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Chapter 1: ปิดทองหลังพระ (Placing Gold Leaf on the Back of the Buddha Image)

In the stifling Bangkok heat, where dreams are forged in neon and broken in shadow, A promise was whispered against sweat-damp skin, a universe built for two. It was a fragile kingdom, its walls made of whispered secrets and hands held tight in the dark, Its anthem the frantic beating of two young hearts, hopelessly, foolishly in tune. But the fiercest fires consume the fastest, leaving behind not warmth, but the biting cold of ash, And a silence where a symphony of promises once played.

The air in the small, cramped apartment was a tangible thing, thick with the holy trinity of Bangkok life: the oppressive humidity of the approaching rainy season, the distant, unending hum of traffic from the street below, and the sharp, savory scent of garlic and fish sauce from a neighbor’s late-night cooking. A single, rickety fan oscillated in the corner, its rhythmic creak a metronome for the night, its weak breeze doing little more than stir the heavy atmosphere. The room was sparse, furnished with the kind of mismatched, secondhand pieces that screamed ‘struggling artists’. A lumpy sofa, a small television perched on a stack of books, and a single mattress on the floor that took up most of the living space. It wasn’t much, but it was theirs. A haven carved out of the chaotic, sprawling city. A world that belonged only to them.

On the mattress, tangled in a cheap, worn-soft cotton sheet, that world was aflame.

Kongpob’s back was pressed against Thomas’s chest, a long, elegant line of pale skin that glowed in the dim, orange light filtering through the thin curtains. Each breath he took was a shallow, shuddering thing, a testament to the beautiful, thorough undoing he’d just experienced. Thomas’s arm, thick with muscle and corded with veins, was a heavy, possessive brand across Kongpob’s narrow waist. His fingers, long and calloused from hours spent at the gym and a brief, ill-fated stint as a delivery driver, were splayed possessively over the gentle swell of Kongpob’s stomach. His cock, still slick with their mingled fluids and achingly full, was buried to the hilt in Kongpob’s tight, hot pussy, a perfect, seamless fit that felt more like coming home than any physical place ever had. He flexed his hips, sinking an infinitesimal, impossible fraction deeper, and was rewarded with a soft, broken whimper from the boy in his arms.

He buried his face in the juncture where Kongpob’s slender neck met his shoulder, inhaling a scent that was more addictive to his Alpha senses than any drug. Kongpob, being a Beta, didn’t have the overpowering, pheromone-laden scent of an Omega in heat, a scent designed by nature to drive Alphas into a mindless, rutting frenzy. His scent was something far more subtle, and to Thomas, infinitely more precious. It was clean and sweet, like fresh rain on jasmine blossoms, with an undercurrent of something uniquely Kong—a warm, milky note that reminded Thomas of comfort, of safety, of a love so pure and profound it made his chest physically ache.

A sleepy, contented sigh escaped Kongpob’s lips, and he shifted, a languid, boneless movement that sent a fresh wave of exquisite friction along the entire length of Thomas’s buried cock. His own dick gave a hard, demanding twitch in response.

“P’Thomas…” Kongpob’s voice was a barely-there whisper, muffled by the pillow, thick with sleep and satisfaction. “You’re so heavy… I can’t breathe.” The complaint was utterly devoid of any real protest.

Thomas chuckled, the sound a low, rumbling purr that vibrated from his chest into Kongpob’s back. He adjusted his weight slightly, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look down at the beautiful creature he held in his arms. “Am I?” he murmured, his voice a gravelly caress. He leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the delicate shell of Kongpob’s ear. “Maybe my cock is heavy too. It seems very comfortable where it is. I don’t think it wants to leave your sweet little pussy, ever.”

A delightful shiver wracked Kongpob’s slender frame, and a soft, shy laugh bubbled up from his chest. He squirmed, wiggling his hips in a way that was either entirely innocent or perfectly calculated to drive Thomas insane. The head of his cock brushed against the swollen, sensitive walls of Kongpob’s hole, and a wet, squelching sound echoed in the quiet room.

“Don’t be crude, P’,” Kongpob chided, though his voice was laced with amusement. He tilted his head back, his dark, silky hair fanning out across the pillow. His eyes, when they fluttered open, were impossibly large and dark in his pale face, hazy with the afterglow of his orgasm. “And it’s an arse, not a… a pussy.”

“Is it?” Thomas’s gaze was intense, his pupils blown wide, the primal black of the Alpha within staring out. “Feels like a pussy to me. The tightest, hottest, wettest pussy in the world. And it’s mine.” He punctuated the declaration by thrusting his hips forward in one slow, deliberate, powerful surge.

A raw, high-pitched gasp was torn from Kongpob’s throat. His back arched, his nails digging into the mattress, his arse clenching instinctively, milking Thomas’s cock with an exquisite, involuntary pressure.

“Ah… P’… P’Thomas!” he cried out, the sound a perfect blend of shock and pleasure. “You… you’re still so hard!”

“Always, for you,” Thomas growled, his voice thick with a renewed, ferocious wave of desire. He began to move again, not with the frantic, pounding rhythm of their earlier fucking, but with a slow, deep, almost languorous pace. Each thrust was a claiming, a sacrament. He would pull back until he was almost out, the broad, flared head of his cock teasing the puckered, abused ring of Kongpob’s entrance, before sliding back in, stretching him, filling him, possessing him completely.

He watched, mesmerized, as Kongpob’s face transformed. The sleepy contentment was replaced by a dazed, helpless surrender to pleasure. His lips parted, his long lashes fluttered against his high cheekbones, and soft, breathy moans escaped with every deliberate movement of Thomas’s hips.

This was what Thomas lived for. This beautiful, perfect boy, coming apart beneath him, for him. Kongpob Jirojmontri was a walking contradiction. In public, at castings, he was quiet, almost painfully shy, with a habit of looking at the floor and worrying his bottom lip. He seemed almost unaware of the devastating effect his delicate, androgynous beauty had on people. Men and women, Alphas, Betas, Omegas—it didn’t matter. They were all drawn to him, to his doe-eyed innocence and the surprising, subtle curve of his hips that was so alluringly feminine on his otherwise slender, boyish frame. He had the charm of a lost kitten, making everyone who saw him feel a fierce, protective urge.

But here, in their bed, in the dark, he was a different creature. He was a siren, a shameless, wanton thing who met Thomas’s passion with an equal, desperate fire. He was vocal, his cries and whimpers and pleas the most beautiful music Thomas had ever heard.

“Tell me you love it,” Thomas demanded, his voice a raw, husky command. He leaned down, his lips brushing against Kongpob’s temple, tasting the salt of his skin. “Tell me you love my cock fucking your tight little arse, Kong. I need to hear you say it.”

“I… ah… yes… yes, P’Thomas…” Kongpob panted, his head tossing back and forth on the pillow. His own small, thick cock was beginning to harden again, leaking precum onto his flat belly. “I love it… I love your cock so much… It feels so good… so… so full… please, P’… fuck me harder…”

The plea shattered the last remnants of Thomas’s control. With a guttural snarl, he flipped Kongpob onto his back, pulling his legs up to rest on his shoulders. The new angle was deeper, more punishing, hitting a spot deep inside Kongpob that made his eyes roll back in his head.

“Like this?” Thomas grunted, his hips slamming into Kongpob’s with a wet, percussive slap that echoed off the thin walls. “You want it harder? You want me to fuck you like I own you?”

“Yes!” Kongpob screamed, the sound raw and thrilling. “Yes, please! I’m yours, P’Thomas! I’m yours! Wreck me!”

And Thomas did. He fucked him with a brutal, relentless rhythm, his mind lost in a red haze of pure Alpha possessiveness. This was more than just sex. It was a reaffirmation of their bond, a desperate, physical manifestation of the love that was too big, too dangerous to be spoken of in the light of day. They were just teenagers, barely eighteen, with nothing to their names but a shared, impossible dream of making it in the cutthroat entertainment industry. They had no money, no connections, nothing. All they had was each other.

He reached down, his hand wrapping around Kongpob’s straining shaft, his fingers slick with precum. He began to stroke him in time with his thrusts, a punishing, overwhelming assault on Kongpob’s senses.

“Oh god… oh god, P’… I’m… I’m gonna…” Kongpob’s voice was a high, strained whine. His hips bucked wildly, chasing the friction, the pleasure.

“Not yet,” Thomas commanded, his thumb pressing down hard on the weeping slit at the tip of Kongpob’s cock, holding him back from the edge. “Look at me, Kong.”

Kongpob’s eyes, glazed and unfocused, struggled to find his.

“I love you,” Thomas said, his voice raw with an emotion that was terrifying in its intensity. He slammed into him, again and again. “I fucking love you, Kongpob. Do you hear me? I’m going to make it. I’m going to be a huge star, and I’m going to buy you a goddamn palace. We’re going to have everything. You’ll never have to worry about anything ever again. I’ll protect you. I’ll give you the world. I promise.”

Tears, hot and immediate, welled up in Kongpob’s eyes, spilling over to trace shining paths down his temples and into his hair. They weren’t tears of pain, but of a joy so profound, so overwhelming, it was almost unbearable.

“P’Thomas…” he sobbed, his voice breaking. “I love you too… I love you so much…”

That was all Thomas needed. He let go of Kongpob’s cock, his own climax crashing down on him with the force of a tidal wave. A low, guttural roar was ripped from his throat as he came, his hips giving one last, violent, convulsive thrust that buried him to the root. He felt the hot, pulsing jet of his seed flood Kongpob’s tight channel, coating him, filling him, marking him as his.

The feeling of Thomas’s hot come flooding his insides was the final trigger for Kongpob. With a sharp, keening cry, he came undone, his own release spewing in hot, thick ropes across his own chest, his slender body going rigid before collapsing, boneless and trembling, beneath Thomas’s weight.

For a long time, the only sounds in the room were the ragged, desperate gasps for air and the relentless, creaking complaint of the old fan. Thomas collapsed onto Kongpob, his face buried in the sweaty curve of his neck, his body a dead weight. He was still buried deep inside him, their bodies fused together, slick with sweat and come.

He didn’t have a palace to give him. He didn’t even have enough money to fix the broken air conditioner. All he had to give this beautiful, perfect boy was his body, his heart, and a future full of fierce, desperate promises. And as he drifted off to sleep, with Kongpob’s soft, even breaths warming his skin, he believed with every fiber of his being that it would be enough.

The weeks that followed were a blur of sweaty, crowded casting calls and the bitter, familiar taste of rejection. The promises whispered in the dark felt like a distant dream in the harsh, fluorescent light of audition rooms. Thomas, with his classic Alpha good looks and easy confidence, was starting to get callbacks, small roles in commercials, a walk-on part in a lakorn. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. It was hope.

For Kongpob, it was a different story. He was beautiful, everyone agreed on that. But his beauty was a liability. He was too pretty, too delicate, too feminine. “We’re looking for a leading man, not a leading lady,” one casting director had sneered, his eyes raking over Kongpob’s slender frame with open disdain. Another had suggested he’d have better luck in the adult film industry. Each rejection was another small, sharp cut, chipping away at his already fragile confidence.

He started getting sick. It began with a persistent, gnawing fatigue that settled deep in his bones, a weariness that sleep couldn’t touch. Then came the nausea, sudden, rolling waves that would leave him pale and trembling, his stomach in knots. He’d hide it from Thomas, forcing down the food his loving boyfriend would cook for him, smiling through the exhaustion, blaming it on the stress of the auditions.

But Thomas saw. He was an Alpha, attuned to every subtle shift in his mate’s scent, his mood. He noticed the new, faint shadows under Kongpob’s eyes, the way his already slender frame seemed to be getting even thinner, the way his sweet, jasmine-and-rain scent was sometimes tinged with something sour, something unwell.

“Are you sure you’re okay, thī̀rạk?” he asked one evening, his brow furrowed with worry. He was sitting on the floor, gently massaging Kongpob’s feet as they watched TV. “You seem… off. Maybe you should see a doctor.”

“I’m fine, P’,” Kongpob insisted, forcing a bright smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just tired. It’s nothing. Don’t worry about me.”

But the sickness didn’t go away. It got worse. One morning, Kongpob woke up and barely made it to the small, grimy bathroom before he was violently ill, retching up the watery contents of his stomach until there was nothing left but dry, painful heaves.

That was the last straw for Thomas. He put his foot down, his Alpha voice leaving no room for argument. “That’s it. I’m taking you to a clinic. Today.”

Kongpob, too weak to argue, finally relented, but on one condition. “I’ll go. But… I want to go alone.”

The request stung Thomas. “Why? Let me come with you. I want to be there for you.”

“Please, P’,” Kongpob whispered, his eyes pleading. “It’s embarrassing. I just… I need to do this myself. Please?”

Reluctantly, Thomas agreed. He watched from the window as Kongpob walked down the street towards the small, government-funded clinic, a small, fragile figure swallowed up by the bustling city. The wait was agony.

Inside the clinic, the air smelled of antiseptic and quiet desperation. Kongpob sat on a hard plastic chair, his hands clenched in his lap, trying not to listen to the sounds of coughing and quiet weeping around him. After what felt like an eternity, a nurse called his name.

The doctor was an older, tired-looking man with kind eyes. He asked questions, he prodded and poked, he drew blood. And then he sent Kongpob back out to the waiting room. The second wait was even worse than the first.

When he was finally called back into the doctor’s office, the man was looking at a file, his expression unreadable. He looked up at Kongpob, his kind eyes now tinged with something that looked like pity.

“Khun Kongpob,” he began, his voice gentle. “The results of your blood tests are back. There’s… something we need to discuss. It’s quite… unusual.”

The world outside the doctor’s office seemed to fade away. The sounds of the city, the hum of the clinic’s air conditioner, it all dissolved into a low, buzzing roar in Kongpob’s ears. He saw the doctor’s mouth moving, heard a string of words—words like ‘genetic anomaly’, ‘recessive markers’, ‘one in a million’—but they didn’t make sense. They were just sounds, meaningless and terrifying. He felt a strange, chilling numbness spread through his body, a cold, heavy dread that settled in the pit of his stomach. He left the clinic in a daze, the doctor’s words echoing in the vast, silent chamber of his mind, a folded piece of paper with the official diagnosis clutched in his sweaty palm.

