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Jackson had trained himself to be disciplined-to control his breath under pressure, his voice under scrutiny, his thoughts under heat.

But none of that training applied to Kole.

They flew to Tokyo the next morning for another leg of the press tour. Jackson wore dark sunglasses and silence like armor. Kole, of course, wore smug satisfaction and a pair of tiny headphones that let him ignore everyone.

They didn't talk on the plane.

But Jackson couldn't stop thinking.

He hated how Kole moved through the world like it owed him attention. Hated that his mind kept replaying the sound of silk rustling in the dark. Hated that when Kole leaned forward to grab his juice mid-flight, his shirt slipped and Jackson's gaze automatically tracked the line of his spine.

"Staring again," Kole muttered without looking.

Jackson didn't reply.

---

The Tokyo hotel was bigger, flashier. But again-one room. Rina raised an eyebrow when she handed them the keycard, but said nothing.

This time, Kole didn't even blink. He threw himself onto the bed the second they entered.

"This is the one where we pretend we're obsessed with each other, right?" Kole called from the mattress. "Like, Romeo-and-Juliet, sneak-kisses-in-the-hallways obsessed."

"You make that sound like a joke."

Kole propped himself up on his elbows. "Isn't it?"

Jackson didn't answer.

He was too focused on the mark forming on Kole's jaw-a hickey, maybe? Or a bruise from an earlier photoshoot? Jackson didn't know why it bothered him. He didn't even know why he cared.

But he did.

Later, as they got dressed for a rooftop cocktail event, Kole wandered out of the bathroom in a sheer black shirt and tight slacks that looked tailored by Satan himself.

Jackson froze mid-button.

"You can't wear that," he said.

Kole tilted his head. "Why not?"

"It's too much."

"For who?" Kole blinked slowly. "You? The cameras? Or the fantasy husband who's been acting like I personally offended his bloodline?"

Jackson stepped closer, fingers twitching at his side.

"You don't get it," he said, voice low.

"I do. You just hate that I make you feel something."

For a split second, Jackson forgot how to breathe.

Kole smiled softly, then brushed past him, cologne curling around Jackson like a noose.

---

The cocktail event was crowded. Elegant. Filled with the kind of people who laughed too loud and smiled with their eyes open just a bit too wide.

They played their roles-Jackson: stoic and graceful; Kole: flirtatious and golden.

Every time Kole laughed at someone else's joke, Jackson's grip on his glass tightened. Every time Kole leaned just a little too close to a male model or producer, Jackson's jaw clicked tight.

By the end of the night, he was seething-and he didn't know if it was at Kole or himself.

Back in the hotel room, Kole kicked off his shoes.

"You okay?" he asked, voice gentler now. "You looked like you were gonna murder someone back there."

Jackson dropped his blazer on the chair. "You flirt too much."

Kole's brows rose. "It's called working the room."

"It's called playing with fire."

Kole stepped closer. "Are you afraid I'm going to burn you, Jackson?"

Silence.

Then Jackson's hand shot out-gripping Kole's wrist. Not tight. Just enough.

"Maybe," Jackson said, voice raw. "Or maybe I'm afraid I'll like it."

Kole's breath caught, lips parting slightly.

But Jackson didn't kiss him.

He let go.

Turned away.

Said, "Sleep. We've got another early call."

Kole stood there alone for a beat, pulse erratic, skin tingling.

What the hell is happening to us?