s Hong Kong hotel suite. He was supposed to be reviewing quarterly acquisition reports—a mundane task that required only a fraction of his attention. He reached for the device without looking, swiping the screen.
It was a message from P’Peach. Just an image file,
followed by a single line: Thought you should see what your boy is up to while you’re out of town. The wolves are circling.
Rome tapped the thumbnail. The breath vanished from his lungs.
The photo was taken backstage at the Arseni launch in Bangkok. Standing in the center of the frame, looking effortlessly devastating, was Mok. Rome’s eyes darted hungrily over every pixel. Mok was usually the picture of professional restraint as Thee’s right-hand man, but the Arseni stylists had clearly been given a directive to "elevate" the secretary’s look. He wore a structured black jacket and a high-collared white shirt with the sleeves aggressively rolled to his elbows.
But it was the waist that made Rome’s vision go red.
The stylists had cinched a thick, double-layered black leather belt around Mok’s midsection. The silver buckles gleamed, but their only real purpose was to violently accentuate just how impossibly slim Mok’s waist was.
And then, the hair. It was long—an artful, messy mullet. Dark strands framed his sculpted jawline, while the length at the back curled at the nape of his neck. He didn't look like a secretary; he looked lethal. Like a man who could snap his fingers and have anyone in the room on their knees.
Rome could almost smell the air in that corridor through the screen—the sharp, sandalwood-and-citrus notes of Arseni No. 5. He hated it. He hated that the scent, designed by his own brother’s company, was now the olfactory backdrop to a room full of people staring at his Mok. It wasn't just a perfume; it was the scent of a hundred greedy eyes.
He dialed Mok. Ring. Ring. Ring. “Please leave a message after the tone—”
Rome ended the call and dialed again. Nothing. Mok was ignoring him. He began to pace across the thick carpet, the Hong Kong skyline a blur outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. His thumbs flew across the keyboard with a frantic, unhinged energy.
Rome: Pick up your phone.
Rome: Mok.
Rome: Are you deliberately trying to drive me insane?
Rome: Who put you in that outfit? Why is that belt so tight?
Rome: And your hair. Since when is it that long?
Rome: Do you have any idea what people are thinking looking at you right now? Answer me.
Ten minutes of agonizing silence passed before the grey typing dots appeared.
Mok: Wait. How do you even know what I'm wearing?
Mok: Did you send someone to spy on me?
Rome: Irrelevant. Answer the questions. Now.
Mok: Calm down. I’m busy. I have to attend to the VIP guests, the launch dinner is in full swing.
Mok: The suit was provided by the Arseni company stylists. I didn’t have a choice in the belt. Khun Thee said my normal suit was too "stiff" for the launch,
Mok: And I’ve been too busy preparing for this launch to visit the barber. Thee has been breathing down my neck for weeks. He said he wanted me to look "presentable" and "fix" my hair since he hates it. So he had the stylists give me a makeover.
Mok: Don't worry. The event ends tonight. I'll finally have space to breathe. I'll go cut my hair first thing tomorrow morning.
Rome stopped pacing. He read the last sentence again. And then a third time.
I'll go cut my hair first thing tomorrow morning.
A sudden, contradictory panic seized Rome. Yes, he was losing his mind over the fact that a room full of strangers was feasting their eyes on Mok’s styled mullet, but the thought of those dark lengths falling to a barber's floor before he could bury his hands in them?
Absolutely not.
Rome: Don't you dare touch your hair.
There was no reply. Rome didn't wait. He dialed his head of security. "Have the jet prepped for takeoff at Hong Kong International. I am leaving for Bangkok in twenty minutes. Call my driver."
The short three-hour flight was a fever dream of possessive rage. Rome spent the entirety of it on the plane's secure Wi-Fi, making a series of phone calls that would have sounded completely deranged to anyone else. He called his most resourceful fixer in Bangkok.
"I want a complete, city-wide embargo on haircuts," Rome ordered, aggressively swirling a glass of scotch he wasn't drinking. "Send Mok's photo to every high-end salon, barber, and freelance stylist in the metropolitan area. Tell them that if anyone so much as looks at him with a pair of thinning shears tomorrow, I will buy the building they operate in and bulldoze it."
"A city-wide embargo," the fixer replied, his voice maintaining the flat, unflappable tone of a man who had once been asked to find a specific breed of rare cat in a war zone by 3 AM. "Understood, Khun Rome. I'll include home-visit stylists and freelance apps in the sweep. It’s standard procedure for these types of... situations."