When he got back to the apartment, Thomas was pacing, his scent sharp with anxiety. He rushed to Kongpob, his hands hovering, wanting to touch, to comfort, but unsure how.

“What did the doctor say?” he asked, his voice tight with worry. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

Kongpob couldn’t meet his eyes. He mumbled something about a stomach virus, a prescription for anti-nausea medication. It was a lie, thin and brittle, and he knew Thomas could probably smell the dishonesty on him, but he was too numb, too terrified to do anything else.

That night, for the first time in their relationship, he flinched when Thomas tried to pull him into his arms in bed. The familiar, comforting weight of his lover’s body suddenly felt suffocating, the possessive scent of his Alpha a threat. He turned his back to him, feigning sleep, his body rigid, his mind a whirlwind of fear and confusion. He lay there for hours, listening to the steady, sleeping breaths of the man he loved more than life itself, and felt a chasm opening up between them, a dark, terrifying abyss that he had no idea how to cross.

The abyss only grew wider. Kongpob became a ghost in their small apartment, quiet and withdrawn. He stopped going to auditions, spending his days lying on the mattress, staring at the ceiling, lost in a world of his own making. He barely ate, and the weight started to melt off his already slender frame, leaving him looking fragile and ethereal, like a figure made of glass.

Thomas was beside himself with worry. He tried everything. He cooked Kongpob’s favorite foods, which went uneaten. He tried to coax him out of the apartment for walks, but Kongpob would refuse. He tried to talk to him, to break through the wall of silence Kongpob had erected around himself, but his questions were met with monosyllabic answers or, worse, a heartbreaking, empty silence.

The breaking point came one rainy Tuesday afternoon. The sky outside was a bruised, purple-grey, and a torrential monsoon rain was lashing against the windows, mirroring the storm that had been brewing inside their apartment for weeks. Thomas had just gotten home from a successful meeting with his agent. He’d landed a significant supporting role in a new, high-budget series. It was his big break, the first real step towards fulfilling the promises he had made to Kongpob. He burst into the apartment, his face flushed with excitement, ready to share the news that would change their lives.

He found Kongpob in the middle of the room, standing next to a packed suitcase.

The smile fell from Thomas’s face. The triumphant joy that had been soaring in his chest plummeted, replaced by a cold, sickening dread.

“Kong?” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “What’s… what’s going on? Where are you going?”

Kongpob finally looked at him, and his eyes were the eyes of a stranger. They were cold, empty, and devoid of any of the warmth, the love, the adoration that Thomas had come to depend on like the air he breathed.

“I’m leaving, P’Thomas,” he said, his voice flat and steady. It was a voice he had clearly practiced, each word polished and hard.

“Leaving?” Thomas took a step forward, his hand outstretched. “What do you mean, leaving? Are you going to visit your parents? You didn’t tell me…”

“No,” Kongpob cut him off, his voice sharp. He took a step back, avoiding Thomas’s touch as if it were poison. “I’m leaving you. I’m moving to the UK. For good.”

The words didn’t register at first. They were nonsensical, a language he didn’t understand. He felt a hysterical laugh bubble up in his throat. This had to be a joke. A cruel, terrible joke.

“That’s not funny, Kong,” he said, his voice trembling. “Stop it. You’re scaring me.”

“I’m not joking,” Kongpob said, his gaze unwavering. “My flight is tonight. It’s over, P’Thomas.”

Reality crashed down on Thomas with the force of a physical blow. The air was knocked from his lungs, his legs suddenly weak. He staggered forward, grabbing Kongpob’s arm, his grip desperate.

“No,” he begged, his voice breaking. “No, you can’t. Why? What did I do? Just tell me what I did wrong, and I’ll fix it! I swear, I’ll fix it!”

Kongpob ripped his arm from Thomas’s grasp, a look of cold disdain on his face. “You didn’t do anything. This isn’t about you. It’s about me. I don’t want this life anymore. I’m tired of struggling, of being poor. I’m tired of watching you succeed while I fail. I can’t do it anymore.”

“But… but I just got a part!” Thomas cried, his desperation making him sound like a petulant child. “A big one! This is it, Kong! Our lives are about to change! Everything I promised you, it’s all about to come true!”

“I don’t want your promises!” Kongpob’s voice rose, a sharp, cruel sound that sliced through Thomas’s heart. “I don’t want to be the pathetic little Beta hiding in the shadows while my big, successful Alpha boyfriend conquers the world! I want my own life!”

Each word was a nail being hammered into Thomas’s coffin. He fell to his knees, his entire world crumbling around him. He wrapped his arms around Kongpob’s legs, pressing his face into his thighs, his body wracked with great, gulping sobs.

“Please,” he wept, his voice muffled by the fabric of Kongpob’s jeans. “Please don’t leave me. I love you. I can’t… I can’t live without you. You’re my everything, Kong. Please, thī̀rạk… please…”

He felt a hand on his head, and for a fleeting, hopeful moment, he thought it was a caress. But then the hand pushed him away, firmly, dismissively.

“Don’t,” Kongpob’s voice was ice. “Don’t make this any more pathetic than it already is. Get up, Thomas.”

The use of his first name, so formal and cold, was the final, devastating blow. He looked up, his vision blurred with tears, at the face of the boy he loved, a face that was now a mask of cruel, unfeeling indifference.

“It’s over,” Kongpob repeated, his voice final. He turned his back on him, a gesture of ultimate dismissal. “Goodbye, Thomas.”

Thomas stayed on his knees, watching the slender, rigid line of Kongpob’s back. He couldn’t see the silent tears that were pouring down Kongpob’s face, the agony that was twisting his beautiful features into a silent scream of pure misery. He couldn’t see the way Kongpob’s hand was pressed against his mouth to stifle the sobs that were threatening to tear him apart. He couldn’t hear the silent, desperate apology that was screaming in Kongpob’s heart. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, my love. It’s the only way. I’m saving you.

All Thomas saw was the rejection. All he felt was the excruciating, soul-shattering pain of his heart being ripped from his chest. He heard the sound of the apartment door opening, the sound of Kongpob’s footsteps fading down the hall, and then the final, deafening click of the door closing, sealing him alone in the ruins of their world.

Five Years Later

The kitchen was a haven of warmth and light, a world away from the grey, drizzly English afternoon outside. Sunlight, weak but determined, streamed through the large window above the sink, illuminating the motes of flour dust dancing in the air. The room was the heart of a small, charming stone cottage, all rustic wooden beams, and cozy, lived-in clutter. Jars of homemade preserves lined the shelves, bunches of dried herbs hung from the ceiling, and a professional-grade stand mixer sat on the butcher block countertop like a gleaming, chrome throne. It smelled of yeast, cinnamon, and contentment.

Kongpob, known to the millions of subscribers of his YouTube channel as ‘Chef Kong’, moved around the space with the effortless, economic grace of someone who was completely in their element. He was kneading a large ball of dough on a floured countertop, his movements rhythmic and sure. He was older now, the last vestiges of teenage softness in his face replaced by the lean, handsome planes of manhood. He was still slender, but his body had a wiry strength to it now. He was happy here. Or, more accurately, he had painstakingly constructed a life in which happiness was a plausible, achievable outcome.

A camera on a tripod was pointed at him, its little red light blinking, a silent, digital witness to his quiet, domestic life.

“And you see,” he said to the lens, his English accented with the soft, melodic tones of his native Thai, “the key to a perfect brioche is not to rush the kneading. You have to be patient. You have to feel the dough come alive under your hands. It’s like… a relationship, yes? You must give it time, and warmth, and a gentle but firm hand.” He smiled, a small, slightly self-deprecating smile that was one of his trademarks. It was a smile that reached his eyes, but perhaps didn’t quite light them from within.

He was about to demonstrate the windowpane test when a sudden, piercing wail erupted from the adjacent living room, followed by the distinct, catastrophic sound of something wooden crashing to the floor. The wail immediately escalated into a full-blown, heartbroken sob.

Kongpob’s serene, camera-ready expression vanished, instantly replaced by a mask of pure parental concern. “One moment, everyone,” he said to the camera, quickly wiping his floury hands on the crisp, linen apron tied around his waist. He hurried out of the kitchen, his heart already doing a familiar, worried little flip in his chest.

He found the source of the distress immediately. A small boy of about four, with a wild mop of jet-black hair and enormous, dark eyes that were currently swimming with tears, was sitting amidst the wreckage of a painstakingly constructed wooden block tower.

“Leo?” Kongpob’s voice was a soft, gentle wave of sound. He knelt on the floor in front of the distraught child. “What is it, luk? What’s wrong, my little lion?”

The little boy, Leo, looked up at him, his small face a crumpled, tear-streaked mess. He pointed a chubby, accusatory finger at the fallen tower. “It fell!” he hiccupped, his lower lip trembling with the sheer injustice of it all. “The bad gravity monster knocked it down!”

A real, genuine smile touched Kongpob’s lips, this one reaching his eyes and making them shine. He gently pulled the boy into his lap, and Leo went willingly, burying his face in the crook of Kongpob’s neck, his small body shaking with residual sobs.

“Oh, that gravity monster,” Kongpob murmured, his hand stroking the boy’s soft, messy hair. “He is a very naughty monster, isn’t he? Always making a mess.” He held the boy close, his own body a shield of warmth and comfort, until the sobs subsided into quiet, watery sniffles. “But you know what we do with naughty monsters, don’t you? We rebuild. Bigger, and stronger, and better than before. So strong that even the gravity monster will be too scared to touch it.”

Leo peeked up at him, his big, tear-damp eyes full of a renewed, cautious hope. “With the dragon block on top?” he whispered.

“With the dragon block on the very, very top,” Kongpob confirmed with a solemn nod. He pressed a soft kiss to the boy’s tear-damp temple, his heart swelling with a love so fierce, so powerful, it sometimes felt like it might physically tear him apart. This small, precious, perfect child was his entire world, the sun his life now orbited around.

He stayed there on the floor for a while, holding his son, his brioche and his millions of followers completely forgotten. It was in quiet, unguarded moments like this that the past would sometimes sneak up on him, a ghost at the feast of his new life. He looked at the child in his arms, at his dark, flyaway hair, at the stubborn set of his small chin, and a memory, sharp and bittersweet, pierced through the carefully constructed walls of his present.

(Flashback)

He was lying on the lumpy mattress in their Bangkok apartment, his head in Thomas’s lap. Thomas was idly carding his fingers through his hair, the touch gentle, soothing. They were watching some mindless variety show on the small TV, but Kongpob wasn’t paying attention. His mind was elsewhere.

“P’Thomas?” he said softly.

“Hmm?” Thomas’s eyes were still on the screen.

“Do you ever think about… a family?” The question was a tiny, fragile thing, full of a hope he was almost afraid to voice.

Thomas’s hand stilled in his hair. He looked down at him, his expression suddenly serious. “What do you mean?”

“You know,” Kongpob whispered, suddenly feeling shy. “Kids. A baby.” He rushed to continue, the old, familiar insecurity surfacing. “I know I can’t… you know. I’m a Beta. I can’t give you a baby. But… maybe… someday… we could adopt?”

He expected Thomas to laugh, to dismiss it as a silly, childish fantasy. They were just kids themselves, after all, with no money and an uncertain future. But Thomas didn’t laugh. He looked at Kongpob with an expression of such profound tenderness that it stole his breath away.

“Is that what you want, thī̀rạk?” he asked, his voice soft.

Kongpob nodded, unable to speak past the lump that had formed in his throat.

A slow, brilliant smile spread across Thomas’s face. “Okay,” he said, as if it were the simplest, most obvious thing in the world. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

Kongpob’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Really,” Thomas confirmed. He leaned down, his forehead resting against Kongpob’s. “When I make it big, when we have a proper house and lots of money, we’ll adopt a baby. A little boy. And you can teach him all your secret recipes, and I’ll teach him how to be strong and brave. We’ll be the best dads in the world.” He sealed the promise with a soft, sweet kiss.

(End Flashback)

“Papa?”

Leo’s small voice snapped him back to the present. Kongpob blinked, a single, hot tear escaping to trace a path down his cheek. He quickly wiped it away, hoping his son hadn’t seen. The memory left a familiar, aching hollow in his chest. He had a son now, a beautiful, wonderful son. He was a father. But he was doing it alone. The dream had come true, but it was a fractured, incomplete version, haunted by the ghost of the man who was supposed to be there with him.

He forced a bright smile onto his face. “Yes, my little lion?”

“I’m hungry,” Leo announced, his earlier architectural tragedy now completely forgotten. “Can we have pancakes?”

Kongpob’s smile became a little more real. “Pancakes are a brilliant idea,” he said, scooping the boy up into his arms. “But first, Papa has to finish his work. How would you like to be my special assistant chef?”

Leo’s eyes lit up. “Can I wear the little apron?”

“Of course,” Kongpob said, his heart aching with love. “Only the best for my assistant chef.”

He finished the video with Leo perched on a stool beside him, a miniature version of his own apron tied around his small body, looking on with grave importance. The presence of his son centered him, chased the ghosts away, and for a little while, he was able to forget.

Later that evening, long after Leo was asleep upstairs, his small body curled up in his bed under a duvet covered in dinosaurs, Kongpob was cleaning the kitchen. The house was quiet, filled with the comfortable, peaceful silence of a life well-lived. His phone, which he had left on the counter, buzzed to life, the screen lighting up with a message notification. He dried his hands and picked it up, a tired smile touching his lips as he saw it was from his mother in Thailand.

[Mae]: Your brioche video was wonderful, lookchai (my son)! You are so talented! Your father and I are so proud!

A warm feeling spread through Kongpob’s chest. He typed back a quick reply.

[Kong]: Thank you, Mae. I’m glad you enjoyed it.

His phone buzzed again almost immediately.

[Mae]: We miss you. And we miss our grandson. It has been too long. The holidays are coming. You should come home, luk. Come home for a visit.

