The phone buzzed again in his pocket—a persistent, grating vibration against his hip that Phuwin had been ignoring for the last three blocks. He'd left the GMMTV building forty minutes ago, still replaying the way Pond's eyebrow had lifted when he'd said he missed him. Still feeling the heat in his cheeks from hiding his face in his hands like some lovesick teenager. The night air was cool against his honeyed skin, Bangkok's neon smearing across the wet pavement from an earlier rain he'd missed while recording.
His phone kept buzzing.
Phuwin pulled it out, thumb hovering over the screen. Tame. Again. Three missed calls already, and now a fourth attempt. He'd seen the messages too—a string of increasingly insistent texts that had started with a simple "where are you?" and devolved into something that made his stomach tighten. I know you're done recording. I asked Ohm. Come out.
He didn't want to answer. He wanted to go home, shower off the studio air, and sit in the quiet of his condo while he tried to figure out if Pond was actually going to show up at the club tonight. But Tame wasn't the type to let things go. He never had been.
The phone buzzed a fifth time. Same name lighting up the screen. Phuwin's jaw clenched, a nervous hand running through his neatly styled hair until that one loose strand fell across his forehead—the way it always did when something was eating at him.
"Hello?"
"Finally." Tame's voice came through too loud, too close, the way he always sounded—like he was already inside Phuwin's space before being invited. "I've been calling you for twenty minutes. What, you screening me now?"
"I was walking," Phuwin said flatly. His doe eyes scanned the street ahead, dark and unreadable. "What do you want, P'Tame?"
"What do I want?" A laugh on the other end—sharp, not warm. "I'm outside the building. Turn around. I'm taking you home."
Phuwin's feet stopped moving. The evening air pressed against his skin, still carrying the faint hum of traffic from the main road. He didn't turn around. Didn't want to see the car idling at the curb, the window already rolled down, Tame's arm hanging out like he owned the whole street.
Phuwin's feet stopped moving. The evening air pressed against his skin, still carrying the faint hum of traffic from the main road. He didn't turn around. Didn't want to see the car idling at the curb, the window already rolled down, Tame's arm hanging out like he owned the whole street.
"I said turn around." Tame's voice had dropped — lower, flatter. The flirtatious edge was gone. "Don't make me come find you."
Phuwin's grip tightened on the phone. His thumb pressed into the edge until the plastic creaked. The street stretched ahead of him, empty and wet, the distant glow of a convenience store sign the only warmth in the gray.
"Fine." The word came out smaller than he wanted. He hung up before Tame could say anything else.
He stood there for a long moment, the phone cold against his ear, the dial tone humming in the silence. A taxi passed, its headlights sweeping across his face, and he watched it go. He could wave it down. Could climb in and give his own address and let Tame wait at the curb like an idiot.
But Tame knew where he lived.
Phuwin turned.
The car was black, low to the ground, parked across the street with its engine still running. Tame was leaning against the driver's door, arms crossed, a grin spreading across his face when he saw Phuwin finally looking his way. He was older — late twenties, broad-shouldered, the kind of handsome that came with too much confidence and not enough patience.
"There he is." Tame pushed off the car and crossed the street without checking for traffic. "Was that so hard?"
Phuwin didn't answer. His jaw was tight, the loose strand of hair falling across his forehead as he stared at the pavement.
Tame's hand found his chin before Phuwin could step back. Fingers curled under his jaw, firm, forcing his gaze up. The streetlight caught the edge of Tame's smile — too wide, too sure.
"You look so beautiful when you're annoyed," Tame murmured, and then his mouth was on Phuwin's.
The kiss was quick, possessive — Tame's lips pressing hard against his, one hand sliding to the back of Phuwin's neck to keep him still. Phuwin's body went rigid, hands coming up to push against Tame's chest, but the older man was already pulling back, thumb brushing across Phuwin's lower lip like he was wiping something precious away.
"There," Tame said, voice low. "Next time, listen when I speak. You make me wait, and I get really angry, baby. You don't want to see me angry."
Phuwin's breath came shallow. His doe eyes were wide, fixed on some point past Tame's shoulder — the flickering sign of a convenience store, the silhouette of a woman walking her dog two blocks away. Anywhere but here. "Stop kissing me," he said, and his voice came out thinner than he wanted. "Stop doing stuff like that. In public. We're not together, and I don't—I don't like too much skinship."
Tame's smile shifted. Not friendly. Not warm. The kind of smile that said he was making a note of something. "You don't like too much skinship." He repeated the words slowly, tasting them. "That's cute. Come on." His hand dropped from Phuwin's chin to his waist, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him toward the car. "You can't help who you're beautiful for, Phu. And you should watch your tone with me. I'm doing you a favor."
Phuwin stumbled forward, feet catching on the curb as Tame guided him to the passenger side. The door opened. The leather interior smelled like expensive cologne and something chemical — air freshener, maybe, or the cleaning product Tame's detailer used. Phuwin slid in without argument, because arguing meant staying on the street longer, meant Tame's hand staying on his waist longer, meant more eyes on them.
