A hint of a smirk crossed Ming Ji's face, despite his apparent annoyance.
"You're asking for a miracle, sweetheart," he replied, the endearment soft and warm.* "Might as well ask the stars for something while you're at it."
He pushed himself up, reaching for his shirt and pulling it on over his head.* "As much as I'd love to spend the morning in bed, you know we have a job to do."
Jin groaned again, dragging himself up from the tangle of sheets and memories.
He glanced at Ming Ji—*really* looked—and nearly blushed.
There, just below his collarbone—
A faint mark.
His fingers brushed over it almost instinctively.
Ming Ji caught the movement. A slow, knowing smirk curled his lips.
"You left your signature too," he murmured,* voice low.* "Right where my thumb was last night."
Jin's face burned red.*
"Can't we just skip? Pretend we're… indisposed?"
Ming Ji leaned in, close enough that Jin could feel his breath against his ear:
"No. But I *can* promise…"
"...we're continuing this later."
Those words sent a shiver down his spine.
God, just the *implication* of what would come later was enough to make him forget about everything else for a moment. He wanted nothing more than to forget everything about this morning and just return to the bed.
But another sharp knock on the door brought him back to reality.
And judging from the annoyed look on Ming Ji's face, he seemed to feel the same.
"Get dressed," he said gruffly.* "Before Veyra barges in here and sees something we'd both rather keep private."
Jin let out a frustrated breath, but he knew Ming Ji was right.
Reluctantly, he pushed the sheets aside and started to search for his clothes.
Ming Ji was already getting dressed, pulling on his clothes with almost military efficiency.
He looked perfectly put-together, as usual—as if he hadn't been trembling and undone only hours before.
And here Jin was, still shirtless and rumpled.
*Damn him for looking so good so early.*
Ming Ji caught the look Jin was giving him—half-glare, half-admiration—and smirked.
"What?" he said,* voice smooth.* "Jealous?"
"Smug," Jin shot back,* finally finding his shirt and pulling it on.* "You're *smug.*"
Ming Ji stepped closer, one hand brushing a stray lock of hair from Jin's face. His touch lingered just a second too long.
"Maybe," he whispered,* eyes flickering down to his lips.* "But you liked it last night."
Jin flushed again, heart skipping.
Before he could retort—
*Knock. Knock. Knock.*
"Five minutes!" Veyra called out sharply.
Ming Ji sighed,* stepping back with obvious reluctance.*
"We'll finish this conversation later."
Jin wanted to protest, to tell Veyra to give them *five more minutes,* but Ming Ji was already stepping away, heading for the door.
He gave one last look back.
"*Later.*"
It was a promise.
And then he was gone, leaving Jin standing there, still shirtless, and feeling more than a little flustered.
He stood there for a moment, trying to collect himself.
Damn him.
Damn him and the way he looked at him and the way he made him *feel.*
Jin quickly finished getting dressed, still cursing under his breath.
It wasn't fair, he thought, that Ming Ji could look so put together so quickly.
He knew the man was disciplined and efficient.
But damn it, he should look a *little* less composed after last night.
He'd worked so hard to break his composure—to hear that breathless voice, feel the way his body trembled.
And just a few hours later, he was the one a mess while he looked like…
*Perfection.*
Jin tugged at his collar, adjusting it just to have something to do with his hands.
His reflection in the mirror looked exactly how he felt—hair a mess, cheeks still slightly flushed.
*Pathetic.*
He groaned and turned away.
But as he reached for the door, his fingers paused on the handle.
That mark Ming Ji left—the one just below his jaw—was still faintly visible beneath the fabric.
A slow smile tugged at his lips.
*Fine,* he thought.* Let everyone see.*
He pushed the door open, stepping into the hallway—
and there stood Ming Ji,* arms crossed,* leaning against the wall like he'd been waiting all morning.* "Took you long enough."
Jin groaned again, glaring at his smug smirk.
*Damn him.*
"Shut up," he muttered, shutting the door behind him with a snap.
*How* was it fair, he thought, that he was the one looking ruffled and flushed and all-around *wrecked*, while Ming Ji looked as if he'd just stepped out of a magazine in his perfectly-pressed clothes and neat hair.
He couldn't help but feel a pang of irritation at the fact that Ming Ji seemed so damn composed, as if the passionate night they'd shared only hours before had affected him not in the slightest.
Meanwhile, Jin was still trying his best to get his heart rate back to normal and calm the damn flush in his cheeks.
He glanced down at the mark just beneath his collar, the one Ming Ji had so deliberately left, and let out a frustrated breath.
As if sensing the irritation that was practically seeping from his pores, Ming Ji's lips quirked upwards in a knowing smirk.
"Don't pout, sweetheart," he drawled.* "You look fine."
*Oh yeah,* Jin thought.* "Fine."* He was sure he looked *great* with his flushed cheeks and rumpled clothes, next to Ming Ji looking like he'd just left a damn photo shoot for a fashion magazine.
He scowled, folding his arms across his chest.
"Easy for you to say," he muttered.* "You look like you just stepped out of an ad campaign for some damn designer suit."
Ming Ji smirked at his irritated mutterings, that damn smirk widening into a full-blown smile.
God, he looked entirely too happy and self-satisfied with himself this morning.
He'd been the one falling apart in Ji's hands just a few hours before—gasping, trembling, his composure in tatters. But now, it was *Jin* who was a mess, and he was the one looking smug about it.
Damn him.
Jin's eyes narrowed at the smile on Ming Ji's face.
"Stop grinning like that. You don't get to look so damn pleased with yourself."
Ming Ji's eyebrow lifted.* "Oh? And why not?"