Kongpob’s fingers froze over the keyboard. Home. The word sent a jolt of pure, undiluted panic through him. This cottage was his home now. This quiet, peaceful life he had built from the ashes of his old one. Thailand… Thailand was a different world. A world filled with ghosts and memories he had spent five years trying to outrun. The thought of going back, of walking those streets, of breathing that air… it was terrifying. It meant risking the fragile peace he had fought so hard to find. It meant the possibility, however small, of running into him.

As if sensing his hesitation, his phone began to ring, his mother’s face appearing on the screen for a FaceTime call. He took a deep, steadying breath, composed his features into a mask of calm affection, and answered.

“Mae,” he said, his voice softer than he intended.

“Kongpob!” His mother’s warm, familiar face beamed at him. She looked older, the lines around her eyes deeper, but her smile was just as radiant. “You look thin, luk. Are you eating enough? Is my grandson being a good boy?”

“I’m fine, Mae. And Leo is perfect,” he answered, the familiar script of their conversations a comforting balm.

“So,” she said, her expression turning serious, hopeful. “You will come home for the holidays, yes? Your father has already planned a trip to the beach. And your grandmother wants to teach Leo how to make kanom krok. Everyone misses you so much.”

Kongpob looked around his quiet, safe kitchen. His sanctuary. The thought of the loud, chaotic, vibrant world he had left behind felt like a physical assault. He wanted to say no. He needed to say no. But then he looked at his mother’s face on the screen, at the undisguised love and longing in her eyes, and the word died on his lips. He had run for five years. Maybe… maybe it was time to stop running.

He closed his eyes for a brief second, gathering his strength. When he opened them, he had a smile plastered on his face, a brittle, fragile thing.

“Okay, Mae,” he heard himself say, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. “Okay. We’ll come home. We’ll be there for the holidays.”

The pure, unadulterated joy that exploded on his mother’s face was almost enough to quell the raging storm of panic in his chest. Almost. But as he ended the call and the screen went black, his own reflection stared back at him, his eyes wide and haunted. He was going back. He was going home. And he was terrified.

Chapter Text

(Word Count: 22,112)

Chapter 2: ข้างนอกสุกใส ข้างในเป็นโพรง (Bright and Shiny on the Outside, Hollow on the Inside)

The man who built a palace of gold and jade, Found its gilded halls an echo of his own desolate heart. Each jewel-encrusted wall a mirror to his pain, Each silent, cavernous room a tomb for a love torn apart. He wore a crown of victory, a mask of sovereign grace, But reigned as a king of ashes, in a cold and empty place.

The klieg lights were merciless, two miniature, man-made suns that bleached all color from the world, leaving only harsh whites and deep, stark blacks. They beat down on the soundstage, sucking the air from the room and replacing it with a thick, suffocating heat that made the back of Thomas’s neck prickle with sweat under the heavy wool of his bespoke suit. The cloying, artificial scent of fog-machine smoke hung in the air, a chemical haze that stung his nostrils. Around him, the controlled chaos of a high-budget film set swirled—grips manhandled heavy equipment, makeup artists stood by with brushes and powder puffs at the ready, and the director, a small, wiry man with an impressive Napoleon complex, was currently screaming into a headset about a shadow that was a millimeter out of place.

Thomas stood at the center of it all, an island of absolute stillness in the hurricane of activity. He was the eye of the storm. He was the reason for the storm.

He was standing on the precipice of a digitally rendered rooftop, the Bangkok skyline a dizzying, hyper-realistic panorama projected onto a massive green screen behind him. A wind machine, just out of frame, whipped his immaculately styled hair across his forehead and tugged at the lapels of his designer suit. In his hand, he held a prop gun, a hefty, realistic replica that felt cold and dead against his palm. His face, a masterpiece of sharp angles and brooding intensity that had sold millions of movie tickets and graced the covers of countless magazines, was a mask of cold, calculated fury. He was playing a betrayed mafia boss about to execute his once-trusted lieutenant. He was channeling a pain that was black, bottomless, and utterly convincing.

“And… ACTION!” the director’s voice boomed through the speakers.

The other actor, a younger, less experienced man whose face was pale with a mixture of stage makeup and genuine fear, stumbled forward, falling to his knees as the script dictated.

“Please, Khun Thanatos,” the young actor begged, his voice trembling convincingly. “Please, I can explain. It wasn’t what it looked like!”

Thomas—or rather, Thanatos—didn’t speak. He simply looked down at the pathetic, groveling creature at his feet, his eyes as cold and dead as a winter sky. He let the silence stretch, a taut, vibrating wire of tension that held the entire film crew captive. He could feel their gazes on him, feel their bated breath. This was his power. This was his gift. He could command a room, a set, an entire cinema, with nothing more than a look.

He slowly raised the gun, the movement economical, precise, deadly. The young actor flinched, a raw, terrified sob catching in his throat. Thomas’s finger tightened on the trigger, his thumb caressing the cool metal of the hammer. He held the pose for a beat longer than necessary, letting the camera drink in the raw, chilling menace in his eyes. It was a look he had perfected over five years and a dozen films. It was the look of a man who had nothing left to lose because he had already lost everything that mattered.

“CUT!” the director screamed, his voice cracking with ecstatic glee. “Brilliant! Fucking brilliant, Thomas! The look in your eyes… Christ, you give me chills! That’s a wrap for today, people!”

The moment the word ‘cut’ was uttered, the mask fell. The cold fury in Thomas’s eyes didn't just vanish; it was sucked away, leaving behind a profound, terrifying emptiness. The tension drained from his body, his shoulders slumping almost imperceptibly. Thanatos, the betrayed kingpin, was gone. Thomas Teetut Chungmanirat, the hollow man, was back.

He handed the prop gun to a waiting assistant without a word, his expression unreadable. His manager, a sharp, impeccably dressed woman named P’Fon, was instantly at his side, holding out a bottle of ice-cold water and a towel.

“You were incredible, Thomas,” she said, her voice a low, professional purr. “The studio is going to love the dailies. We’re already getting Oscar buzz for this role.”

“Good,” Thomas replied, his voice a flat, toneless thing. He took the water, his fingers brushing against hers, and he saw the faint, hopeful flicker in her eyes, the subtle way she leaned in a little closer. He ignored it, just as he ignored all the others. He took a long, slow swallow of the water, the cold liquid doing nothing to quench the arid desert inside him.

He was Thomas Teetut Chungmanirat, the biggest movie star in Thailand, arguably in all of Southeast Asia. His face was a ubiquitous presence, on billboards, on television screens, on the sides of buses. His name was spoken with a kind of breathless reverence by fans and critics alike. He was compared to the likes of BrightWin, his popularity having transcended the local market to become a regional phenomenon. He had a penthouse apartment with a panoramic view of the city, a fleet of luxury cars he barely drove, and a bank account with more zeroes than he could be bothered to count. He had everything he had ever promised Kongpob he would get for them.

And he was utterly, completely, devastatingly alone.

P’Fon was chattering on, listing his schedule for the rest of the week—a photo shoot for Vogue, a fitting for the new Armani campaign, a press conference for his last blockbuster, which had just broken box office records in Japan. He listened with half an ear, his gaze drifting over the bustling set, his eyes seeing nothing. His life was a meticulously scheduled, highly polished performance, and he was just an actor playing his most challenging role yet: the role of a successful man who was not haunted by the ghost of a boy who had ripped his heart out and taken it with him to the other side of the world.

He had never stopped looking for him. In the beginning, in the raw, bleeding months after Kongpob had walked out of their shabby little apartment and his life, it had been a frantic, desperate obsession.

(Flashback - Five Years Ago)

The click of the door closing was the loudest sound Thomas had ever heard. It was the sound of a guillotine blade falling, severing his life into a ‘before’ and an ‘after’.

He stayed on his knees in the middle of the floor for a long time, the cheap linoleum cold against his skin. The air in the room, which had always been filled with Kongpob’s sweet, clean scent, now smelled of nothing but the rain outside and the lingering, metallic tang of his own despair. He stared at the spot where Kongpob had stood, his mind a blank, white canvas of shock. He couldn’t process it. He couldn’t make it real.

He didn’t know how long he stayed there. The grey afternoon light faded into a bruised, inky twilight, and the city outside lit up, its million glittering lights a cruel mockery of the darkness that had just consumed his world. The rain eventually stopped, leaving behind a city that smelled clean and new, a world washed of its sins. He felt none of it. He was trapped in the stale, suffocating air of their—his—empty apartment.

Sometime in the dead of night, he moved. He pushed himself to his feet, his limbs stiff and clumsy, and staggered to the mattress on the floor. Their bed. He collapsed onto it, his face buried in Kongpob’s pillow, and he inhaled, a desperate, greedy gasp, trying to find his scent. It was there, faint and fading, a ghost of jasmine and rain and something uniquely, heartbreakingly Kong. And that’s what finally broke him. A sound was torn from his throat, a raw, guttural, animalistic howl of pure, undiluted agony. It wasn’t a cry. It was the sound of a soul being ripped in two.

He lay there for three days.

He didn’t eat. He didn’t sleep. He didn’t answer the frantic calls and texts that were blowing up his phone. He just lay there, curled in a tight, fetal ball, clutching Kongpob’s pillow, the fading scent his only connection to a life that no longer existed. The world outside ceased to exist. His big break, the role that was supposed to change everything, was a distant, meaningless echo.

On the third day, there was a frantic pounding on the door.

“Ai’Thomas! Open the fucking door! We know you’re in there!”

It was Zee’s voice, sharp with worry and laced with his usual brand of brusque affection. Thomas didn’t move.

“Thomas, please! It’s Max! P’Fon called us, she’s worried sick! You missed your script reading! If you don’t open this door, we’re breaking it down!”

He heard the sound of a key fumbling in the lock—Zee had a spare—and then the door creaked open. The dim light of the hallway spilled into the dark, tomb-like apartment. He heard two sharp intakes of breath.

Zee and Max, his two closest friends from the early, struggling days at Domundi, stood silhouetted in the doorway. He could feel their shock, their horror, from across the room.

“Holy shit,” Max breathed, his voice a horrified whisper. “Ai’Sát… the smell…”

The apartment reeked. It was the smell of a distressed, grieving Alpha, a sour, acrid stench of curdled pheromones that was the olfactory equivalent of a scream. It was the smell of heartbreak, of abandonment, of a world that had ended.

They found him on the mattress, a pale, gaunt stranger with wild, bloodshot eyes and a three-day growth of stubble. He was clutching a pillow as if it were a lifeline, his knuckles white. He looked up at them, but his eyes were unfocused, looking through them, not at them.

“He’s gone,” Thomas whispered, his voice a dry, rasping croak. It was the first time he had spoken in three days. “He left me.”

Zee and Max exchanged a worried look. They had known about Thomas and Kongpob, of course. They were one of the few people Thomas had trusted with his secret. They had seen how utterly, incandescently in love he had been.

Zee, ever the pragmatic one, moved into the room, his nose wrinkled in disgust at the smell. He started opening the windows, letting in the fresh air and the sounds of the city. “Where did he go?”

“The UK,” Thomas rasped. “For good.”

Max sat down on the edge of the mattress, his large, gentle hand settling on Thomas’s shoulder. Thomas flinched at the contact. “Did he say why?” Max asked, his voice soft.

A dry, humorless, rattling sound that might have been a laugh escaped Thomas’s lips. “He said he was tired of being poor. Tired of being my pathetic little Beta secret. He said… he said he never loved me.”

The lie, the one Kongpob had so cruelly, so carefully constructed to set him free, had done its job. It had burrowed deep into Thomas’s heart like a parasite, poisoning everything, turning the beautiful memories into a grotesque mockery.

Zee stopped his whirlwind of cleaning, his face a mask of furious disbelief. “That’s bullshit! Anyone with eyes could see that boy worshipped the ground you walked on! He was lying!”

“No,” Thomas said, his voice flat, dead. “He wasn’t. It was all a game. And I was the fool who believed it.”

They stayed with him for a week. They forced him to shower, the hot water sluicing the grime and the worst of the sour grief-scent from his skin. They forced him to eat, spooning bland rice porridge into his mouth like he was a child. They talked to him, filling the suffocating silence with idle chatter about work, about industry gossip, about anything and everything, trying to pull him back from the precipice he was teetering on.

Slowly, painfully, he started to function again. He was a machine, running on fumes, performing the basic tasks of living by rote. He went to his script reading. He went to his costume fitting. He met with the director. He was a perfect, polite, empty automaton.

His agent, P’Fon, was a shrewd woman. She saw the new, chilling emptiness in his eyes, the raw, visceral pain that he was trying so hard to bury, and she saw an opportunity. “Use it,” she had told him, her voice cool and pragmatic. “Whatever it is that’s eating you alive, put it on the screen. Let the camera see it. Pain makes for great art, Thomas.”

And so he did. He poured all of his shattered, bleeding heart into that first role. He took the agony of Kongpob’s betrayal, the crushing weight of his loneliness, the white-hot fury of a love that had been dismissed as a pathetic mistake, and he channeled it into his performance. The result was breathtaking. He wasn’t just acting; he was vivisecting himself on screen for the world to see. The movie was a smash hit, and he became an overnight sensation. His pain had bought him his fame.

As soon as the first paycheck came in, a staggering amount of money that made his head spin, he did two things. First, he moved out of the small, ghost-filled apartment. Second, he hired the best private investigator in Bangkok.

The instructions were simple. “Find him,” Thomas had said, his voice cold and hard. “His name is Kongpob Jirojmontri. He left for the UK. I want to know where he is, what he’s doing, who he’s with. I want to know everything.”

He had a fantasy. A dark, vengeful fantasy where he would show up on Kongpob’s doorstep, a rich and famous man, and he would see the regret in Kongpob’s eyes. He would see the boy who had left him for a better life realize that he had made the biggest mistake of his life by leaving the man who could now give him everything. He wanted to see him grovel. He wanted to make him hurt the way he had been hurt.

But the investigator found nothing.

It was as if Kongpob Jirojmontri had ceased to exist. He had gotten on a plane to London, and he had vanished. There were no school records, no work permits, no social security numbers, no social media profiles. The trail was ice cold. The boy he had given his entire heart to had become a ghost, a phantom that haunted his dreams and his waking hours.