"Monitor everything," Rome snapped. "Tell them I will melt down every pair of scissors in Thailand to build a monument to embody rage if even one centimeter of that hair is touched. And check the hardware stores for shears. Buy them out if you have to."
"Understood, sir. I’ll notify our contacts at the major hardware suppliers immediately. It's better to be thorough," the fixer added, sounding genuinely helpful. "Shall I also dispatch snipers to the local Toni & Guy?"
"Just keep them on standby for now. I want a clean perimeter."
By the time Rome’s private car pulled up to the luxury hotel hosting the launch, it was nearing midnight. He strode through the gilded doors, scanning the crowd with the precision of a predator. He found him near the bar.
The reality was fatal. The newly launched Arseni scent was heavy in the air here—cloying and sophisticated. Mok was holding a glass of water, his posture impeccable, looking every bit the high-powered executive’s right-hand man, but with a dangerous, untouchable aura. A female executive was laughing at something he said, reaching out to touch his arm.
Rome saw red.
He crossed the room in long strides. Before the executive could even retract her hand, Rome materialized behind Mok, wrapping a firm, possessive arm around that leather-bound waist.
"Rome?" Mok spun around, eyes wide. "What—how are you here? You're supposed to be in Hong Kong."
"I was," Rome said, his voice a low growl as he shot a terrifying glare at the executive, who suddenly found her shoes interesting and scurried away. "Until I saw what you were wearing. And I can smell that damn perfume on you from across the room."
"Rome, you can't just—"
"Mok!" Thee approached with Peach. Thee looked like he was one more crisis away from an early retirement. "Rome? What the hell are you doing here? I just got a call from the CEO of three different hair salon chains asking if our family is declaring war on the service industry. One of them was nearly in tears, saying you threatened to melt their equipment into a... what was it? A monument to your rage?"
Peach, meanwhile, was leaning against a pillar, clutching his champagne flute and shaking with silent, hysterical laughter. "A monument!" Peach managed to choke out. "He actually said that? Rome, you are truly terrifying."
"Why is he dressed like this, Thee?" Rome demanded, completely ignoring Peach to focus his glare on his brother. "And the belt? Since when does my secretary need to be cinched like a Victorian debutante?"
"He's my secretary," Thee snapped back, crossing his arms. "And he was dressed like he was going to a deposition. I told the stylists to make him look like he belongs at a luxury perfume launch, not a tax audit. It’s called branding, Rome. Look it up."
"I think the styling is actually quite—" Mok started, trying to interject with a professional tone.
"It’s a disaster," Rome talked right over him. "He looks entirely too... visible. And that hair. You told him to cut it?"
"I told them to fix it!" Thee yelled, voice raising in frustration. "I hate that mullet! It looks unprofessional. But the stylists started screaming about 'visionary aesthetics' and 'structural rebellion' and refused to touch it. Now I have half the board members asking for Mok’s contact details and my brother is threatening the entire metropolitan area with a bulldozer!"
"Excuse me, if we could just—" Mok tried again, his hand raised slightly.
"I'm taking him," Rome announced, his grip tightening on the leather straps. "Mok is taking leave. For the next week. Whatever he was supposed to do, find someone else. Bill my company for his time."
"A week?!" Thee sputtered. "Rome, he's my secretary! I have three board meetings tomorrow and he’s the only one who knows what to do or where the files are!”
"Find them yourself," Rome said, talking right over him. "Or use your memory, Thee. You’re a CEO, aren't you? If you can't handle a meeting without your secretary, maybe you should be the one taking leave."
"I am a busy man, not a detective!" Thee yelled, throwing his hands up.
Mok looked between the two bickering billionaires, his mouth opening and closing as he realized his presence was being treated as a high-value asset in a hostile takeover.
He looked at Peach, who was now leaning over, clutching his stomach from laughing too hard. Mok let out a long, heavy sigh and simply gave up, his shoulders slumping as he let Rome bodily steer him toward the elevators.
"Wait, the meetings—" Thee called out, but he was already being ignored.
"Bye, Mok!" Peach called out cheerfully. "Good luck with the monument! I'll send you some flowers if he actually buys the salon!"
