Marcus had learned many important things about working for Dae-Jung Han in his first two weeks.
First, the man was punctual to an almost psychotic degree. If he said he'd be somewhere at 3 PM, he arrived at 2:58.
Secondly, he took his coffee black, scalding hot, and strong enough to wake the dead.
And lastly, he had an unsettling ability to appear out of nowhere, like some kind of pink-haired, designer-suit-wearing ghost.
It was this third fact that Marcus was currently trying not to think about as he stood in the penthouse's storage pantry, staring up at the top shelf where someone—probably the previous housekeeper—had decided to store the good serving platters.
The very top shelf. Marcus was 5'11". The shelf was easily seven feet high.
"Why," he muttered to himself, dragging over the small step stool. "Why would anyone put dishes up there?"
He climbed onto the stool, which gave him maybe an extra foot and a half. Still not enough. He stretched, his fingertips barely grazing the edge of the large ceramic platter he needed for tomorrow's dinner party.
"Come on," he grunted, rising onto his toes. His t-shirt rode up slightly, exposing a strip of his lower back and the waistband of his jeans. He stretched further, his shoulder protesting, fingers finally closing around the rim of the platter.
Just a little more….
"Aha…I got it." he smiled to himself.
He started to pull it down, but the weight of it surprised him. It was heavier than he'd expected, and it tilted in his grip. His heart jumped into his throat as the platter began to slip, threatening to crash down and shatter all over him—
And then there was a presence behind him. Close behind him.
A strong hand reached up, easily catching the platter before it could fall. Another hand landed on Marcus's waist, steadying him.
"Careful."
Marcus's entire body went rigid.
Dae-Jung's voice was right by his ear, low and calm, like this was the most normal thing in the world but nothing about this felt normal. Nothing about the way Dae-Jung's chest was pressed against Marcus's back felt normal. Nothing about the heat radiating off him, or the way his hand was still on Marcus's waist—firm, possessive—felt even remotely normal.
"I've got it," Dae-Jung said, and Marcus felt the words more than heard them, the vibration traveling through his back.
"I…um ..thank you, sir" Marcus managed, his voice coming out embarrassingly breathless.
"Here." Dae-Jung's hand lifted the platter up and away, setting it on the counter beside them with ease. But he didn't step back. Instead, his hand returned to Marcus's waist, and Marcus felt his breath catch.
"You should've asked for help," Dae-Jung murmured.
"I didn't want to bother you, sir."
"You're not a bother."
Marcus swallowed hard. He should step down. He should move away. He should do literally anything other than stand here, frozen and hyperaware of every point where their bodies touched.
But he couldn't move.
Dae-Jung shifted slightly—just an inch—and Marcus felt it.
Oh god….no!
The unmistakable press of Dae-Jung's crotch against his ass.
It wasn't accidental. It just couldn't be. Dae-Jung was too controlled, too precise for anything he did to be an accident. This was deliberate. This was….
Marcus's breath hitched.
"Mr. Han—"
"You're shaking," Dae-Jung observed, his voice maddeningly even. His thumb stroked once along Marcus's hip, a gesture so subtle it could've been mistaken for steadying him. But it wasn't. They both knew it wasn't.
"I'm fine," Marcus lied.
"Are you?"
Dae-Jung pressed closer—just barely, just enough that Marcus felt the growing hardness against him, thick and insistent even through layers of clothing. Marcus bit down on his bottom lip, his hands gripping the shelf in front of him for support because his knees had apparently forgotten how to function.
"You should step down," Dae-Jung said, but his body said the opposite. His hand slid from Marcus's waist to his hip, fingers splaying possessively. "You could fall."
"Yeah," Marcus breathed. "I should—"
But neither of them moved.
The pantry suddenly felt impossibly small. The air was thick, charged with something Marcus didn't have a name for but could feel in every nerve of his body. Dae-Jung's breath was warm against the back of his neck, and Marcus was acutely aware of how easy it would be to lean back, to let himself melt into that solid chest, to—
Dae-Jung's other hand came up, fingers brushing against Marcus's forearm where he gripped the shelf. It was such a light touch, barely there, but it sent electricity shooting up Marcus's arm.
"Marcus."
God, the way he said his name. Like it was something to be savored.
"Yes?" Marcus's voice cracked.
"If you don't step down right now—" Dae-Jung's hips pressed forward again, harder this time, deliberate and unmistakable. Marcus felt every inch of him, hot and hard and thick, grinding slowly against the curve of his ass. "—I'm going to do something we'll both regret."
Marcus's brain short-circuited.
He should move. He needed to move. But his body was a traitor, arching back just slightly, just enough to press more firmly against Dae-Jung, and he heard the sharp intake of breath behind him.
"Fuck," Dae-Jung muttered, and for the first time since Marcus had met him, the man sounded like he'd lost control.
His hand tightened on Marcus's hip, and for one dizzying moment, Marcus thought he might actually pull him down off the stool, spin him around, pin him against the shelves and—
CRASH!!.
They both jumped. The sound came from the kitchen. Something falling, shattering, loud and jarring and perfectly timed to kill whatever the hell was happening between them.
Dae-Jung stepped back immediately, his hands leaving Marcus's body so fast it was like he'd been burned. Marcus nearly stumbled, catching himself on the shelf.
"Stay here," Dae-Jung said, his voice tight. He was already moving toward the kitchen, and Marcus caught a glimpse of him adjusting himself as he walked, his jaw clenched.