The not knowing was a special kind of torture. It was a wound that could never scab over, constantly picked open by a million unanswered questions. Was he happy? Was he with someone else? Did he ever, even for a second, regret what he had done?

The darkness in him grew, festered. He threw himself into his work, a relentless, punishing schedule of back-to-back films. Each role was darker, more intense than the last. He became known for his brooding, emotionally damaged characters, and the public couldn’t get enough of it. They lauded him as a genius, a method actor of incredible depth. They didn’t realize he wasn’t acting. He was just showing them the barren, desolate landscape of his own soul.

(End Flashback)

“…Thomas? Did you hear me?”

P’Fon’s voice, sharp and insistent, snapped him back to the present. He blinked, the harsh lights of the soundstage coming back into focus. He had been a million miles, and five years, away.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair, messing it up. “Zoned out. What did you say?”

She gave him a look, a mixture of exasperation and concern. “I said, the car is waiting. And… are you okay? You’ve been… distant, today.”

“I’m fine,” he said, the lie smooth and practiced. “Just tired. Long day.” He turned and started walking towards the exit, his long-legged stride eating up the ground, forcing her to hurry to keep up. He didn’t want to talk. He just wanted to go home to his big, empty penthouse and drink himself into a state of numbness where the ghosts couldn’t reach him.

But, of course, it was never that simple. As he stepped out of the air-conditioned studio and into the sticky, oppressive heat of the Bangkok evening, a swarm of paparazzi and reporters, who had somehow gotten wind of his filming schedule, descended on him like a pack of starving hyenas. The air exploded with the frantic, blinding flashes of a hundred cameras and the cacophony of shouted questions.

“Thomas! Is it true you’re dating your co-star, Nong Mintra?” “Khun Thomas! Any comment on the rumors you’re in talks for a Hollywood project?” “Thomas! Over here! Just one smile for your fans!”

He felt a surge of hot, claustrophobic panic. He hated this. He hated the cameras, the grasping hands, the insipid, prying questions. His security team, two large, imposing men, immediately formed a protective wall around him, trying to carve a path through the writhing sea of bodies towards the gleaming black Mercedes that was waiting at the curb.

He put his head down, his face a cold, indifferent mask, and pushed through the crowd, ignoring the shouted questions. But then one voice, a young female reporter with a microphone thrust aggressively towards his face, cut through the din.

“Khun Thomas, your fans have noticed you never talk about your past, before you were famous. You never talk about love. They call you the ‘Ice Prince’ of the Thai entertainment world. Do you have a reason for being so private? Have you ever had your heart broken?”

The question hit him like a physical blow. He froze, his hand on the car door, the chaos of the paparazzi scrum fading into a distant roar.

Have you ever had your heart broken?

He could feel the phantom pain in his chest, the jagged, gaping hole where his heart used to be. He could taste the ash of dead promises on his tongue. He could see a pair of large, dark, expressive eyes, a shy, sweet smile, a slender body writhing beneath him in the dim light of a cheap apartment.

He turned his head slowly, and his eyes, those cold, empty, movie-star eyes, found the young reporter in the crowd. For a single, terrifying second, the mask slipped. The raw, unfiltered agony of the last five years bled through, a look of such profound, devastating desolation that the reporter actually took a step back, her mouth falling open.

And then the mask was back in place. He gave her a smile, a slow, lazy, devastatingly handsome smile that didn’t come close to reaching his eyes. It was the smile that made his fans swoon, a smile that was pure, calculated performance.

“My heart is fine,” he said, his voice a low, smooth, perfect lie. “You can’t break something you don’t use.”

And with that, he ducked into the cool, dark, silent interior of the car, leaving a stunned, silent crowd and a hundred unanswered questions in his wake.

The club was a temple of hedonism, a dark, pulsating cavern of sound and sweat and sin. The bass from the speakers was a physical thing, a heavy, relentless thudding that vibrated up through the soles of Thomas’s expensive leather shoes and settled deep in his bones, rattling his teeth. The air was thick with the smells of stale champagne, designer perfume, and desperation. Flashing strobes cut through the darkness, illuminating writhing bodies on the dance floor in fractured, epileptic snapshots.

Thomas was tucked away in a VIP booth in a cordoned-off section, a bottle of ludicrously expensive whiskey on the table in front of him. He had already downed three glasses, the fiery liquid burning a welcome path down his throat, dulling the sharp edges of his thoughts, blurring the ghosts that haunted the corners of his vision.

He wasn’t alone. A beautiful Omega model, all long limbs, pouting lips, and a scent like overripe peaches and cinnamon that was designed to drive Alphas crazy, was practically draped over him. Her name was… he couldn’t remember. Candy? Kitty? Something equally disposable. Her hand was high on his thigh, her painted fingernails drawing lazy, suggestive circles on the fine fabric of his trousers, inching ever closer to his crotch.

“You’re so quiet tonight, P’Thomas,” she purred in his ear, her voice a breathy, practiced thing. “Is everything okay? Am I boring you?”

Thomas took another long swallow of whiskey, the amber liquid a familiar, comforting poison. He looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time that night. She was objectively stunning, a perfect specimen of Omega beauty. Her skin was flawless, her body was sculpted, her eyes were wide and adoring. Any other Alpha would be in heaven. Thomas felt nothing. Less than nothing. He felt a profound, soul-deep weariness.

Her scent, which was supposed to be intoxicating, was cloying and artificial to him. It was a sledgehammer of pheromones, lacking any of the subtle, clean, jasmine-and-rain sweetness that he was still, after all this time, pathetically addicted to. Her touch was practiced, her flirtations a script she had clearly used a hundred times before. There was no real warmth, no genuine affection. It was a transaction. She wanted the prestige, the bragging rights of being seen with him, of fucking him. And he… he just wanted a warm body to fill the cold, empty space in his bed for a few hours. He wanted a temporary, physical oblivion.

“I’m not bored,” he said, his voice a low, whiskey-soaked rumble. He turned to her, his eyes, dark and predatory in the flashing club lights, raking over her body. He was playing a part again. The part of the powerful, desirable Alpha. It was a role he knew by heart. He leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear, and he felt her shiver in anticipation. “I’m just thinking about how good you’d look on your knees.”

Her eyes went wide, a flicker of genuine shock quickly replaced by a dark, hungry excitement. She was one of the ones who liked it rough. Good. That made things easier. Less pretense.

“Is that so?” she whispered, her hand finally closing over the hard ridge of his cock through his trousers. “What are we waiting for, then? I know a place…”

He didn’t even let her finish. He threw a wad of cash on the table—enough to buy the entire bar, probably—and stood up, grabbing her hand and pulling her through the throng of bodies, his security detail clearing a path for them like the parting of the Red Sea.

Her apartment was exactly what he expected: a sterile, white-on-white shoebox in a trendy high-rise, decorated with a kind of bland, Instagram-ready minimalism. It had no personality, no warmth. It was a showroom, not a home.

The moment the door closed behind them, she was on him, her mouth hot and hungry, her body pressing against his. Her kiss was all teeth and tongue, a desperate, clumsy assault. He kissed her back with a kind of detached, brutal efficiency, his hands roaming her body, grabbing, squeezing, assessing. He backed her up against a wall, his hand sliding up her ridiculously short dress, his fingers finding the damp lace of her panties. She was already soaked, her peach-and-cinnamon scent thickening with the musky tang of arousal.

She moaned into his mouth, grinding her hips against his. “Fuck me, Thomas,” she panted, her fingers fumbling with the button of his jeans. “Please, I need you inside me. I need you to knot me.”

The clinical, biological term—knot me—sent a sudden, unexpected jolt of revulsion through him. It was a word that spoke of breeding, of primal, Alpha-Omega dynamics, of a biological imperative that he had come to loathe. It was a world away from the soft, shy, loving whispers of the boy who had taught him what it truly meant to connect with another soul.

He pushed the thought away, burying it under a fresh wave of manufactured lust. He ripped her panties down, the sound of tearing lace loud in the silent apartment. He lifted her leg, hooking it around his hip, and pushed two fingers inside her. She was hot, slick, and tight. His body responded on a purely instinctual level, his cock straining against the confines of his jeans, thick and aching.

But his mind… his mind was a million miles away.

He pushed her onto the ridiculously oversized white sofa, coming down on top of her. He shucked off his jeans and boxers in one fluid motion, his erection springing free, thick and heavily veined. She looked at it, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and greed, and reached for it.

“It’s so big,” she breathed, her fingers wrapping around his shaft.

He didn’t answer. He just pushed her hand away, grabbed her hips, and positioned himself at her entrance. He looked down at their joined bodies. Her, spread-eagled and waiting, him, poised to enter her. It was a tableau he had enacted with a dozen different women and Omegas over the past five years. The faces changed, the apartments changed, but the feeling—or lack thereof—was always the same.

He thrust into her, a single, hard, deep stroke that buried him to the hilt. She cried out, a sharp, pleased sound, her nails digging into his back. He began to fuck her, his rhythm fast, hard, and mechanical. It was a workout, a physical release, nothing more. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see the stranger’s face beneath him.

He was fucking a ghost. He was always fucking a ghost.

He could feel her starting to build towards her climax, her breathing becoming ragged, her scent spiking. He moved faster, wanting it to be over, the friction and the heat and the wet, slapping sounds doing their job, pushing him towards his own release.

“Oh god, Thomas, yes…” she moaned, her head thrashing from side to side. “Say my name… Please, say my name…”

And that was his mistake. He opened his eyes. He looked down at her face, flushed and contorted with pleasure. And for a split, hallucinatory, gut-wrenching second, it wasn't her face he saw. He saw a different face. A paler, more delicate face, framed by a halo of dark, silky hair. He saw wide, dark, innocent eyes, swimming with tears of pure, unadulterated love. He heard a different voice, a soft, sweet voice, crying out a different name. P’Thomas… I love you…

The vision was so real, so vivid, it was like a punch to the gut. The lust that had been driving him evaporated in an instant, replaced by a cold, sickening wave of grief and self-loathing. His rhythm faltered. His erection, which had been rock-hard just a second before, began to soften inside her.

She felt the change immediately. Her eyes snapped open, her expression shifting from passion to confusion, then to a dawning, horrified humiliation.

“What… what’s wrong?” she whispered, her voice small.

Thomas pulled out of her, the sound wet and final. He stood up, not even bothering to look at her, and started pulling on his jeans. The silence in the room was suddenly deafening.

“Thomas?” Her voice trembled. “Did I… did I do something wrong?”

He finally looked at her, his face a cold, impenetrable mask. The desire was gone, replaced by that familiar, chilling emptiness. “It’s not you,” he said, his voice flat. It was the cruelest kind of honesty. “Get dressed. I’ll call you a car.”

He didn’t wait for her to reply. He turned his back on her, walked to the window, and stared out at the glittering, indifferent city, leaving her naked and trembling on the sofa in a puddle of her own shame and his own pathetic, unresolved grief.

He stood there until he heard the soft, humiliated click of her apartment door closing behind her. And then he was alone. Again. Always alone. He leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the window, his reflection a pale, ghostly image superimposed over the city lights. A king in his castle of glass and steel, with a hole in his chest big enough to swallow the whole damn city. He closed his eyes, and whispered a name into the darkness, a name that was both a prayer and a curse.

“Kong.”

Chapter Text

(Word Count: 23,894)

Chapter 3: กำแพงมีหู ประตูมีช่อง (Walls Have Ears, Doors Have Crevices)

An echo of a ghost in a child’s bright laugh, A forgotten promise in a stubborn, pouting face. The past is not a country from which we can emigrate; It is a seed we carry, waiting for the right time, the right place, To sprout through the careful concrete of our new lives, A relentless vine of memory, reclaiming all that survives.

The English morning broke grey and soft, the sky a muted watercolor wash of pearl and lavender. A gentle, persistent drizzle wept against the windowpanes of the small stone cottage, each droplet tracing a meandering, silver path down the glass. Inside, the world was warm and golden, a haven of soft light and comforting smells. The air was fragrant with the rich, dark aroma of brewing coffee and the sweet, buttery scent of pancakes sizzling on a griddle.

Kongpob stood at the stove, a soft, faded blue apron tied around his narrow waist, his bare feet silent on the cool flagstone floor. He hummed a quiet, tuneless melody as he expertly flipped a pancake, its surface a perfect, dappled gold. The kitchen was his sanctuary, the rhythmic, meditative process of cooking his daily prayer. It was here, amidst the familiar clatter of pots and the alchemy of simple ingredients, that he could keep the ghosts at bay.

“Is it ready yet, Papa?”

The voice, small and impossibly high-pitched, was accompanied by a determined tug on the hem of his pajama bottoms. Kongpob looked down, his heart doing its familiar, lurching somersault of pure, unadulterated love.

Leo stood beside him, his small body enveloped in a pair of oversized dinosaur-print pajamas, his wild mop of jet-black hair sticking up in a dozen different directions. He was staring up at the stove with an expression of intense, single-minded concentration, his small, pink lower lip caught between his teeth. His dark, almond-shaped eyes, so large they seemed to take up half of his small face, were wide with a hunger that was almost comically profound.

It was the expression. That specific, laser-focused look of determination, the slight furrow of his brow, the way his lip was caught just so. It was an expression Kongpob had seen a thousand times before, but on a different face, in a different life. It was Thomas’s face when he was memorizing lines for an audition, the world around him fading away until only the script, the words, the character, existed.

The ghost, which had been sleeping soundly, stirred in the back of Kongpob’s mind.

He quickly pushed the memory away, forcing a bright smile onto his face. “Almost, thī̀rạk,” he said, his voice soft. “Patience is the secret ingredient to the most delicious pancakes. Five more minutes, okay, my little lion?”

Leo let out a dramatic, long-suffering sigh that was far too world-weary for a four-year-old, and plopped himself down on the floor, his arms crossed stubbornly over his chest. He began to pout, his lower lip pushing out in a way that was so exaggeratedly petulant it was adorable.

And there it was again. The ghost, wide awake now, and insistent.

