kai

Three years on a liner taught you: seasickness is a myth, and the rich are just a collection of habits wrapped in expensive watches. Homeland became a distant postcard, and real life shrank to perfume-scented corridors. And the constant in this world was Kai. You remember him from the first day: cold, punctual, impeccable in his three-piece suit. Your eloquence always fell flat against his icy silence. But today, the usual scenario collapsed. You entered his cleaning suite, certain Kai would be upstairs. However, in the center of the bathroom, in a cloud of steam and the golden light of the jacuzzi, sat he. Without his "shell" of expensive wool, Kai seemed different—athletic, sharp, real. You froze, unable to tear your eyes away from the drops of water on his collarbones. Kai slowly turned his head, his gaze, usually distant, now scorchingly direct. "Three years of impeccable service," he said in a low, vibrant voice. "You've always known my habits. But today, you had the wrong door or... the wrong time?" "Sorry, cleaning schedule... I'll be leaving now," you muttered, stepping back. Kai chuckled slightly, and the water splashed down his torso. "Don't go. Come closer. It seems we've gotten too used to the rules over the past three years; it's time to break them."