Marcus stood there, alone in the pantry, heart hammering so hard he thought it might break through his ribs.
What the hell just happened?
The "crash" turned out to be nothing.
A bag of rice Marcus had left too close to the edge of the counter had fallen, splitting open and spilling across the floor. No broken dishes. No actual emergency. Just rice. Hundreds of tiny white grains scattered across pristine marble.
Marcus had never been more grateful for clumsy placement in his life. By the time he emerged from the pantry, his legs still shaky, face still hot—Dae-Jung was already on a phone call, pacing by the windows with his back turned. Professional and Controlled as usual. Like nothing had happened.
Marcus grabbed a broom and started sweeping up the rice, keeping his head down, trying to steady his breathing.
"It was nothing,"he told himself. "He was just helping you. You're reading into it."
Except he wasn't. He knew what he'd felt. He knew exactly what had pressed against him, hard and insistent. He knew the way Dae-Jung's voice had roughened, the way his grip had tightened. That wasn't nothing.
Marcus finished cleaning up the rice and bagged it, tossing it in the trash. When he turned around, Dae-Jung was watching him. The call had ended. He stood by the window, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable.
Their eyes met but Neither of them spoke.
The silence stretched, heavy and loaded, until Marcus couldn't take it anymore.
"I should go," Marcus said quickly. "It's getting late, and I've got everything prepped for tomorrow, so..."
"Marcus."
He froze.
Dae-Jung crossed the space between them slowly, deliberately. He stopped a few feet away. Close enough to feel dangerous, far enough to be respectable.
"What happened in the pantry?"
"Nothing happened," Marcus said quickly. Too quickly.
Dae-Jung raised an eyebrow. "Nothing?"
"You helped me with the platter. That's all."
"That's all?"
"Yes."
Dae-Jung studied him for a long moment, his gaze sharp and searching. Then, slowly, a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"You're a terrible liar."
Marcus's face burned. "I'm not—"
"Go home, Marcus."
It wasn't a suggestion, it was a dismissal. But there was something in Dae-Jung's eyes. Something dark and hungry and barely restrained that made Marcus's stomach flip.
"Yes, sir," Marcus said quietly.
He grabbed his backpack and headed for the door, hyper-aware of Dae-Jung's gaze following him the entire way.
But Marcus didn't sleep that night. He lay in his small studio apartment, staring at the ceiling, replaying the pantry scene over and over in his mind. The heat of Dae-Jung's body. The press of him. The way his voice had dropped. The way Marcus's own body had responded with eagerness and hunger, desperation in a way that terrified him.
He couldn't do this. Dae-Jung was his 'boss'. A powerful, dangerous man who probably had people killed before breakfast. Marcus was just the housekeeper. This wasn't some romance novel. This was real life, and real life didn't work that way.
Besides, even if—hypothetically, impossibly—something were to happen, Dae-Jung didn't know. Marcus's hand drifted unconsciously to his lower abdomen, pressing against the flat plane of muscle there. Dae-Jung didn't know what he was. Didn't know that underneath the masculine exterior, underneath the gym-built body and the deep voice, Marcus's body told a different story.
And he could never know. Because men like Dae-Jung didn't want men like Marcus. So he'd keep his head down. Do his job. Ignore the way his heart raced every time Dae-Jung entered a room. Ignore the heat that pooled in his belly when their eyes met. Ignore everything. It was the only way to survive this.
—
The next morning, Marcus arrived at 8:45 AM—fifteen minutes early, as always—and let himself into the penthouse.
The space was quiet. Dae-Jung was likely still asleep or in his office. Marcus moved through his routine on autopilot: starting coffee, checking the prep work for tonight's dinner, making a mental inventory of what still needed to be done.
He was in the middle of chopping vegetables when he heard footsteps behind him.
"Morning," Dae-Jung said.
Marcus turned, and his breath caught.
Dae-Jung stood in the kitchen doorway wearing nothing but gray sweatpants. Low-slung, barely clinging to his hips. His torso was bare, revealing the kind of body that made Marcus's mouth go dry—broad shoulders, defined pecs, abs that looked like they'd been carved from marble. His pink hair was messy, like he'd just woken up, and there was a faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.
He looked obscene.
"Morning," Marcus managed, forcing his gaze back to the cutting board.
Dae-Jung moved to the coffee maker, pouring himself a cup. Marcus kept his eyes down, focusing on the carrots in front of him, willing his heart to slow down.
"Sleep well?" Dae-Jung asked casually.
"Yeah," Marcus lied.
"Mm."
There was a pause. Then Dae-Jung walked over, leaning against the counter beside Marcus, close enough that Marcus could smell him; clean, masculine, with a hint of whatever expensive body wash he used.
"About yesterday," Dae-Jung said.
Marcus's knife slipped, nearly catching his finger. "Sir?"
"I shouldn't have—" Dae-Jung paused, choosing his words carefully. "I crossed a line."
"Well....not technically." He lied again.
"I did."
"You were just helping me," Marcus insisted, still not looking at him. "That's all it was."
Dae-Jung was quiet for a moment. Then: "If that's what you want to believe."
Marcus finally looked up at him, and the intensity in Dae-Jung's gaze nearly knocked him over.
"I'm your employee," Marcus said quietly. "That's all I am. That's all I should be."
Dae-Jung held his gaze, something unreadable flickering across his face. Then he pushed off the counter, coffee in hand.
"You're right," he said simply.
And he walked away, leaving Marcus alone in the kitchen, knife trembling in his hand.
What's wrong with me?