Chapter 96: [HOUSE TOUR]

’The couch is really comfy?’

Kairo’s brow furrowed faintly as he trailed Eli into the depths of the penthouse. He had been prepared for many things—evasions, lies, perhaps even defiance—but not… that.

It wasn’t annoyance that gripped him, not quite. It was genuine perplexity.

Who, in their right mind, looked an S-Class hunter in the eye and declared the comfort of a sofa as though it were a state secret?

He had intended this evening to be a simple assessment. Nothing more. He wanted to see Eli away from the battlefield, to measure his worth when stripped of adrenaline and danger.

To observe how he carried himself in his own space.

And—perhaps—to decide if he was worth extending an invitation into Twilight.

Instead, he was following the younger man through a penthouse tour that felt less like a display of wealth and more like… a trap? Or a comedy of errors.

Kairo’s sharp gaze swept over the details as he followed in silence—frames lined along shelves, photos of Eli smiling brightly at events, the faint shimmer of makeup palettes spread neatly across a vanity, a ridiculous collection of cameras mounted on tripods and ring lights in nearly every corner.

It made sense. The influencer life. The brand. The endless recording.

But still…

’Does he need a different camera for each side of the room? Wasteful.’

His hands stayed buried in his coat pockets as he trailed behind, every step soundless, his black eyes cataloguing everything in an instant.

Then Eli stopped. His nervous fingers brushed the doorknob of another room before he swung it open with a tentative flourish.

“This is the bathroom,” he said, his voice carrying that awkward mix of forced cheer and shy hesitation.

The door revealed pristine marble tiles, sleek glass partitions, gold fixtures that gleamed under recessed lights. The space was almost absurdly large, a showroom of excess.

Eli shifted on his feet, his voice softer, as though embarrassed to be speaking at all. “It’s pretty big, right? You should see the shower, it could fit two people.”

Kairo froze mid-step.

The air stilled between them, thick and sharp as glass.

He blinked once, slow and deliberate.

’Did he just—’

His gaze cut sharply to Eli, assessing, weighing, searching.

Was it a slip? Was it intentional? A clumsy attempt at provocation?

The words themselves—there was no mistaking them. They were an invitation, blatant and unambiguous.

And yet… Eli’s expression wasn’t sultry, wasn’t suggestive. His cheeks were faintly pink, yes, but his eyes were wide and guileless, his lips pressed together as though he’d just realized the stupidity of what he’d said.

Kairo’s jaw flexed once.

’Does he even hear himself? Or… is he actually doing this on purpose?’

No matter how Kairo dissected it, the contradiction was maddening. The words were charged. But the delivery…?

Innocent. Almost painfully so.

His brows drew together faintly as he studied him, gaze dark, unblinking.

’Dense. He’s actually dense.’

But the silence was beginning to stretch again, thick enough to choke. And Kairo had no intention of letting Eli off easy this time.

“Two people,” he said at last, his voice smooth, flat, but carrying the faintest curl of weight beneath it. “Interesting detail to point out.”

Kairo’s gaze lingered on him for a beat too long, sharp and dissecting, drinking in every nervous twitch, every flutter of lashes, every hesitant curve of Eli’s lips.

But what unsettled him most wasn’t the slip of words about the bathroom, nor even the lingering awkwardness afterward.

It was that faint, almost imperceptible smile tugging at Eli’s mouth.

He looked… pleased.

Not embarrassed. Not regretful.

Pleased.

Like Kairo’s reaction—minimal as it had been—was some kind of victory.

’Why is he happy about that?’ His brow twitched, the faintest crack in his controlled mask. His tone hadn’t carried encouragement. If anything, it had been a warning.

Yet Eli stood there as if he’d scored a point in some game Kairo wasn’t aware of.

Odd.

Very odd.

Eli, oblivious—or perhaps infuriatingly deliberate—pivoted on his heel and strode forward again, his hand gesturing toward the floor as though presenting a work of art.

“My floors are waxed as well,” he announced with pride.

Kairo stopped mid-step. His composure, forged through decades of life-or-death battles, training, and endless media scrutiny—fractured.

He sputtered.

Not a cough, not a controlled exhale—an honest sputter, his breath catching sharply in his throat, his stride faltering just enough to betray him.

It had been years—years—since something had blindsided him like that.

The sheer bluntness of the statement. The guileless way Eli said it, as though polished floors were the peak of interior luxury. Yet his phrasing—his tone—it landed like a sledgehammer in Kairo’s mind.

Waxed floors.

He didn’t know if he was being too dirty-minded or if Eli was secretly taunting him, but either way, his throat tightened against words that refused to form.

Eli blinked at him, brows furrowing, yellow eyes wide with innocent concern. “…Are you okay?”

That tilt of his head. That clueless sincerity.

It was maddening.

Kairo straightened quickly, pulling his mask of composure back into place. His jaw clenched, his voice cool and sharp to smother the warmth blooming at the back of his neck. “Continue the tour.”

Anything more, and he risked saying something reckless.

But inside—his thoughts wouldn’t quiet.

’Is he doing this deliberately? Or is he truly this… unfiltered? How many others has he left floundering with this kind of talk? How many people walked away convinced he was implying—’

The idea twisted something in Kairo’s chest he did not want to examine.

Eli, mercifully—or perhaps dangerously—didn’t linger. He simply swept onward, light-footed across the marble, until he stopped at another door.

He opened it with a small, almost ceremonial flourish.

“The bedroom,” he declared.

Kairo’s eyes narrowed as he stepped inside. The space was vast, immaculate, anchored by a bed so wide it looked fit for royalty. The wall of windows bathed the sheets in the glow of city lights, pale silver bleeding across the soft fabric.

It was clean.

A little too clean.

Except for Eli.

He lingered by the mattress, his hands clasped behind his back, his body rocking gently on his heels like a nervous child reciting lines.

“It’s very spacious,” Eli said, nodding faintly toward the bed as though it needed introduction. Then his lips curved with shy pride, his voice dipping softer. “And the bed’s really soft. But… it gets messy quite quickly because of the sheets.”

The silence that followed was palpable.

And then—Eli tilted his head, his eyes wide with guileless curiosity. “Are you the kind who often makes a mess?”

The words detonated between them.

Kairo’s breath stilled. His black eyes locked on Eli, sharp as blades, dissecting every micro-expression, every tremor of his voice, searching for guile.

But there was none. Not a hint of coyness. No sly smile. Just that damned innocence.

Messy. Bed. You.

Kairo’s jaw tightened hard enough that a muscle jumped in his cheek. He wrenched his gaze toward the window, away from the younger man, as the heat spread. Across his ears. His neck. Unwelcome. Uncontrollable.

It was absurd. He didn’t blush. He didn’t falter.

Not in front of politicians, not in front of enemies, not in front of a roaring crowd.

Yet here—here he was, standing in a stranger’s penthouse bedroom, fighting to smother the faint burn threatening to betray him.

Behind him, Eli just blinked. Wide-eyed. Curious. Maybe clueless.

Maybe not.

The silence stretched like a blade.

And finally, Kairo’s voice broke through it, low and taut. “…Let’s just go back to the living room. Please.”

“Huh?”

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