5 CALM DOWN MR. ROME

chapter 5

Rome frowned and crossed out another sentence in his notebook. For an entire week, he had been trying—desperately—to make that calm face crack. And yes, the expression had changed, but not in the way he wanted. Instead of panic or anger, the boy now wore a faint, mocking smile that lingered stubbornly, especially in the library. It made Rome irrationally irritated.

What irritated him even more was the way that smile looked good on him.

The thin figure had slightly yellowish skin, not the pale tone common among Europeans, yet it made the faint blush on his cheeks more noticeable. When he lowered his head, thick eyelashes cast shadows across his face. His thin lips curved just enough to suggest amusement, and his dark eyes always seemed to hold a quiet light.

…Cute.

Rome slammed his head against the desk, cutting off his thoughts immediately.

Cute as hell. Ridiculous.

He glared down at the notebook again. Every plan he had tried had failed, and the crossed-out titles mocked him openly.

First, he had tried a fake snake. Mhok had simply turned around, given him a look full of disgust, and told him to throw it away and stop making a mess. Not even a flinch.

Then came the horror movie plan. Rome had been confident—absolutely confident—that a late-night horror film would scare the skinny Asian boy senseless. Crying, screaming, clinging… at least something.

Instead, Mhok had calmly asked, “What’s so scary about a ghost that can only float around and move things?”

Rome had snapped back instinctively, though his own voice trembled slightly. “Why? Have you seen a scarier ghost?”

Mhok had leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper, his body close enough that Rome could feel faint warmth radiating from him. His heart had jumped violently.

Then came the story.

A photographer. A girlfriend. A hit-and-run. A white shadow appearing in every photo.

As Mhok spoke, the light vanished from his eyes, replaced by something cold and unsettling. Rome remembered how his heartbeat had thundered in his ears, how the scent of mint and vanilla drifting from Mhok had made every hair on his body stand on end.

By the time Mhok described the final photo—the woman sitting on the photographer’s neck, laughing before twisting it with a crack—Rome’s face had gone pale. His hand had clutched his own neck without him realizing it.

Mhok had laughed.

That night, Rome had refused to go upstairs alone and had ended up being escorted to the third floor.

Thinking of it now, Rome covered his face and groaned. He wasn’t afraid of ghosts. The problem was that Mhok had been far too calm.

Cold-blooded. Cruel. Definitely not cute.

Annoyed, Rome stuffed the notebook into the drawer and decided to go out. School would start in a few days, and he planned to buy supplies. As he reached the stairs, he suddenly saw Mhok leaving his brother’s office.

That calm face again.

For some reason, he could never win against that little guy.

“Hey,” Rome called, waving him over. “Where’s your brother?”

Mhok raised an eyebrow but answered calmly. “Master Thee is watching TV with Mistress T.” He paused, then asked directly, “Master Rome, what do you want to talk to me about?”

Rome crossed his arms, smiling slyly. “School starts next week. Are you prepared?”

“Master Thee prepared everything.”

Rome didn’t accept that answer. He closed the distance in a few long strides. “That’s just the basics. You’ll be living in the dormitory. What about your personal belongings?”

Before Mhok could react properly, Rome pulled him out of the house and shoved him into the car.

Today, he would definitely find that guy’s weakness.

Mhok had grown up in an orphanage. Adopted—no, bought—because of his intelligence. His childhood had been strict, suffocating, and joyless. He had been forced to mature early just to survive.

This was likely his first real shopping trip.

Mhok hid his excitement carefully, walking behind Rome through the mall. He reminded himself not to show too much emotion—especially not in front of Rome. Getting lost wasn’t his concern; being laughed at later was.

At the supermarket, Rome pushed the cart impatiently and urged him to choose items. The enthusiasm was suspicious—far too abnormal.

Mhok selected mint shampoo and vanilla soap, simple and familiar. Rome stared at the items for a long moment, clearly thinking.

After checking out, Rome didn’t slow down. “Are you hungry? Let’s eat.”

He dragged Mhok along and brought him straight to a Sichuan restaurant. The red-and-gold décor and the heavy aroma of spices filled the air. Rome ordered confidently, excitement written all over his face.

Soon, dishes arrived—bright red, steaming, fragrant.

Rome struggled with the chopsticks, his lips slowly turning red from the heat. “Is it good? If it’s too spicy, don’t force yourself.”

Mhok chewed calmly. “It’s delicious,” he said honestly. “But it’s not spicy at all. It’s a little bland.”

Rome froze.

“What?”

Mhok tilted his head innocently. “I’m Asian.”

“So?”

“I’m Thai.”

Rome stared at him, stunned. “Do you want to see me cry because of spicy food?”

Mhok laughed softly, teasing without mercy.

The rest of the meal passed quietly. Rome sulked, arms crossed, while Mhok continued eating leisurely. Eventually, Mhok ordered gentler dishes and replaced Rome’s tea with milk.

Rome shot him a fierce look but said nothing.

For a long moment, only the sound of clinking cutlery and quiet heartbeats filled the space between them.

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