(Flashback)

“I don’t want to go,” Thomas had grumbled, his arms crossed over his bare chest in exactly the same way. He was sitting on the edge of their lumpy mattress, his handsome face a mask of stubborn defiance. His lower lip was stuck out in a pout that was both ridiculous and utterly irresistible.

“We have to go, P’,” Kongpob had reasoned, trying and failing to suppress a smile. He was attempting to button up a shirt that was probably a size too small for his boyfriend’s broad shoulders. “It’s Zee’s birthday party. He’ll kill us if we don’t show up.”

“But it’s raining,” Thomas had countered, as if this were an irrefutable, logical argument. “And it’s cold. And this mattress is warm. And you’re here.” He had reached out then, his large hand wrapping around Kongpob’s wrist, and pulled him down onto his lap. “Let’s stay here instead,” he had murmured, his voice a low, seductive rumble against Kongpob’s ear. “I can think of much better things to do than go to a crowded, noisy party.”

Kongpob had laughed, his resolve melting under the heat of Thomas’s gaze, the sheer, magnetic pull of his presence. “You’re impossible,” he had whispered, his hands coming up to cup Thomas’s face.

“I know,” Thomas had grinned, his pout vanishing, replaced by a slow, devastatingly handsome smile. “But you love it.”

(End Flashback)

“Papa!” Leo’s voice, sharp and insistent, snapped Kongpob back to the present. He realized he had been staring into space, the pancake forgotten on the griddle, the edges just starting to turn a dangerous, dark brown.

“Sorry, luk,” he said quickly, deftly flipping the pancake onto a waiting plate. He turned off the stove and knelt on the floor in front of his son, whose pout had now reached epic, world-ending proportions.

“You were thinking about the sad thing again, weren’t you?” Leo asked, his voice soft, his big, dark eyes suddenly full of a startling, grown-up perception.

Kongpob’s breath caught in his throat. He had tried so hard to shield his son from the quiet, persistent melancholy that sometimes ambushed him, but children, he was learning, saw everything.

“No, sweet boy,” he lied, his voice a little too bright. “I was just thinking about our big trip. Are you excited to go on the airplane?”

The distraction worked. The pout vanished, replaced by an expression of pure, unadulterated excitement. “Yeah!” Leo bounced on his bottom. “And we’re gonna see Grandma and Grandpa! Is Grandma gonna make the sticky rice? The sweet, sweet, sticky rice?”

“She’s going to make mountains of it, just for you,” Kongpob promised, his heart aching with a mixture of love and guilt. He was taking his son home, to a place he didn’t remember, to a family he barely knew, and into the path of a ghost he himself had spent five years running from.

He served the pancakes at the small wooden table in the breakfast nook, cutting Leo’s into small, manageable, dinosaur-shaped bites. He drizzled them with a ludicrous amount of maple syrup, just the way his son liked it.

Leo ate with a focused, almost feral intensity, his small face quickly becoming a sticky, syrupy mess. He held his fork in his fist, a determined, slightly clumsy grip, shoveling the pieces into his mouth with gusto. Every so often, he would pause, his cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk’s, and hum a little, contented tune, a low, happy rumble in his chest.

It was such a small thing, a silly, childish habit. But it was another dagger to Kongpob’s heart. Thomas used to do that. He would hum, a low, tuneless, rumbling sound, when he was truly, deeply enjoying a meal Kongpob had cooked for him. It was his highest form of praise, a subconscious expression of pure, animal contentment.

Kongpob’s own appetite vanished. He pushed the pieces of pancake around on his plate, the ghosts of the past sitting with them at the table, their presence as real and as palpable as the sticky syrup on his son’s face. He was drowning in them today, the memories, the echoes. He looked at the small boy across from him, this beautiful, miraculous child who was the center of his universe, and all he could see were the pieces of a man he had loved and left behind. He saw Thomas in the fierce, stubborn set of Leo’s jaw, in the way his hair curled just so at the nape of his neck, in the startling, unexpected depth of his laughter.

Leo was a living, breathing, beautiful mosaic of a love that was supposed to be dead and buried. And taking him back to Thailand… it felt like taking a lit torch into a powder keg.

The controlled chaos of Heathrow Airport was a jarring, overwhelming assault on the senses after the quiet, predictable peace of their cottage life. The air was a cacophony of a dozen different languages, the constant, rolling thunder of suitcase wheels on linoleum, and the disembodied, robotic announcements of departures and delays. The air smelled of floor polish, jet fuel, and the faint, underlying tang of a thousand people’s collective travel anxiety.

Kongpob navigated the bustling terminal with a grim, determined focus, his body a well-oiled machine of parental logistics. He had a large suitcase trundling behind him, a backpack full of snacks, wet wipes, and a fleet of toy dinosaurs slung over his shoulder, and Leo perched securely on his hip, his small arms wrapped tightly around Kongpob’s neck, his face buried in his shoulder, overwhelmed by the noise and the crowds.

He was a striking figure, though he was utterly unaware of it. Dressed in a simple, soft-grey cashmere sweater and well-fitting black jeans, he moved with an innate, understated grace. His slender, curvy frame, the delicate lines of his face, and the air of gentle, paternal devotion with which he held his son, drew more than a few appreciative glances from passersby. He didn’t notice. His entire world was focused on the small, warm weight in his arms and the daunting, twelve-hour flight that lay ahead of them.

They made it through check-in and security with minimal fuss, and finally found their gate. As he settled Leo into a hard plastic chair, pulling out a well-loved T-Rex toy to distract him, Kongpob allowed himself a small, shaky exhale of relief. The first hurdle was cleared.

“Excuse me, Nong Kong?”

The voice was familiar, a cheerful, booming baritone that plucked a long-forgotten chord in his memory. Kongpob looked up, his eyes widening in a mixture of surprise and a sudden, sickening jolt of panic.

Standing in front of him, a wide, incredulous grin spreading across his handsome face, was Ja Phachara. He was one of the core members of Domundi, one of Thomas’s closest friends, part of the inner circle from the old days. He looked older, more mature, his boyish charm solidified into a confident, manly charisma. He was dressed in designer sweats that probably cost more than Kongpob’s entire monthly grocery budget, a clear sign that the dreams they had all shared in that small, shabby agency office had come true for him, too.

“P’Ja?” Kongpob’s voice was a choked whisper. Of all the millions of people in London, of all the hundreds of thousands of people passing through Heathrow on this exact day, it had to be him. The universe, it seemed, had a cruel, ironic sense of humor.

“It is you!” Ja boomed, his grin widening. “Ai’Sát! I thought I was seeing a ghost! What the hell are you doing here? I thought you’d fallen off the face of the earth!”

Kongpob’s mind raced, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He forced a smile onto his face, a brittle, fragile thing. “Hello, P’Ja. It’s… it’s good to see you. I live here, now. In the UK.”

Ja’s eyes, which had been sparkling with friendly recognition, suddenly dropped to the small boy sitting beside Kongpob, who was now staring up at the large, loud stranger with wide, wary eyes. Ja’s grin faltered, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated shock. He pointed a slightly trembling finger at Leo.

“And… who’s this little guy?” he asked, his voice an octave higher than usual.

Kongpob’s entire body went rigid. The moment he had been dreading for five years was here, in the middle of a crowded airport terminal, under the merciless, fluorescent lights. “This is… this is my son,” he said, the words feeling thick and strange on his tongue. He put a protective hand on Leo’s head. “His name is Leo.”

Ja’s jaw literally dropped. He stared from Kongpob to Leo and back again, his brain clearly struggling to compute the information. “Your… your son?” he stammered. “You have a son? When did… how did… who’s the mom?”

The question was a landmine. Kongpob’s smile tightened. “It’s… a long story, P’Ja.” He deliberately used a vague, dismissive tone, a conversational dead end. “Are you… are you flying home to Bangkok?”

The subject change was clumsy, but Ja, after a moment of stunned silence, seemed to take the hint. “Uh… yeah. Yeah, visiting my family for the holidays,” he said, his eyes still flicking back to Leo, full of a million unspoken questions. An awkward silence fell between them, thick with the weight of five years of secrets and a whole new, shocking reality.

It was broken by the boarding announcement for their flight. The flight to Bangkok. Of course. The universe wasn’t just ironic; it was a first-class bitch.

“Well,” Kongpob said, standing up and quickly gathering their things, grateful for the excuse to escape. “That’s us. It was… it was really nice seeing you, P’Ja.”

“Wait, you’re on this flight?” Ja asked, his surprise evident.

“Business class, I hope?” Kongpob quipped with a weak, tired smile, trying to inject a note of levity into the tense, surreal encounter. He hefted Leo onto his hip, the small boy’s familiar weight a comforting anchor in the swirling sea of his anxiety.

“Uh, yeah, of course,” Ja said, a little distractedly. “Me too.”

The flight was a special kind of hell. Kongpob found himself seated just two rows behind Ja. He spent the entire twelve hours in a state of hyper-vigilant anxiety, his back ramrod straight, acutely aware of the man sitting behind him. He could feel Ja’s gaze on him from time to time, curious and speculative. He focused all his attention on Leo, reading him stories, playing with his dinosaur toys, feeding him snacks, anything to avoid having to make eye contact or small talk with the ghost from his past who was now his fellow passenger.

At one point, Leo, who had finally exhausted his seemingly endless supply of energy, fell asleep in his arms, his small body a warm, trusting weight against his chest, his face angelic in repose. Kongpob found himself staring down at his son, his heart overflowing with a fierce, protective love. He gently brushed a stray strand of dark, silky hair from Leo’s forehead, his finger lingering on the soft, baby-smooth skin.

He was so lost in the moment, in the profound, quiet miracle of his son’s existence, that he didn’t notice the man two rows ahead of him discreetly lift his phone. He didn’t see the subtle, almost imperceptible click of the camera’s shutter. He didn’t see Ja looking at the photo on his screen, a picture of Kongpob gazing down at the sleeping child in his arms with an expression of pure, unadulterated adoration, his delicate, beautiful features softened by a love that was almost holy in its intensity. He didn’t see the conflicted, troubled expression on Ja’s face as he opened his LINE application, navigated to a group chat named ‘The Domundi Boys’, and, after a moment of hesitation, typed out a message.

[Ja Phachara]: Guys… you are not going to fucking believe who I just ran into at Heathrow.

And then, with a deep sigh and a shake of his head, he attached the photo and hit send.

The penthouse was silent, the only sound the faint, distant hum of the city ten stories below. The space was a monument to minimalist, masculine luxury—all polished concrete floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, and sleek, low-slung Italian furniture in shades of black, grey, and chrome. It was a space designed to impress, to intimidate. It was a space designed for a man who didn’t want to be comfortable, but to be admired from a safe, untouchable distance. It was a beautiful, sterile, and profoundly lonely place.

Thomas stood in front of the window, a glass of whiskey in his hand, the amber liquid catching the light of the glittering city skyline. He was wearing nothing but a pair of loose, grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips, his torso a roadmap of lean, hard muscle that was the result of a punishing, daily workout regimen. He was staring out at the city, but he wasn’t seeing it. He was seeing a pair of dark, haunting eyes, a slender body, a ghost that never, ever left him.

His phone, which was lying on the cold, granite surface of the bar, buzzed. He ignored it. It buzzed again, a series of quick, insistent notifications. With a sigh of irritation, he turned from the window and picked it up, his thumb swiping across the screen to unlock it.

It was the group chat. He saw a flurry of messages, his friends’ names flashing on the screen.

[Zee Pruk]: Who? Don’t leave us hanging, Ai’Ja! [Max Kornthas]: Is it a celebrity? Did you see a Hollywood star? [Ja Phachara]: [1 Image Attached] [Ja Phachara]: Better than a Hollywood star. It’s a ghost.

Thomas’s finger hovered over the image preview, a strange, cold feeling of dread coiling in his stomach. He tapped on it.

The image loaded, crisp and clear on the high-resolution screen of his phone. And the world stopped.

It was him.

It was Kongpob.

The breath was stolen from Thomas’s lungs, his heart giving a single, violent, painful lurch in his chest, as if it had been tasered. It was him. He was older, his face had lost its boyish softness, but it was unmistakably him. The same delicate, heart-shaped face, the same high cheekbones, the same full, bow-shaped lips. He was looking down, a soft, gentle smile on his face, an expression of such profound tenderness that it was a physical blow to Thomas.

And then he saw what—who—he was looking at.

Curled up in his arms, his head resting on Kongpob’s chest, was a small boy. A child, with a mop of dark, unruly hair, fast asleep.

Kongpob was holding a child. His child.

Thomas’s mind refused to process what his eyes were seeing. The whiskey glass slipped from his numb fingers, shattering on the polished concrete floor, the sound unnaturally loud in the silent room. He didn’t even notice. He just stared at the phone, at the image, his entire universe collapsing in on itself for the second time in his life.

The messages in the group chat continued to fly, a cruel, relentless commentary to the destruction of his world.

[Zee Pruk]: HOLY FUCKING SHIT. Is that… Is that really him? [Max Kornthas]: No fucking way. And… is that his KID?! [Ja Phachara]: That’s what I said. His name is Leo. Kong said it’s his son. [Zee Pruk]: He looks… good. Happy. [Max Kornthas]: Happy? He looks like a goddamn Madonna and Child painting. Who’s the mother? Did he say? Did he get married? [Ja Phachara]: He got weird when I asked. Didn’t want to talk about it. But… yeah. I mean, look at him. He has a kid. He moved on.

He moved on.

The words on the screen blurred, the screen of the phone seeming to waver and distort through the sudden, hot film of tears that filled Thomas’s eyes. He had held onto a sliver of hope. He hadn’t even realized it was there until this very moment, when it was being so brutally, so utterly extinguished. Deep down, in the most secret, pathetic corner of his shattered heart, he had held onto the fantasy that Kongpob was alone, that he was miserable, that one day he would realize his mistake and come back. He had imagined a thousand different reunion scenarios, some angry and vengeful, others soft and forgiving. But not one of them, not in his wildest, most masochistic nightmares, had ever included this.