The door closed. The sound was too solid. Too final.
Tame got in on the driver's side, engine already running. The car pulled away from the curb smoothly, merging into Bangkok's evening traffic like they were just two friends heading home. Like nothing had happened. Like Phuwin hadn't just been kissed without asking, pulled into a car without consent, told to watch his tone like he was a child being scolded.
Phuwin stared out the window. The city blurred past — neon signs, street vendors, the orange glow of temple roofs catching the last light. His reflection stared back at him in the glass, and he didn't recognize the person looking out. A model. An actor. Someone who smiled for cameras and waved at fans and let men like Tame put their hands on him because saying no meant a scene, and a scene meant attention he didn't want.
The drive was short. Tame's condo — no, Tame had said Phuwin's condo. But the car pulled into the underground parking of a building Phuwin recognized as his own, and some of the tension in his shoulders eased. At least Tame wasn't taking him somewhere unknown. At least he'd be on familiar ground.
"I bought you something," Tame said as he killed the engine. The silence that followed was heavy, the hum of the parking garage's ventilation filling the space. "For the club tonight. You're going to look so good in it."
Phuwin's fingers curled into his palm. "I don't need you to buy me things, P'Tame."
"I know you don't need it." Tame's hand landed on his thigh — heavy, possessive. "But I wanted to. Come on."
The elevator ride was silent. Tame stood too close, his shoulder brushing Phuwin's with every slight movement. Phuwin watched the numbers climb, counting each one. Seven. Eight. Nine. His floor. The doors opened, and he stepped out first, keys already in his hand, the familiar click of the lock the only sound that felt safe.
Inside, the condo was cool and dark. The floor-to-ceiling windows reflected the city lights, a faint citrus cleaner cutting through the leather smell of the sofa. Phuwin didn't turn on the main light — just the soft glow from the kitchen counter, enough to see by without flooding the space with brightness.
Tame followed him in, the door closing with a soft click. He was holding a garment bag — black, expensive-looking — and he laid it across the back of the sofa with a reverence that made Phuwin's skin crawl.
"Try it on," Tame said. "I want to see how it fits."
Phuwin stared at the bag. At the sleek black fabric visible through the transparent window. A shirt, maybe. Or a jacket. Something designed to make him look good for someone else's eyes. "I don't feel like wearing it," he said, and his voice was flat. Tired. "I have my own clothes for tonight."
Tame's expression didn't change, but something in the room shifted. The air got heavier. "It'll be fine if you wear it. You're going to look sexy. So beautiful. For me."
The words landed wrong — too intimate, too presumptuous. Phuwin picked up the garment bag, the fabric cool and smooth under his fingers. "Stop saying stuff like that to me," he said, and his voice cracked at the edge. He didn't wait for a response. He walked to the bathroom, stepped inside, and locked the door behind him.
The lock clicked. The sound was small. Pathetic.
Phuwin stood in the dark for a moment, the garment bag clutched to his chest, breathing in the smell of his own shampoo and the faint trace of mint from his toothpaste. The bathroom was small — a shower, a sink, a mirror that caught the faint light from under the door. He didn't turn on the light. Didn't want to see his own face right now.
He slid down the door, back pressing against the wood, until he was sitting on the cold tile floor. The garment bag fell open in his lap, revealing a black silk shirt — thin, almost translucent, the kind of thing designed to show skin without showing too much. It would look good on him. That was the problem.
Phuwin set it aside. His phone was in his hand before he knew he'd reached for it, the screen lighting up with his contacts. He scrolled past Tame's name — saved as "P'Tame" with a red heart emoji he'd never bothered to change — and stopped.
.My Nara.
The contact name made his chest ache. Pond had saved it during their first month together, laughing as he typed it in, saying you're my sweetheart, Phu, deal with it. Phuwin had never changed it. Couldn't bring himself to. Even after the breakup, even after the year of silence, even after everything, the name stayed.
His thumb hovered over the call button. He didn't press it.
Instead, he closed his eyes, and the memories came unbidden — the way Pond's arms had wrapped around him after a particularly bad day on set, Phuwin crying and cursing at the world, and Pond had just held him. No questions. No advice. Just warmth and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against Phuwin's cheek. The way Pond's hand had stroked his hair, slow and patient, until the tears stopped. The way Pond had whispered I've got you, Phu. I've always got you.
Another memory surfaced: a date, early in their relationship. Phuwin had been stressed about an audition, and Pond had shown up at his door with his favorite dessert — mango sticky rice from that tiny shop near the river that Phuwin had mentioned once, in passing, three weeks earlier. Pond had grinned, holding out the container like a trophy, and said I remember everything you tell me, Phu. Everything.
Phuwin smiled. The expression felt foreign on his face, like a muscle he hadn't used in too long.
His phone buzzed in his hand, snapping him back to the present. The screen lit up with a group call notification — Satang and Fourth, their names side by side, the familiar chaos of a group FaceTime request. Phuwin's thumb moved before he thought about it, accepting the call.