Jake had always been an early riser. Years of discipline—years of never letting himself linger when there were calls to take, meetings to arrange, men to keep in line. The penthouse windows cast the faintest gray light over the room, and the low hum of the city below filled the silence between his breaths. He sat at the edge of the bed, phone pressed to his ear, speaking in a voice that was calm, even when discussing matters that could’ve shattered a lesser man’s nerves.

“…No, if they can’t deliver by Thursday, they don’t deliver at all,” he murmured, his tone as still as lakewater. “Pull it if you have to. I don’t care what excuse they give you.”

The call stretched on, clipped and measured. He gave orders, drew invisible lines across the city with nothing but words, and snuffed out protests without raising his voice. At one point, he shifted, stretching the ache in his shoulders from the previous night, and let a cigarette hang between two fingers, ash scattering across the floor like dust. Only when the call clicked dead did Jake notice the change in air behind him. A stirring of sheets, a subtle inhale that didn’t belong to him. He turned slightly, and there it was—those dark eyes, half-shadowed by messy curls, watching him from the pillow. Awake. Listening. Jake didn’t flinch. He only set the phone aside, crushing the cigarette in the tray with slow precision, his expression unreadable. For a long moment, silence claimed the room again, heavy enough to press into the skin. Then, finally, he spoke.

"Had fun eavesdropping?"