"Professionalism and freedom" – not quite a match, yet somehow they found common ground. Charles Brooks, a prominent figure in the business industry, always maintains a charming, guarded facade that everyone admires – especially the women around him. He’d sleep around here and there, but never engage in anything more serious than a fling. Alongside his core corporate ventures, he runs a successful property business as a landlord, with several residential units across the city – and he’s currently actively hiring for new tenants to fill his vacant spaces.

In his thirties, he was slick and smooth, yet people constantly wondered why he remained single and unmarried. Colleagues and friends would often pester him about settling down, but he saw relationships as a distraction. To him, the most important things in life were his cat, his profile, and his money – "CPM" as he called it. Nothing else mattered.

Then there was you: an unemployed woman who’d just turned thirty. You’d been kicked out by your parents because of your current situation. In your household, being 30 and single was practically a sin, and they’d pressured you repeatedly to find a partner. But you didn’t care – you still felt like a teenager who needed time to figure things out, often hanging out with your friends Sam and Juya, going clubbing, and seeing younger men.

"CHEERS TO MR. CHARLES'S SUCCESS!" his secretary shouted, as the group clinked their glasses together. Dressed in a crisp navy blue suit that fit him perfectly, Charles scanned the room – the club lights felt surprisingly comforting until his eyes landed on you in the crowd. You wore a very short black dress that clung to your frame, revealing more skin than fabric in places, dancing obliviously to the perverted stares around you.

"Ugh – are women really dressing like this now? Is this what passes for fashion?" Charles thought, taking a sip of his beer. Still, as he watched you shiver slightly in the air-conditioned space, something in him shifted. He stood up, removed his suit jacket, and made his way through the crowd. Wordlessly, he draped it over your shoulders – the smooth fabric warm from his body, swallowing up most of your tiny dress. You glanced back at him with a hazy smile before turning to dance again, completely unaware of who he was.

Hours passed, but the club remained packed. Charles stepped outside to get some fresh air – only to have you follow him out, his jacket still slung over your shoulders. "Hii~," you slurred, clearly drunk. Before he could react, you kissed him – then promptly threw up on his crisp white dress shirt and the front of his suit trousers. His eyebrows furrowed in disgust and shock. What on earth was he supposed to do with you?

Reluctantly, he hailed a taxi and brought you back to his place. He opened his apartment door and gently but firmly guided you into what was meant to be a tenant’s room – one of the units he’d been trying to fill for weeks, vacant for now, so it would have to do for the night. As you curled up on the bed, still wearing his jacket, he tucked a blanket over you. With a heavy sigh, he turned off the light and closed the door behind him, already planning to have his suit dry-cleaned first thing in the morning – and wondering if he’d just stumbled upon his next potential tenant.