Kongpob with a child. Kongpob, with a family. A life that he had built with someone else. A woman. An Omega, probably. Someone who could give him what he, a broken, empty Alpha, apparently couldn’t.

A sound was ripped from his throat, a low, wounded, animalistic sound of pure, abject agony. It was the same sound he had made five years ago, alone on the floor of their empty apartment. The pain, which he had thought had dulled into a manageable, chronic ache, was back, as fresh and as sharp and as excruciating as it had been on that first day.

He had built an empire on the ashes of their love. He had become a king. But what was a king without his queen? What was a palace when the one person it was built for was living in a cottage with another man’s child?

He sank to his knees on the cold floor, amidst the shards of broken glass and spilled whiskey, the phone still clutched in his white-knuckled grip. He brought the screen closer to his face, his thumb moving to zoom in on the sleeping child’s face. He was looking for something, he didn’t know what. A resemblance. A clue. A piece of a puzzle he didn’t even know he was trying to solve.

But all he saw was a happy, peaceful family. All he saw was definitive, irrefutable proof that Kongpob had not only left him, but had replaced him, had created a new life, a new love, a new world in which Thomas Teetut Chungmanirat had no place. The ghost that had haunted him for five years had finally found its peace. And in doing so, it had just condemned him to an eternity in hell.

The air that hit them as they stepped out of the sterile, air-conditioned chill of Suvarnabhumi Airport was a physical thing, a solid wall of heat and humidity that was quintessentially, unapologetically Bangkok. It was a thick, wet blanket, heavy with the smells of diesel fumes, street food, and the sweet, cloying scent of tropical blossoms. For Kongpob, it was the smell of home. It was a scent he hadn’t realized he had missed until it was filling his lungs, a complex perfume of nostalgia and a deep, gut-wrenching dread.

“Oof, it’s hot, Papa,” Leo mumbled, his small face, still flushed with sleep, wrinkling in protest as he buried it deeper into Kongpob’s neck.

“I know, luk,” Kongpob murmured, shifting the boy’s weight on his hip. “We’ll be in an air-conditioned car soon, I promise.”

He scanned the crowd of waiting faces, the sea of people holding up signs and waving expectantly, and then he saw them. His parents. They looked older, the five years since he had last seen them in person etched in the new lines around their eyes, the extra silver in his father’s hair. But their faces, when they saw him, lit up with a love that was so pure, so powerful, it was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud.

“Kong! Luk!” His mother’s voice was a choked cry. She rushed forward, her arms open, and enveloped both him and a startled Leo in a tight, desperate hug. She smelled of her familiar, comforting scent of jasmine soap and home. “My boy! My grandson! You’re finally home!”

His father was right behind her, his usually stoic face crumpled with emotion, his eyes shining with unshed tears. He put his large, warm hands on Kongpob’s shoulders, his touch grounding, reassuring. “Welcome home, son,” he said, his voice thick.

Kongpob felt his own carefully constructed composure begin to crumble. The relief, the love, the sheer, overwhelming emotion of being held by his family after so long, was too much. Tears welled up in his eyes, hot and immediate. “Mae… Por… I’m home,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

They fussed over him, and even more over Leo, who, after a few shy, wary moments, was quickly won over by his grandmother’s cooing and his grandfather’s offer of a mango-flavored candy.

The ride from the airport was a blur of familiar, yet jarringly different, sights. The skyline of Bangkok had changed, new, gleaming skyscrapers piercing the hazy sky where none had been before. But the chaotic, vibrant energy of the streets, the swarms of motorbikes weaving through traffic, the colorful street-side stalls, the ubiquitous portraits of the King—that was all exactly the same. It was a strange, disorienting temporal dissonance, a city that was both the one he remembered and a stranger.

His parents had booked a table at a restaurant on the river, an elegant, open-air place with twinkling fairy lights and a stunning view of the glittering Wat Arun across the water. The air was filled with the gentle sounds of a traditional Khim player and the low, happy murmur of conversation.

They talked for hours, a frantic, happy deluge of questions and answers, catching up on five years of missed birthdays, holidays, and small, everyday moments. Kongpob told them about his life in England, his cottage, his successful YouTube channel, glossing over the loneliness, the struggles, the persistent, quiet heartbreak that was the constant, low hum beneath the surface of his life. He painted a picture of a happy, successful, well-adjusted man. He was an artist, and his life was his greatest, most elaborate fiction.

He was in the middle of telling a funny story about one of Leo’s preschool mishaps when something on the massive television screen mounted on a nearby wall caught his eye. It was a commercial. A commercial for a new, impossibly expensive luxury watch.

A man, dressed in a sharp, tailored black suit, was walking in slow motion through a crowd of adoring people. The camera focused on his face, on his sharp, chiseled jaw, his intense, brooding eyes, the confident, almost arrogant set of his mouth. It was a face that had haunted Kongpob’s dreams for half a decade.

It was Thomas.

He looked… incredible. He radiated a raw, powerful Alpha charisma that was almost overwhelming, even through a television screen. The boyish softness that Kongpob remembered was gone, carved away by time and success, leaving behind a man who was all hard angles and cool, untouchable confidence. He looked like a king. He looked like a stranger.

Kongpob’s heart stopped in his chest. The flow of words died in his throat, the half-finished story forgotten. He just stared at the screen, at the ghost from his past, now rendered in glorious, high-definition color, selling a fantasy of wealth and success that he had actually, impossibly, achieved.

His mother, ever perceptive, noticed the sudden, abrupt change in him. She followed his gaze to the television screen. Her own expression softened with a kind of gentle, nostalgic recognition.

“Oh, look,” she said softly. “It’s Nong Thomas. He’s become such a big star, hasn’t he? So handsome.” She turned back to Kongpob, her brow furrowed with a gentle, maternal curiosity. “You know, I was just thinking about him the other day. Do you two still talk? You used to be so close, inseparable, you and him. Your father and I always thought of him as a second son.”

The innocent question was a knife, twisting in a wound that had never properly healed. Kongpob tore his eyes away from the screen, his hand trembling slightly as he reached for his glass of water.

“No, Mae,” he said, his voice a little too tight, a little too quick. He took a long sip of water, the cold liquid a shock to his system. “We… we just grew apart. You know how it is. I moved away, he got famous… People change. We lost touch.”

It was a plausible lie. A simple, clean, painless lie. It was a lie he had been practicing, perfecting, in his own mind for five years.

His mother looked at him, her eyes full of a wisdom that made him feel transparent, his carefully constructed walls of deception turning to glass. She didn’t push, but he could see that she didn’t quite believe him.

“Well, that’s a shame,” she said quietly, letting the subject drop. She turned her bright, loving smile on Leo, who was starting to fidget in his chair, his attention span officially expired.

But his father, ever the pragmatist, chose that moment to bring up a different, equally fraught topic. “Speaking of which, son, have you made an appointment for your check-up yet? With Dr. Somsak? We need to make sure everything is… stable.”

The casual, practical question landed with the force of a physical blow. A check-up. The word itself was a key, unlocking a door in his mind that he had kept bolted, barred, and sealed shut for five long years. A door that led back to a cold, sterile clinic room, to a day when his entire world, his entire understanding of himself, had been shattered into a million irreparable pieces.

(Flashback - Five Years Ago)

The air in the clinic waiting room was stale, smelling of antiseptic and fear. Kongpob sat on a hard plastic chair, his hands twisted together in his lap, his leg bouncing with a nervous energy he couldn’t control. He felt… wrong. The sickness, the fatigue, the nausea… it wasn’t just a stomach bug. He knew it, deep in his bones. It was something else, something deeper, something fundamental.

“Khun Kongpob Jirojmontri?” a nurse called out, her voice devoid of emotion.

He followed her into a small, windowless examination room. The doctor, an older man named Dr. Somsak, whom his parents had recommended, had a kind, tired face. He looked at the chart in his hands, his brow furrowed.

“We have the results of your blood work, Khun Kongpob,” he said, his voice gentle. He looked up, his kind eyes meeting Kongpob’s, and there was something in them—pity, surprise, a kind of clinical awe—that made a fresh wave of cold dread wash over him. “It’s… quite extraordinary. We had to run the tests three times to be sure.”

Kongpob’s heart was hammering against his ribs. “What is it, Doctor? Am I… am I very sick?”

The doctor gave him a small, reassuring smile. “No, no, not sick at all. Just… different. Kongpob, the identity you’ve lived with your whole life, as a Beta… it’s incorrect.”

Kongpob just stared at him, his mind a blank slate of confusion. “Incorrect? What do you mean?”

Dr. Somsak took a deep breath. “Genetically, you present as a Beta. Your scent is minimal, you don’t experience heats… All the classic markers are there. However, you possess a very rare, recessive genetic condition. You’re what we call a ‘late-presenting Omega’. It means that externally, you are, for all intents and purposes, a Beta. But internally… internally, you have a fully functional Omega reproductive system.”

The words didn’t make sense. It was like the doctor was speaking a foreign language. Omega? Him? It was impossible. He wasn’t soft and submissive. He didn’t crave an Alpha’s knot. He didn’t have heats. He was just… Kongpob.

“That’s… that can’t be right,” he stammered, a hysterical laugh bubbling in his throat. “I’m not an Omega.”

“The blood tests are conclusive,” Dr. Somsak said gently, but firmly. “And… there’s more. This condition, it’s usually dormant your entire life. It’s only triggered, ‘awakened’, if you will, under very specific circumstances. A prolonged, intense exposure to a particularly potent Alpha’s pheromones. A deep, emotional, and physical bonding.”

Thomas. The name screamed in his mind. Their small apartment, always thick with Thomas’s possessive, loving Alpha scent. Their bodies, constantly intertwined. Their hearts, so hopelessly, foolishly in tune.

“The fatigue, the nausea you’ve been experiencing…” the doctor continued, his voice dropping even lower, as if he were about to deliver a verdict. “It’s not a stomach virus, son. It’s a symptom.”

He slid a piece of paper across the desk. It was an ultrasound report. Kongpob looked down at it, his eyes tracing the medical jargon, the numbers, the charts, none of it making any sense. And then he saw it. A small, grainy, black-and-white image. A tiny, flickering shape. A flicker of life.

“Kongpob,” Dr. Somsak said, his voice impossibly gentle. “You’re pregnant.”

The world tilted on its axis and fell away. The sterile white walls of the clinic room seemed to rush in on him, the air suddenly too thin to breathe. Pregnant. He, Kongpob, a boy, a Beta—no, an Omega—was pregnant.

And the baby… the baby was Thomas’s.

The realization hit him with the force of a physical blow. He was carrying the child of a rising Alpha star, a boy who had the world at his feet. And in their world, in the brutal, image-obsessed world of Thai entertainment, a beautiful, successful Alpha did not end up with a beta. And he certainly did not end up with a beta who got pregnant. He would be a scandal, a freak, a career-ending secret that would drag Thomas down, destroying everything he had worked so hard for, all the promises he had made.

And in that single, horrifying, world-shattering moment, Kongpob knew what he had to do. He had to disappear. He had to cut himself out of Thomas’s life, cleanly and brutally, like a surgeon excising a cancer. He had to be cruel. He had to make Thomas hate him. It was the only way to save him. It was the only way to protect their child.

He looked up at the doctor, his vision blurring with tears, the ultrasound picture clutched in his white-knuckled hand. He had just been given a miracle. And he knew, with a certainty that was as sharp and as cold and as painful as a shard of glass in his heart, that he had to receive that miracle alone.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: รักวัวให้ผูก รักลูกให้ตี (Love the Cow, Tie It Up; Love the Child, Hit It / Spare the Rod, Spoil the Child)

To build a fortress for the one you love, Sometimes you must first burn your own world to the ground. Use the ash of your heart for mortar, the shards of your soul for stone, And from the ruins of your happiness, a sacrifice profound. You become the dragon at the gate, the monster in the dark, So your beloved may sleep safely, and never see the mark of your own desolate, noble scar.

The days following the doctor’s appointment bled into one another, a grey, suffocating fog of unreality. Kongpob moved through their small apartment like a phantom, a ghost haunting the edges of his own life. The folded ultrasound picture, tucked away in the innermost pocket of his wallet, was a secret sun, a source of terrifying, miraculous heat that he could feel burning against his skin even through layers of fabric and leather. He was a walking miracle, a biological impossibility, a time bomb strapped to the heart of the boy he loved more than life itself.

He existed in a state of constant, high-alert duplicity. He smiled when Thomas smiled. He laughed at Thomas’s jokes. He ate the food Thomas cooked for him, forcing each mouthful past the lump of nausea and terror that lived permanently in his throat, praying it would stay down. He was an actor, playing the most difficult role of his life: the role of the boy who was still just a boy, the boy whose world had not just been irrevocably, fundamentally, and terrifyingly altered.

Thomas, with his keen Alpha senses, knew something was wrong. He just didn’t know the shape of the monster that had taken up residence in their home. He attributed Kongpob’s silences, his new, flinching fragility, his sudden bouts of exhaustion, to the sickness the doctor had supposedly diagnosed. A persistent, nasty stomach virus. A simple, mundane, and blessedly temporary affliction.

“Are you sure you shouldn’t go back to the doctor, thī̀rạk?” he would ask, his brow furrowed with a constant, loving worry that was like a knife to Kongpob’s heart. He’d be sitting on the edge of the mattress, stroking Kongpob’s hair as he lay listlessly, the ever-present fatigue a leaden weight on his limbs. “You’re not getting any better. You’re getting thinner. I can feel your bones, Kong. It’s scaring me.”

“I’m okay, P’,” Kongpob would lie, his voice a weak, papery thing. He would force a smile, a pathetic, trembling facsimile of his usual bright expression. “These things just take time. Don’t worry. I’ll be better soon.”

He felt like he was living in a different dimension, a parallel reality that existed just inches away from Thomas’s. Thomas’s world was bright with the dawning light of a future he had fought so hard for. His big break, the supporting role in the new lakorn, had led to another, better offer. The director had been so impressed with his raw talent, his brooding intensity, that he had been offered a leading role in an independent film, a dark, gritty thriller that was already generating industry buzz.