Mok didn’t have the breath left to argue, but as the elevator doors began to slide shut, he managed to shoot one final, lethal look back at his friend. He didn't need words; he simply caught Peach's gaze and mouthed a slow, cold promise of vengeance: Monday. Peach only laughed harder, waving a cheerful, dismissive goodbye, the image of his traitorous friend’s grinning face the last thing Mok saw before the gold-plated doors sealed him into the quiet, predatory heat of Rome’s presence.
He let himself be pulled through the hotel lobby, but instead of heading for the exit, Rome steered them directly toward the VIP elevators.
"Thee booked the Presidential suite for himself," Rome muttered, swiping a sleek black keycard and jabbing the button for the top floor with a violent efficiency. "So I bought out the Penthouse."
Mok didn't put up much of a fight. He was tired, his feet ached from standing all night, and honestly, the familiar, grounding warmth of Rome’s hand on his waist was melting away the tension of the long week. The elevator doors glided shut, sealing them in a quiet, mirrored cocoon.
Almost immediately, Rome’s remaining restraint crumbled. The cold, dominant CEO who had just threatened the Thai service industry vanished, replaced by a clingy, distressed barnacle. He pulled Mok fully against his chest, wrapping both arms around the infuriating leather belts and burying his face into the warm crook of Mok's neck.
"Mine," Rome muttered against his skin, sounding genuinely pained. "All of them looking at you. With your hair like this. Unbelievable. I'm buying Arseni Perfume from Thee. I'm firing everyone who looked at you for more than a second."
Mok let out a helpless, quiet laugh, his arms coming up to wrap around Rome’s broad shoulders, his fingers lightly stroking the back of his neck as the elevator shot upward. The scent of the perfume was still there, but it was being drowned out by the familiar, expensive musk of Rome.
"Rome, you can't fire people who don't even work for you yet," Mok murmured, though his eyes were fond. "And you know Khun Thee won’t let you buy the company just because you're jealous of the stylists."
"Watch me," Rome grumbled into his collar, his grip tightening impossibly around Mok's waist, his thumbs digging into the leather.
"And Peach sent you that photo, didn't he?" Mok asked, the realization hitting him as he recalled his friend's hysterical laughter in the ballroom. "That's how you knew exactly where I was. Thee wouldn't have called you—he needs me to work. Peach is the only one chaotic enough to summon a billionaire from across the ocean for a haircut."
Rome stiffened slightly against him, but didn't deny it. "He was... uncharacteristically helpful," Rome muttered, his voice muffled by Mok's skin. "I'll have to find him a suitably expensive thank-you gift. Or buy the bar he likes and ban everyone else from it."
"Please don't," Mok sighed, though he was smiling now.
A minute later, the doors opened directly into the expansive, dimly lit foyer of the Penthouse. Rome didn't even let the doors fully retract before he was dragging Mok inside. He kicked the heavy oak door shut behind them, the lock clicking with a deafening finality.
For a second, there was only the faint hum of the city far below and the sound of their breathing.
Then, Rome pounced.
He crowded Mok backward, pinning him against the solid wood of the door. His hands were everywhere—grabbing the lapels of the black jacket, sliding down to grip the silver buckles of the belts, and then, finally, tangling deeply into the dark, heavy strands of Mok’s hair.
The kiss was frantic, a collision of teeth and demanding pressure. Rome’s tongue swept into Mok's mouth the second his lips parted, tasting like expensive scotch and raw, unadulterated urgency. Rome worshipped every part of Mok, completely and irrevocably, but tonight, his brain had been entirely short-circuited by two specific things: the heavy leather straps currently digging into his palms, and the thick, messy strands of the mullet tangling around his fingers.
"Rome," Mok mumbled against his lips, breathless, as Rome’s mouth dragged heavily down to his jawline, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses against his skin, his teeth lightly grazing the erratic pulse there. "You're crazy. You actually flew back for this?"
"I was going insane," Rome whispered fiercely against his neck, his fingers tightening in his hair, relishing the soft, thick texture of it. "Do you know how many people were looking at you? At this waist? At this hair?"
He pulled back just enough to look at Mok. His chest was heaving. He reached down, his fingers deftly unfastening the first silver buckle of the leather belt, then the second. The rigid leather fell away, and Rome let out a shaky breath, finally able to slide his hands underneath the black jacket to rest warmly against Mok’s ribs.
"You texted me that you were cutting it," Rome accused, his dark eyes flashing.
"I am. Tomorrow morning. It's in my eyes, and Thee hates it."
