Chapter 5: Predator and Prey
The morning air was a cold slap, just how he liked it. Tsuyoshi’s feet pounded the cracked asphalt of the Silver Lake reservoir path in a steady, punishing rhythm. Each impact traveled up his shins, a familiar ache that helped drown out the static in his head—the lingering shame of the gala, the phantom feel of a tongue on his skin, the confusing warmth of a shared meal in the dark.
He ran to remember he had a body that was his, not something to be costumed and displayed.
The sky was a watercolor wash of pale gold and diluted blue. A few other runners were scattered like ghosts in the dawn mist, their breath puffing in small clouds. He rounded a bend under the skeletal arms of an old oak, its shadow stretching across the path.
And there he was.
Derek Souss stood beside the empty bench, looking as if he’d been beamed down from a boardroom satellite. Charcoal wool trousers, a pristine white dress shirt rolled precisely to his forearms, no tie. The crisp lines of his clothing were a brutal insult to the soft, messy dawn. He held two paper cups.
Tsuyoshi stumbled, his rhythm breaking. He jogged in place for a few steps, hands on his hips, sucking in air that suddenly felt too thin. “What the actual hell?”
Derek stepped onto the path, blocking his way. He didn’t even look winded. “Your phone’s location data is part of the security package. Clause 6.1.”
“You’re stalking me now?” Tsuyoshi wiped sweat from his forehead with the hem of his threadbare tank top.
“Ensuring compliance. This,” Derek said, gesturing vaguely at Tsuyoshi’s heaving chest and dripping temples, “constitutes unauthorized physical exertion. It voids the supplementary health insurance rider. Clause 12.3.”
A laugh burst out of Tsuyoshi, raw and disbelieving. “You’re kidding. You found a clause about jogging?”
“I write the clauses.” Derek offered one of the cups. “Black. No sugar. It’s a security brewhouse on Melrose. You’ll find it acceptable.”
Tsuyoshi stared at the cup, then at Derek’s impassive face. The sheer, absurd audacity of it. He took the coffee, his fingers brushing against Derek’s. The contact was brief, electric against his sweat-cooled skin. He sipped. It was, annoyingly, perfect—dark and smooth with a hint of cherry.
“This is creepy, man,” Tsuyoshi said, but he took another grateful drink. The caffeine hit his empty stomach like a welcome shock.
“It’s logistical.” Derek’s eyes scanned him, a clinical assessment. “Your heart rate is elevated. You’re dehydrated. Running on a caloric deficit from last night’s inadequate pasta consumption. It’s poor asset management.”
“Bro, what?” Tsuyoshi shook his head, a dizzy grin spreading. “I’m exercising. Running from your pasty ass. Let me see you try this path in those stupid shoes. Mm, yeah, you’d probably be pale as fuck under there. You’d scare the ghosties away.”
Derek didn’t smile, but something flickered in his cold blue eyes—a spark of challenge. Without a word, he shrugged out of his tailored wool jacket. He stepped forward and draped it over Tsuyoshi’s sweat-slick shoulders.
The weight was immediate, profound. It was still warm from Derek’s body, and the scent enveloped him—that clean, expensive vetiver and ozone, now layered with the subtle, undeniable heat of Derek’s skin. It was infinitely more intimate than the wine-ruined Armani.
Tsuyoshi froze. “What are you doing?”
“You’re perspiring. The morning is cold. Core temperature will drop rapidly. It’s a simple biological equation.” Derek’s voice was low, matter-of-fact. He didn’t step back. They were close enough that Tsuyoshi could see the faint, precise stubble along his jaw, the almost invisible scar just above his eyebrow.
“You’ll get your jacket all sweaty,” Tsuyoshi protested, his own voice sounding strange to him.
“It’s wool. It will breathe.” Derek finally took a step back, reclaiming his personal space. He sipped his own coffee, gaze drifting to the reservoir, its surface like hammered steel in the dawn light. “We have the site visit at ten. I require you alert, not hypothermic.”
The moment snapped. The odd tension bled into the chilly air. Tsuyoshi pulled the jacket tighter around himself, a traitorous part of him savoring the residual warmth. He nodded toward the path. “So, you just gonna stand here? Or you gonna actually earn that health insurance violation?”
One eyebrow arched. “You believe you can outpace me?”
“In those shoes? Yeah, I do.”
Derek placed his coffee cup neatly on the bench. He rolled his sleeves one precise turn higher, revealing the strong cords of his forearms. He didn’t stretch. He just turned to face the path ahead, a fluid readiness in his posture that Tsuyoshi hadn’t expected. “To the next mile marker and back. A brief demonstration of adequate cardiovascular capacity.”
“You’re on, rich boy.”
They started. Tsuyoshi set a brutal pace, a spike of competitive fury fueling him. He expected Derek to fall behind instantly, to be hobbled by leather-soled dress shoes.
He was wrong.
Derek matched him stride for stride. His breathing was controlled, his form eerily efficient. He didn’t run like someone trying to win; he ran like a machine built for sustained output. The silence between them was filled only with the slap of feet on asphalt and the ragged pull of Tsuyoshi’s own breath. Derek wasn’t even sweating.
At the marker, a simple wooden post, Tsuyoshi wheeled around. Derek was right there, turning with a graceful pivot. As they headed back, Tsuyoshi pushed harder, his lungs burning. Derek stayed beside him, a constant, infuriating presence.
The bench came back into view. Tsuyoshi surged forward in a final, desperate sprint. He reached it two steps ahead, bending over, hands on his knees, gasping. He’d won, but it felt like a defeat.
Derek stopped beside him, his breathing only slightly deepened. He retrieved his coffee from the bench and took a sip, as if he’d just concluded a casual stroll. “Your form deteriorates under stress. You lead with your chest, not your core. It’s inefficient.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Tsuyoshi wheezed, but there was no heat in it. It was admiration, twisted into resentment.
Derek finished his coffee, crushed the cup, and deposited it in a bin. He turned to Tsuyoshi, his expression unreadable. “The jacket. I’ll need it back for the site visit.”
Slowly, Tsuyoshi slid it off. The morning chill attacked his damp skin immediately. He handed it over. Their fingers didn’t touch this time.
Derek shrugged it on, not seeming to care that it was now damp with a stranger’s sweat. It was the strangest thing Tsuyoshi had ever seen him do.
“A car will collect you at nine-forty-five,” Derek said, his CEO mask fully back in place. “Wear what’s laid out. The data hub is a controlled environment. Follow my lead. Do not touch anything.”
He began to walk away, back toward the invisible line where this gritty park path met his other, clean world.
“Why’d you really come here?” Tsuyoshi called after him, the question leaving his mouth before he could stop it.
Derek paused. He didn’t turn around. “The pasta was insufficient. I felt responsible.”
Then he was gone, disappearing around the bend, leaving Tsuyoshi alone with the rising sun, the taste of perfect coffee, and the clinging, haunting scent on his own skin.