He would come home to their small, stuffy apartment, his face flushed with excitement, his Alpha scent electric with triumph and ambition, and he would pull Kongpob into his arms, oblivious to the rigid, terrified stillness of the boy he was holding.

“Can you believe it, Kong?” he’d say, his voice a low, vibrating rumble of pure joy against Kongpob’s ear. “A leading role! My own movie! This is it! This is really it! Everything is finally happening!”

He’d hold Kongpob at arm’s length, his hands on his shoulders, his eyes shining with a fierce, brilliant light. “No more of this,” he’d say, gesturing around at their cramped, shabby apartment. “No more cheap, instant noodles for dinner. No more worrying about the rent. I’m going to buy us a house, Kong. A real house, with a big kitchen with one of those fancy islands, just like you’ve always wanted. And a garden. You’d like a garden, wouldn’t you? You could grow your own herbs.”

Each word, each beautiful, heartfelt promise, was another nail being hammered into Kongpob’s heart. He would just nod and smile, his own heart a cold, heavy stone in his chest. His house. His garden. His future. A future that Kongpob was now a living, breathing, biological threat to.

He started doing his own research, late at night, on the cheap, second-hand laptop they shared, while Thomas slept soundly beside him. He would type in search terms that made his fingers tremble: ‘Thai actor scandal’, ‘celebrity unplanned pregnancy’, ‘career ruined by secret child’.

The results were a grim, terrifying confirmation of his deepest fears. He read story after story. A beautiful, rising star actress, dropped by her agency and blacklisted from the industry after it was revealed she had a child out of wedlock. A popular male singer, his clean, boy-next-door image shattered, his career in freefall after a former girlfriend came forward with a paternity claim. The public, the fans, the powerful, conservative backers of the entertainment industry—they were merciless. A scandal, especially one involving a secret child, was a death sentence.

And their situation… it was a thousand times worse. Two boys, not even out of their teens. An Alpha and a… a boy who was supposed to be a Beta. A freak. A medical anomaly. The media would have a field day. They wouldn’t just be a scandal; they would be a circus. They would be torn apart, dissected, mocked, and destroyed. Thomas’s brilliant, nascent career, the dream he had poured his entire being into, would be over before it had even truly begun. All of his talent, all of his hard work, all of his fierce, burning ambition, would be reduced to a sordid, sensational headline.

One night, Thomas was out late, at a dinner meeting with his new director and a group of potential investors. Kongpob was alone in the apartment, the silence a heavy, suffocating blanket. The nausea, which had been a constant, low-grade companion for weeks, came on suddenly, with a vicious, violent intensity. He barely made it to the bathroom before he was on his knees, his body wracked with dry, painful heaves.

He stayed there for a long time, his cheek pressed against the cool, grimy tile of the floor, his body trembling with exhaustion. He put a hand on his own stomach. It was still flat, still the stomach of a slender, skinny boy. But he knew. He knew that inside, a miracle was happening. A tiny, secret life was growing, a life that was half his and half the boy he loved with every shattered, bleeding piece of his soul.

And in the cold, stark clarity of his misery, he understood. The choice he had been agonizing over wasn't a choice at all. It was a foregone conclusion. There was only one path. One sacrifice.

He loved Thomas. He loved him with a purity and an intensity that transcended his own happiness, his own desires, his own life. He loved him enough to protect his dream, even if it meant becoming his nightmare. He loved him enough to disappear.

He cried then, not loud, desperate sobs, but silent, scalding tears that poured from his eyes, tracing paths of grief through the grime on his cheeks. He cried for the future they would never have, for the house with the garden that would never be theirs. He cried for the beautiful, perfect love that he was about to poison and destroy. And he cried for the tiny, innocent life inside him, a child who would be born of a great love, but would never be allowed to know it.

When Thomas came home a few hours later, he found Kongpob asleep on the mattress, or pretending to be. He was flushed with the success of his meeting, his scent a potent, heady mix of expensive whiskey, triumph, and his own unique, possessive Alpha musk. He was a conqueror, returning from the field of battle.

He undressed quietly in the dark, not wanting to wake the boy he thought was just sick, not sleeping the sleep of the damned. He slid into bed behind Kongpob, his large, warm body a familiar, comforting weight. He wrapped his arm around Kongpob’s waist, pulling him back against his chest, his nose nuzzling into the crook of Kongpob’s neck.

“Everything’s going to be okay now, thī̀rạk,” he had whispered into the darkness, his voice thick with sleep and contentment. “I’m going to take care of you. I’m going to take care of us. I promise.”

Kongpob lay there, rigid and still in his arms, his eyes wide open in the dark, a silent scream trapped in his throat. He felt the familiar, unwelcome stir of Thomas’s hardening cock pressing against his arse. And in that moment, he knew what he had to do. He had to make one last memory. He had to fuck him one last time. He had to brand the feeling of him, the taste of him, the scent of him, onto his soul, a memory powerful enough to last him a lifetime of lonely nights.

He shifted in Thomas’s arms, turning to face him. In the dim, orange glow of the streetlights filtering through the window, he could see the surprise, and then the dark, flaring desire, in Thomas’s eyes.

“Kong?” Thomas’s voice was a husky question. “Are you… are you feeling better?”

Kongpob didn’t answer. He just leaned in and captured Thomas’s mouth in a kiss. It wasn’t a soft, gentle kiss. It was a desperate, hungry, almost violent kiss, a kiss of greeting and goodbye, of love and of grief. He poured all of his unspoken, unspeakable pain and love into that single, frantic meeting of lips and tongues.

Thomas, surprised but clearly not displeased, responded in kind, his own passion flaring to meet Kongpob’s strange, desperate energy. Their lovemaking that night was different. It was raw, almost brutal, a frantic, wordless conversation of bodies. For Thomas, it was a celebration, an affirmation of their love and their new, bright future. For Kongpob, it was a funeral. It was the last rites for a love that was already dead.

He was shameless, a wanton, greedy thing, taking everything Thomas had to give, and giving everything back with a heartbreaking, desperate intensity. He cried out when he came, screamed Thomas’s name like a prayer, his tears mingling with the sweat on their bodies. But they were not tears of pleasure. They were tears of a sorrow so profound, so absolute, it was sublime.

Afterwards, as he lay tangled in Thomas’s arms, listening to the steady, sleeping beat of his lover’s heart, he pressed a hand to his own flat stomach, a silent promise to the secret life within. I’m sorry, he thought, the words a silent scream in the vast emptiness of his mind. I’m so, so sorry. But I will love you enough for both of us. I promise.

He spent the next few days in a state of cold, calm resolve. He booked a one-way ticket to London, using the last of the small savings his parents had given him for his university fund. He packed a single suitcase with his most essential belongings. He wrote the script for his final performance, the words cruel and cold and calculated to cause the maximum amount of pain. Each word he wrote was a shard of glass he was swallowing.

The day of the breakup, the day he had chosen to execute the heart of the boy he loved, a monsoon storm had rolled in, the sky turning a bruised, dramatic purple-grey. It was fitting. The heavens themselves were weeping for the tragedy he was about to orchestrate. He stood by the window, watching the rain lash against the glass, his packed suitcase by his side, and he waited for Thomas to come home, his own heart a small, dead, silent thing in his chest. He was ready. He was a soldier going into a battle he knew he would not survive, but a battle he had to fight, and he had to win. For Thomas. It was all, and always, for Thomas.

Five Years Ago

The hospital room was aggressively, antiseptically white. The walls were white, the sheets were white, the ceiling was white. The only color was the bruised, grey twilight of a London evening visible through the single, large window. The air smelled of bleach and latex and a faint, metallic tang of blood. It was a place of sterile, institutional efficiency, utterly devoid of warmth or comfort.

Kongpob lay on the narrow bed, his body a battlefield. The pain was a living, breathing creature, a red, roaring monster that had taken up residence in his lower back and his belly. It would come in waves, starting as a low, ominous rumble, and building, and building, until it was a cresting, crashing tsunami of pure, white-hot agony that consumed him, that stole his breath and his sanity, that blotted out the world, leaving only the searing, blinding reality of the pain.

A young, kind-faced nurse with a lilting Irish accent would come in periodically, her voice a soft, soothing murmur. “You’re doing great, love,” she’d say, wiping his sweat-drenched forehead with a cool, damp cloth. “Just breathe through it. In through the nose, out through the mouth. That’s it. You’re so strong.”

He wasn’t strong. He was terrified. And he was so, so alone.

He was eighteen years old, in a foreign country where the rain never seemed to stop, and he was giving birth. Alone. The sheer, overwhelming absurdity of it would have been funny if it weren’t so tragic.

During the lulls, the brief, blessed moments of ceasefire when the monster of pain would retreat, his mind would drift. He would think of his parents, and a wave of guilt so profound it was almost as painful as the contractions would wash over him. He hadn't told them. He couldn’t. How could he explain the inexplicable? How could he tell them that their Beta son was not only an Omega, but was pregnant and alone in a foreign country? The shame, the disappointment… he couldn't bear it. He had told them he was on a scholarship, a prestigious culinary arts program. Another lie in a life that had become a fortress built of them.

And he would think of Thomas.

The thought of him was a constant, dull ache beneath the sharp, screaming agony of the labor. In his moments of greatest weakness, when the pain was so intense he felt his body was being ripped in two, he would see his face, so clear and so vivid it was as if he were standing right there in the room. He would see his handsome, concerned face, his dark eyes full of love and worry. He would feel the phantom touch of his large, warm, comforting hand. He would hear his voice, his low, rumbling Alpha voice. I’m here, thī̀rạk. I’ve got you. Just breathe.

And then a fresh wave of pain would crash down, and the vision would shatter, and he would be alone again, in the cold, white, sterile room.

The final stage of labor was a blur of primal, instinctual agony. He was no longer a person, a boy with a name and a past. He was just a body, an instrument of creation, a vessel for a force of nature that was far bigger, far more powerful than he was. He pushed when they told him to push, his screams raw, guttural, animalistic sounds torn from the deepest parts of his soul.

And in the very last moment, when he felt a tearing, burning, splitting sensation that he was sure was his body breaking apart, a single name was ripped from his throat, a desperate, final, agonized prayer to a god who wasn't there.

“P’THOMAS!”

And then, a different sound. A thin, reedy, furious wail. The sound of a new life, a new scream, a new pain, entering the world.

The monster of pain receded, its job done, leaving behind only the trembling, exhausted, hollowed-out shell of a boy. The Irish nurse was smiling, her face glowing. “He’s here, love,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “He’s perfect. You have a beautiful baby boy.”

They laid a small, squirming, red-faced bundle on his chest. He was so small, so impossibly, terrifyingly small. He was covered in a slick, white film, his tiny face crumpled in a mask of indignation at the shock of being born. And he was screaming, a tiny, furious, surprisingly loud scream.

Kongpob stared down at him, his mind a blank slate of shock and exhaustion. He couldn't process it. He couldn't make the connection between this strange, alien creature and the secret life he had carried inside him for nine months.

And then the baby stopped screaming. His tiny, clenched fists relaxed. His impossibly dark, almond-shaped eyes, still swollen and unfocused, fluttered open. And they looked, or seemed to look, right at Kongpob.

In that moment, something inside Kongpob shifted. A lock that he didn’t even know existed clicked open in his heart. The fear, the loneliness, the agony, the profound, soul-deep grief for the life and the love he had lost—it didn’t disappear, but it was suddenly… smaller. It was pushed to the background by a new emotion, an emotion so fierce, so powerful, so all-consuming that it left no room for anything else.

It was love.

It was a primal, terrifying, unconditional love. He looked at this tiny, helpless, perfect creature, this creature that was half him and half the boy he would always love, and he knew, with a certainty that was bone-deep, that he would die for him. He knew that he would kill for him. He knew that his life, which had felt so empty and so over, had just been given a new, profound, and absolute purpose.

Tears, hot and silent, streamed down his face, but these were not tears of sorrow. He gently, tentatively, reached out a trembling finger and stroked the baby’s soft, damp cheek. The baby turned his head towards the touch, his tiny, perfectly formed mouth making small, rooting motions.

“Hello,” Kongpob whispered, his voice a raw, broken, beautiful thing. “Hello, my little lion.” He leaned down and pressed a kiss to his son’s forehead, inhaling his scent, a new, intoxicating perfume of milk and innocence and pure, unconditional love. “I’m your Papa.”

He was alone. But he wasn't. Not anymore. He had his son. He had his Leo. And in the cold, white, sterile hospital room, a million miles away from home, a new promise was made, a new vow was taken, not in a moment of passion, but in a moment of quiet, profound, and absolute love. I will be enough, he promised the sleeping baby in his arms. I will be your everything. I will build a world for you so full of love, you will never, ever feel the space where someone else was supposed to be.

Present Day

The hotel room was a world away from the sterile white of that London hospital. It was a luxurious, sprawling suite in one of Bangkok’s finest hotels, paid for by his parents, who were determined to spoil their son and grandson after five years of absence. The room was decorated in muted tones of cream and gold, the furniture was elegant and modern, and the floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking, panoramic view of the glittering, sprawling, beautiful, and terrifying city.

The king-sized bed was a vast, white sea of high-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets and a mountain of fluffy pillows. And in the middle of that sea, a fierce and hilarious naval battle was taking place.

“I am the mighty T-Rex pirate! Roar!” Leo shrieked, his voice filled with a four-year-old’s dramatic, world-ending conviction. He was standing on a pillow, which was his pirate ship, and he was brandishing a plastic Tyrannosaurus Rex toy, which was apparently his first mate. “I am coming to get your treasure, you silly sea monster!”

The silly sea monster, who was currently hiding under the duvet with only his head sticking out, let out a terrified, high-pitched squeal that was not at all monstrous. “Oh no!” Kongpob cried, his eyes wide with mock terror. “Not the mighty T-Rex pirate! Please, spare me! My only treasure is my delicious, ticklish toes!”

This was, apparently, exactly what the T-Rex pirate wanted to hear. With a final, triumphant “ROAR!”, Leo launched himself from the pillow-ship and onto the duvet-monster, his small fingers immediately finding their target, digging into Kongpob’s sides with a merciless, giggling glee.