"If Thee hates it, that's just another reason to keep it," Rome growled, leaning in to capture Mok’s lips in another deep, bruising kiss. It was a punishing, greedy invasion, Rome's tongue tangling with his, demanding everything Mok had to give until his head spun. When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead heavily against Mok's. "You are not cutting it."
"Rome, it's messy."
"I don't care."
"It's unprofessional."
"I'll buy Arseni and change the dress code," Rome murmured, leaning down to press a wet kiss to the sensitive skin of Mok's neck. "A week, Mok. No work. No Thee. Just me."
"Just you," Mok agreed softly.
The brief flash of tenderness vanished, instantly replaced by a feral heat. Rome tore at the hem of the white shirt, the sound of the fabric snapping lost in the heavy silence of the room. He yanked it free from the trousers. The moment his large, burning palms made skin-to-skin contact with Mok's bare waist, a violent shudder ripped through both of them. It was exactly as Rome had imagined for the last three hours on the jet—impossibly slim, smooth, and yielding perfectly to the heavy span of his grip.
Rome’s thumbs dug into the dip of Mok’s hips, hoisting him slightly off the ground to pin him flush against the cool wood of the door. "Mine," Rome chanted like a dark, feverish prayer against Mok's swollen lips. He wrapped his fingers tightly into the dark strands at the nape of Mok's neck and pulled—forcing Mok's head to tilt sharply back, exposing the long, elegant column of his throat. Mok arched into the contact, his hands coming up to grip Rome's forearms, his fingers digging into Rome's skin as he met the intensity with an answering, focused heat.
"Tell me you're never cutting it," Rome demanded, his voice dropping an octave, rough with a starved desire. He pressed his hips forward, rolling heavily against Mok, making sure the other man felt the frantic hammering of his heart and the physical proof of his obsession.
"I'm not," Mok breathed out, his eyes dark with a heady hunger of his own, leaning into the claim, his body vibrating with the same raw urgency that had brought Rome across the ocean. "I won't. Just—please, Rome..."
Rome hoisted him up, carrying him to the deep velvet couch. He lowered him onto the jewel-toned fabric, but didn't move away; he hovered over him, his hands never leaving Mok’s waist, mapping the dip and curve of his ribs. The mullet spread out against the velvet, a dark, beautiful contrast that Rome couldn't look away from.
"I missed you so much it felt like a physical ache," Rome whispered, his voice trembling with a raw honesty. He shed his own suit jacket and shirt, his movements frantic. When he returned, his bare chest pressed against Mok’s, their shared heat building an invisible wall around them. Rome buried his head in Mok’s neck, breathing in the scent of his skin—salt, heat, and him—until the last of the Arseni scent was buried under their shared sweat.
Rome smiled into Mok’s skin and tightened his grip on the mullet to bring him face to face. "I'm doing all the work, baby..." he murmured, his eyes searching Mok's for a reaction.
Mok met Rome's gaze with a smoldering intensity, his fingers sliding into the hair at Rome's temples and pulling him down for a deep, bruising kiss. He wasn't just absorbing the worship; he was drinking Rome in, his touch firm and demanding as he tangled his fingers in the shorter strands of Rome’s hair. "Why don't you try something for me? I want to see you."
Mok didn't hesitate. He reached out, his hand sliding down Rome’s chest to the waistband of his trousers, a deliberate move that made Rome’s breath hitch. Rome gently pushed him down, his hand caressing the bare thighs that the velvet had only teased.
"Mok... I want you to ride me tonight. Could you do that for me?"
Mok’s toes curled against the fabric, a sharp, knowing light in his eyes. In one smooth motion, he moved with an effortless, athletic grace, settling his hands next to his head and arching his back to invite Rome closer. Rome smiled, marking a small, dark hickey on his clavicle—a visible sign of his return that no stylist could hide.
"Open up, baby..." Rome whispered, his fingers brushing against Mok's lips. Mok parted his lips and pulled Rome’s fingers inside, his gaze steady and unblinking as he tasted the faint bitterness of scotch and the salt of Rome's skin.
Rome pulled back to discard the rest of their clothes, his gaze never leaving Mok’s form. When Mok finally sat in his lap, the sight was mesmerizing—flushed skin, heavy lids, and the dark mullet falling in chaotic waves over his shoulders. Rome’s hands spanned Mok’s waist completely, his thumbs nearly meeting at the small of Mok's back.
"You're breathtaking... look at you. So good for me." He brushed the hair out of Mok's face, his touch reverent. "Can you get the lube for me? Mok?"
Mok shifted with a purposeful, fluid motion, his bare skin sliding against Rome’s as he hopped off the couch. Rome watched the way the moonlight from the floor-to-ceiling windows caught the line of Mok’s spine and the elegant taper of his waist.
When Mok returned, he kneeled between Rome's legs, looking up with a gaze that was soft with love but bright with a predatory hunger of his own.
"Can I?" Mok asked, his voice barely a whisper, though his hands gripped Rome’s thighs with a firm, steady heat.
"Go on, baby..."
Mok laid his head on Rome’s thigh, the long strands of his hair tickling Rome’s skin as he left soft, worshipping kisses along his thigh. It was an agonizingly tender pace, Mok relishing the power he had to make Rome lose his legendary composure. He was exploring, his hand slowly cupping Rome as a low, guttural groan escaped Rome's throat. Rome pulled on his hair just slightly, a silent request for more, and Mok met his eyes with a glossy, fierce gaze that made Rome’s chest tighten.
Mok took him in, his movements sure and skilled. Small, breathless sounds escaped Rome's throat as he watched Mok worship him with a focus that was entirely his own. Rome hissed and closed his eyes, his fingers tangled deep in the weight of the mullet, stroking and pulling with a rhythm that matched the hammering of his heart. Both of their breaths were heavy now, a frantic duet in the quiet room. When Rome finally pulled him off, Mok let out a low, frustrated sound, his chest heaving as he searched Rome’s eyes for what came next.
"You did so well, baby... I'm so proud of you. Rome put a finger under his jaw, tilting his head up so their eyes met. "Come on... let me give you some pleasure too. You deserve to be worshiped."
Mok didn't wait; he moved with an eager, athletic strength, his arms wrapping tightly around Rome’s neck and pulling him down until they were chest to chest. Rome’s hand traveled down the length of his back, tracing the smooth skin until Mok let out a sharp, ragged sound. As Rome’s touch reached his hips, Mok began to tremble, his breath coming in soft, desperate hitches that spoke of a need he wasn't trying to hide.
"Tell me if it’s too much, okay?"
"Rome...just... just please," Mok whispered, his voice thick with a sweet, impatient fire.
Rome picked up the lube, the sound of the cap clicking loud in the silence. Mok’s body went perfectly still, his focus narrowing entirely on Rome as those wet fingers found his entrance. Rome pushed in his first finger, his other hand anchoring itself in Mok's hair, pulling him into a tight, grounding hug.
"More, Rome... feels so good..."
"You're so sweet," Rome whispered, pulling away just enough to brush the dark locks out of Mok's face once again. He leaned in, leaving small, worshipping kisses all over Mok's cheeks and jaw. The praise made Mok’s eyes shine with a heady pride, his movements becoming bolder as he pressed closer. "Please... I want you inside, Rome..." Mok whispered, his hands sliding down to grip Rome’s waist with a firm, possessive hold of his own.
Rome inserted a third finger, ensuring Mok was fully prepared. Suddenly, Mok grounded his hips down—a bold, purposeful move that made Rome hisses in surprise. He was ready, and he wasn't waiting. Rome slowly withdrew his fingers, his hands moving to steady Mok’s waist while his other hand stayed tangled in the messy mullet.
"Slowly, Mok. Tell me if anything is wrong."
Mok met Rome's eyes with a steady, devoted gaze as he positioned himself. He slowly sank down, his eyes squeezing shut as a sharp, fractured moan broke through the silence. Rome let out a low groan, his teeth grazing the skin of Mok's shoulder. When he finally bottomed out, Mok was panting, his forehead resting against Rome's. Rome stayed still, his hands locked on Mok’s waist, feeling the frantic pulse of Mok’s heart against his own.
"Baby... I won't do the work for you," Rome whispered, his voice a dark, velvet promise. "Show me how much you missed me."
Mok didn't hesitate. He met Rome’s burning gaze with a fierce intensity, his hands gripping Rome's shoulders with a strength that reminded Rome exactly who he was pinned beneath. He raised his hips slowly, his body shaking with the effort, before sitting back down with a deliberate, grounding force. The sensation forced a loud, beautiful moan from both of them. He began to move, fueled by a desperate, shared hunger, his body responding to Rome’s intensity with its own rhythmic heat.
"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, baby... so perfect for me..."
The praise acted as fuel, Mok’s movements becoming more urgent. His head hung forward so the long strands shielded his face like a dark curtain, but when Rome pulled his head back gently by the hair, Mok let it fall back, exposing his throat to the moonlight with a look of pure, unadulterated pleasure. The sound of their bodies colliding was rhythmic and wet, a desperate language only they understood.
"You're doing so well, Mok. Are you tired, love?"
Mok let out a quiet, fierce sound of denial, his eyes flashing in the dim light. He was burning up, lost in the rhythm. Rome finally took mercy on him, leaning forward to lay him down on the velvet couch without breaking their connection. Rome climbed on top, his weight a grounding comfort, as he wiped away the moisture on Mok’s cheeks with a tender thumb.
"Can I take over now? Can I take care of you, baby?"
Mok nodded, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps, his fingers digging into Rome's back as he pulled him closer. Rome sank back into him, the pace now deep and unforgiving. Mok was loud, his cries echoing in the expansive penthouse, his hands gripping the velvet covers as Rome leaned down to pepper his face and neck with kisses.
"I'm... Rome... I'm so close..." Mok managed to gasp out, his body arching under Rome's.
"It's okay... let it go, love. You've been so good for me. You did such a good job."
Mok reached the end with a shattered cry, his whole body shaking as he released. Rome moved for a few more seconds, his own breath hitching, before he followed Mok into the same blinding heat, his hands never leaving Mok's waist.
"H... Rome... please... inside... I want you to..." Mok whispered, his eyes dazed but full of a lingering, desperate love.
"Are you sure, love?"
Mok reached up, his hand cupping Rome's neck and pulling him closer, his gaze steady even in its adoring surrender. Rome grabbed a handful of his hair, lifting his head just enough. Mok watched him with an expression of pure, focused worship as Rome finished. He didn't look away, his eyes tracking every movement until he slowed his hip, taking every drop with a quiet, devastating intent.
Rome brushed his thumb against Mok's cheek, his touch incredibly light as he collected a stray tear, and Mok gladly took Rome's finger into his mouth, his gaze never breaking from Rome's.
"Open your eyes, Mok. Look at me."
Mok obeyed, his gaze soft and heavy with love, his face still flushed a beautiful red. Rome’s grip on his face was firm but full of reverence. He laid Mok back down and settled beside him, pulling the duvet over them both as they moved to the bed. "Are you okay, baby?"
"Yeah... just... so tired," Mok smiled, a small, genuine thing that reached his eyes, before he pulled Rome’s arm more securely around his waist, breath evening as he fell asleep.
The next morning, the sunlight was uncomfortably bright. Mok groaned, shifting against the silk sheets of the bed Rome had moved them to.
"I'm going to be late for that barber appointment," Mok muttered, raspy. Rome’s arm remained locked around his waist.
"You're not going anywhere," Rome murmured.
"Rome, be serious." Mok managed to untangle himself. He caught his reflection in the mirrored wall—the dark hickeys on his neck, the chaotic mullet framing a face that was still flushed from sleep. He looked like a man who had been thoroughly worshipped, a stark contrast to the lethal corporate secretary the world saw yesterday.
He dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, feeling Rome’s gaze like a physical weight on his back. Despite Thee’s dramatic outburst the night before and Rome’s unhinged threats about bulldozers and monuments, Mok didn't actually believe them. It was billionaire bluster—the kind of hyperbolic possessiveness Rome used when his brain was short-circuited by jealousy. No one actually bought out an entire city’s service industry over a haircut.
"I'll be back in an hour," Mok said, leaning over to press a quick, grounding kiss to Rome’s forehead. "I’m just going to the salon downstairs. It’s convenient, and they’re professional."
Rome didn't argue. He didn't even try to pull Mok back into the sheets. He just lay there, the duvet pooled around his waist, watching Mok with a dark, unreadable expression. As Mok turned to head for the door, a tiny, predatory smirk played on the corners of Rome’s mouth—a silent victory that Mok was far too confident to notice.
Mok walked down to the hotel’s exclusive luxury salon. He pushed open the glass doors, expecting the usual scent of expensive products and the hum of quiet conversation. The moment he stepped inside, the head stylist looked up. The moment his eyes landed on Mok—specifically the dark, messy strands of the mullet—his face went a ghostly shade of grey.
"I’d like a trim, please," Mok said, stepping toward the styling chairs.
The stylist practically leaped backward, putting the styling chair between himself and Mok as if it were a shield. "I... I’m so sorry, Khun Mok. We are closed."
Mok blinked, looking at the four other customers in chairs. "Closed? You have people in chairs."
"Maintenance!" the stylist squeaked, already ushering Mok back toward the glass entrance with trembling, frantic hands. "Sudden... pipe issues! Very dangerous! No scissors allowed!"
He practically shooed Mok out onto the marble floor of the hotel hallway. Before Mok could even process the absurdity, the stylist reached out with a trembling hand and flipped the 'Open' sign to 'Closed' right in Mok's face, then frantically bolted the door.
Mok stood in the silent corridor for a long beat, staring at the 'Closed' sign with a mixture of disbelief and growing resignation. He looked back through the glass at the stylist, who was now frantically scrubbing a perfectly clean mirror while avoiding eye contact at all costs. Mok sighed, ran a hand through the dark, messy strands of the mullet that had apparently become national security risks, and turned toward the elevators.
The ride back up was a quiet study in absurdity. Every time the elevator doors opened, hotel staff would glance his way, spot the hair, and immediately find something fascinating to look at in the opposite direction. By the time he stepped back into the penthouse, he was already expecting the scene that awaited him.
The suite was silent, save for the faint, expensive chime of a spoon against a porcelain saucer. Rome was seated at the dining table, the picture of aristocratic calm. He looked perfectly groomed, his expression unreadable as he scrolled through a tablet with one hand and held a delicate espresso cup with the other.
"The salon is closed," Mok said flatly. "Maintenance issues."
Rome took a slow, deliberate sip of his coffee. He didn't even look up. "What a shame. It’s almost like the universe wants you to keep it."
Mok walked over to the table, looming over Rome’s shoulder before rounding to stand directly in his line of sight. He planted his palms on the polished surface, leaning down until they were eye-level.
"The head stylist just tried to convince me that they were closing for 'emergency pipe maintenance' while three people were literally getting their hair washed ten feet away," Mok said, his voice flat but carrying a trace of amusement. He crossed his arms, his eyebrows arched. "Khun Thee mentioned something about you declaring war on the local salons, but the man downstairs acted like I was carrying a live grenade. Care to tell me the exact details of what you did?"
Mok shook his head, a huff of laughter escaping him. He was used to Khun Thee’s dramatic excesses—he’d seen the CEO buy out entire flower markets or block off city streets just to indulge Peach’s whims—but he’d never expected to be the target of that same brand of billionaire lunacy. It was exhausting, frankly ridiculous, and yet the possessive heat behind it made his chest feel uncomfortably tight with warmth. "I am a secretary, Rome. Not a fugitive. Why did I just get escorted out of a salon like I was a threat to public safety?"
Rome finally set his cup down, the porcelain clicking softly against the saucer. He looked up, his expression one of perfect, practiced innocence. "I simply expressed my concern for the safety of the local businesses, Mok. It would be a tragedy if a sudden... structural failure occurred because of a reckless decision."
"A reckless decision," Mok repeated. "Like cutting my hair?"
"Precisely." Rome reached out, his fingers catching a long strand of the mullet and tucking it behind Mok's ear with agonizing slowness, his knuckles grazing Mok’s jaw. "The industry can be so fragile. Sometimes, people need a little incentive to stay closed for the sake of... public monuments."
Mok huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "You actually threatened to melt their scissors down, didn't you? Mae told me once that you have a flair for the dramatic too, but this is a new low even for you."
"I believe the exact wording involved a bulldozer and a very large foundry," Rome corrected smoothly, his thumb tracing the line of Mok’s lower lip. "Sit down, baby. We have six more days of solitude ahead of us. And I haven't even started on what I'm going to do with that perfume collection yet."
Mok sighed, the sound full of a fond, exasperated defeat. Before he could even think of a retort, Rome reached out, hooking a hand around Mok’s waist and pulling him firmly onto his lap. Mok went without a fight, his legs straddling Rome's as he settled his hands on Rome's shoulders. Rome leaned up, pressing a quick, possessive kiss to his lips before pulling back just enough to look at him. "You're terrifying, you know that?" Mok murmured.
"I'm obsessed," Rome murmured, pulling him in for a second kiss that tasted of expensive coffee and absolute victory. "There’s a difference."