Kongpob erupted in a fit of helpless, breathless laughter, his body arching and twisting as he tried to escape the relentless, tickling assault. “No! Mercy! I surrender!” he gasped, tears of mirth streaming from his eyes.

Leo, his mission accomplished, collapsed on top of him, his small body shaking with his own peals of delighted, high-pitched laughter. He lay there, his head on Kongpob’s chest, his small hand splayed out over his father’s heart, their shared laughter slowly subsiding into contented, breathless sighs.

Kongpob wrapped his arms around his son, holding him close, his heart so full of love it felt like it might burst. These moments. These were the moments that made all the sacrifices, all the pain, all the lonely nights, worth it. These small, perfect, joy-filled pockets of time were the jewels he had built his new life around.

Leo tilted his head back, his dark, beautiful, Thomas-eyes looking up at him, his expression suddenly serious. “Papa?”

“Yes, my little lion?” Kongpob murmured, his fingers gently carding through his son’s soft, messy hair.

“Are you happy we came here? To this place?”

The question, so simple and so innocent, was a small, sharp pinprick to the perfect, happy bubble they had created on the hotel bed. Kongpob’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. Was he happy? He was terrified. He was anxious. He was walking on a tightrope over a canyon of his own past, and every moment was a struggle to keep his balance. But then he looked down at his son’s face, at the pure, trusting love in his eyes, and he knew the answer.

“Yes, thī̀rạk,” he said, and it was the truest thing he had said all day. “I’m happy, because I’m with you. And as long as I’m with you, I am the happiest Papa in the whole world.”

Leo seemed satisfied with this answer. He snuggled closer, his small body a warm, comforting weight. “Me too,” he mumbled, his voice already thick with an approaching nap. “I’m happy when I’m with you.”

Kongpob’s heart clenched. He pressed a long, lingering kiss to the top of his son’s head, inhaling his sweet, clean, little-boy scent. He lay there for a long time, just holding him, listening to his breathing even out into the slow, deep rhythm of sleep.

He looked out the window at the sprawling city, at the endless river of headlights, at the buildings that pierced the sky. It was Thomas’s city now. He was the king of this concrete jungle. And somewhere out there, in a penthouse apartment that was probably not so different from this hotel suite, he was living the life he had always dreamed of. The life Kongpob had sacrificed everything to give him.

He looked back down at the sleeping child in his arms, the living, breathing proof of a love that refused to die. The secret that he had guarded so fiercely for five years. He had done it all for his son, to give him a peaceful, quiet life, away from the scandals, the cameras, the cruel, prying eyes of the world. He had built a fortress for him, a world for two.

But was it fair? Was it fair to keep this beautiful, perfect boy from his other half? Was it fair to deny him the knowledge of the man whose blood ran in his veins, whose courage and whose stubborn pout he had inherited?

He thought of the picture on Ja’s phone, the one that was currently, unknowingly, ripping Thomas’s world apart. He thought of the devastating, beautiful man on the television screen. He was a stranger, but he was also the father of his child.

A new resolve, quiet and tentative, began to form in Kongpob’s heart. Not for him. His story with Thomas was over, a tragedy that had been written and sealed five years ago. But for Leo. His story was just beginning.

One day, Kongpob thought, his promise a silent whisper in the quiet, luxurious room. Not now. Not soon. But one day, when you are older, when you are strong enough to understand. I will tell you about him. I will introduce you to your father.

He held his son a little tighter, a fierce, protective, and profoundly lonely king in his own gilded cage, dreaming of a future that was not about reclaiming a lost love, but about completing a broken circle, for the sake of the son who was his whole world.

Chapter Text

A secret is a living thing; it does not like the dark. It twists and turns in the quiet rooms of the heart, seeking a crack of light. It feeds on silence, grows strong on unspoken words, Until it is too large to be contained, and its first breath is a roar That shatters the fragile peace you built from its very bones, Proving that the past is not a ghost, but a predator, merely waiting.

The air in the private hospital’s waiting room was a carefully curated lie. It was chilled to a precise, almost frigid, temperature, a stark contrast to the thick, humid blanket of Bangkok’s morning heat that baked the streets outside. It smelled not of sickness or antiseptic, but faintly of lemongrass and white tea, a scent diffused from hidden vents, designed to soothe and reassure. Soft, instrumental classical music, the kind that exists purely to be ignored, trickled from invisible speakers. This was not a place for the poor and the desperate, like the grim government clinic he had stumbled into five years ago. This was a place for the wealthy, a place where bad news was delivered on plush upholstery, under soft, forgiving lighting.

Kongpob sat on the edge of a cream-colored armchair that was far too large for him, his body a coiled spring of anxiety. His hands were clasped so tightly in his lap that his knuckles were white. He was wearing what he hoped was an anonymous, forgettable outfit—a simple, oversized linen shirt, soft beige trousers, and a plain white baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. He had spent the morning in a state of simmering, low-grade panic, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs.

This was the check-up his parents had insisted upon. The appointment with Dr. Somsak.

He had protested, of course. He had insisted he was fine, that his health was stable, that there was no need. But his parents, having been brought into the strange, shocking secret of his biological anomaly five years ago (he had finally told them the truth in a tearful, transatlantic phone call six months after Leo was born, when the loneliness and the weight of the secret had become too much to bear alone), were insistent. "You are home," his father had said, his voice firm but loving, leaving no room for argument. "You will see the doctor. We need to know that you are safe."

So here he was, back in the one place in Bangkok he had sworn he would never return to.

“Papa, why is the music so boring?”

Leo, blissfully unaware of the undercurrent of tension radiating from his father, was lying on his stomach on the plush carpet, pushing a small, bright red toy car back and forth, providing his own sound effects. “Vrooom! Vroooom! Beep beep! Outta my way, boring music! I’m a race car!”

Several other people in the waiting room—a well-dressed older woman, a businessman typing on a laptop—looked over, their expressions a mixture of annoyance and, upon seeing Leo’s bright, angelic, and utterly shameless face, a reluctant, melting indulgence. Leo, who had inherited his father’s unaware charm and his… other father’s… bold confidence, simply beamed at them, a gap-toothed, 100-watt smile.

Kongpob felt a familiar rush of warmth and exasperation. “Leo, luk, s̄ngb s̄ngieym h̄ǹxy, khrạb,” he whispered, his voice tight. “Be a little quiet, please. This is a quiet place.”

“But it’s boooring,” Leo complained, abandoning his car and scrambling to his feet. He trotted over to Kongpob and began to climb him as if he were a human jungle gym, clambering into his lap and immediately wrapping his small arms around his neck. He buried his face in Kongpob’s chest, his small body a familiar, comforting weight. “I’m hungry. Can we get pancakes after this? The dinosaur pancakes?”

“We’ll see,” Kongpob murmured, his arms coming up to hold his son securely, his nose burying in the soft, messy mop of dark hair. He inhaled his son’s scent—clean, sweet, like milk and sunshine. It was his anchor. It was the only thing keeping him from vibrating out of his own skin. He kissed the top of Leo’s head, his heart aching. “You have to be a very brave boy for the doctor, okay? And then we can talk about pancakes.”

“Is he gonna give me a shot?” Leo’s voice was small and muffled against his shirt.

“No, no shots today, I promise,” Kongpob reassured him. “He’s just going to... say hello. And make sure you’re growing big and strong, like a T-Rex.”

“Bigger than a T-Rex,” Leo mumbled, already relaxing, his body going boneless in that way that was unique to small, trusting children.

Kongpob just held him, his gaze drifting to the window, to the slice of the sprawling, chaotic city he could see. He felt like a mouse in a cage, brought back to the laboratory for observation. He had been so successful at building his fortress in England, at creating a life where he was just "Chef Kong," a single father, a normal man. But here, in Bangkok, he was a secret. A freak. An anomaly. And he was terrified that the wrong person, the wrong Alpha, would catch his scent and the walls of his carefully constructed fortress would come tumbling down.

“Khun Kongpob Jirojmontri?”

His name, spoken by the nurse, made him jump, his heart leaping into his throat. He stood up, his legs feeling weak and unsteady, settling a now-drowsy Leo on his hip. “That’s us,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

The nurse, a kind-faced woman in a crisp, pale blue uniform, smiled warmly at him, her eyes immediately drawn to Leo. “My goodness, what a handsome little boy,” she cooed. “Aren’t you a charmer?”

Leo, who was usually a shameless baby, just buried his face shyly in Kongpob’s neck, a small, mumbled “hello” the only response.

The nurse led them down a long, quiet, white corridor. Each footstep echoed on the polished floor, a drumbeat counting down to a confrontation he had been dreading. She opened a door at the end of the hall. “Dr. Somsak will be right with you.”

The examination room was just as sterile and white as he remembered from his nightmares, but it was larger, and the window looked out over a small, manicured green garden. It was a kinder, gentler version of the room where his world had ended and begun five years ago. He sat Leo down on the examination table, which was covered in a fresh sheet of crinkly white paper. Leo immediately began to kick his small, sneaker-clad feet against the side, the thwack-thwack-thwack a new, frantic rhythm in the quiet room.

A moment later, the door opened, and Dr. Somsak entered. He was older, the lines of kindness and exhaustion around his eyes deeper, his hair more silver than grey now. But his smile was the same—calm, warm, and deeply intelligent. He was the only person in Thailand, outside of his parents, who knew the truth. The whole truth.

“Khun Kongpob,” he said, his voice a soft, gentle rumble. He closed the door, giving them a privacy that felt both comforting and conspiratorial. “It has been a very long time. Welcome home.”

His gaze immediately went to Leo, who had stopped kicking and was now staring at the doctor with wide, solemn, curious eyes. The doctor’s professional, kind smile faltered for a fraction of a second, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly. He stared at Leo, a strange, profound, unreadable expression on his face. It was the look of a scientist who had just seen his most impossible theory spring to life and start kicking a table.

“And this,” Dr. Somsak said, his voice soft with a kind of clinical awe, “must be the little miracle himself. Hello there. My name is Dr. Somsak. And what’s your name?”

“I’m Leo!” Leo announced, his shyness evaporating. “And I’m four. And I’m going to be bigger than a T-Rex!”

Dr. Somsak chuckled, a genuine, warm sound that seemed to chase some of the shadows from the room. “Well, Leo, it is a very great pleasure to meet you. I have thought about you often over the years.” He looked at Kongpob, his eyes full of a deep, unspoken understanding. “You’ve done a wonderful job, son. He is… magnificent. He looks healthy. And so bright.”

“He is,” Kongpob said, his voice thick with a fierce, sudden pride. The knot of anxiety in his chest loosened, just a fraction. “He’s perfect. But... that’s why we’re here. My parents insisted. Just to... check. To make sure everything is... as it should be. With both of us.”

“Of course,” Dr. Somsak said, his demeanor shifting into one of gentle, professional efficiency. He was wonderful with Leo. He turned the check-up into a game, making the stethoscope into a "magic listening-phone," the reflex hammer into a "boing-boing tapper." He listened to Leo’s heart, his lungs, he checked his eyes and his ears, all while keeping up a steady, calming stream of chatter.

Leo, who was usually wary of strangers in official-looking coats, was completely charmed, giggling and answering all the doctor's questions with a cheerful, childish gravity.

After a few minutes of examination, Dr. Somsak gently lifted Leo’s shirt, his practiced fingers pressing lightly on his abdomen. His expression was focused, thoughtful.

“He’s a strong, healthy boy, Kongpob,” the doctor said, his voice reassuring. “Everything is developing exactly as it should. Perfectly, in fact.” He paused, his hands stilling on Leo’s small stomach. “Have you... had his secondary gender tested? In the UK?”

Kongpob’s breath hitched. “No,” he whispered. “They don’t... they don’t test for that unless there’s a medical reason. It’s not... common. I didn’t want to... to label him. Or to... to know.”

Dr. Somsak nodded, his expression understanding. “That is a kind, and very modern, approach, to let him discover himself. But… from a purely medical standpoint…” He looked at Leo, who was now trying to grab the shiny otoscope from his pocket. “His hormonal markers, his bone density, even his scent, faint as it is… it’s all classic, textbook Alpha.”

Kongpob’s heart did a strange, complicated flip. Pride, sharp and fierce, warring with a cold, sudden dread. An Alpha. Of course he was. He was Thomas’s son. He was destined to be strong, dominant, a leader. A king, like his father.

“He’s going to be a dominant one, too, I suspect,” Dr. Somsak continued, his voice quiet, almost academic. He looked at Kongpob. “He has his father’s... potency. Genetically speaking, of course. You must be prepared for that, Kongpob. A dominant Alpha son, and you, a...” He trailed off, the unspoken words hanging in the air.

And you, a recessive Omega. The perfect, tragic, biological storm.

“Is that… is that a problem?” Kongpob asked, his voice trembling.

“Not a problem,” Dr. Somsak said quickly. “Just a fact. One to be aware of. His pheromones, as he grows, especially during his presentation in puberty… they will be potent. They may... interact with your own dormant biology. It is something we will have to monitor. But that is many years away.” He gave Leo a final, gentle pat on the head and helped him sit up. “You are a perfect, healthy, very strong little T-Rex,” he said to Leo with a smile. “You can go play with your cars while I talk to your Papa, okay?”

He pointed to a small box of toys in the corner, and Leo, his duty as a patient fulfilled, scrambled off the table and made a beeline for them.

The moment his son was out of earshot, safely absorbed in a new, fascinating plastic truck, the fragile calm that had settled over Kongpob evaporated. He turned back to Dr. Somsak, his face pale, his eyes wide with the anxiety he had been holding back.

“Now for me,” Dr. Somsak said, his voice becoming more serious. He sat on the stool, his hands clasped in front of him. “Tell me, Kongpob. How have you been? Truly.”

“I’ve been... fine,” Kongpob said, his gaze dropping to his twisting hands. “Really. Just... normal.”

“No cycles?” the doctor asked gently. “No heats?”

“No,” Kongpob shook his head, a little too quickly. “Nothing. Ever. Not once. It’s just like you said, all those years ago. It’s... dormant. It’s like it never happened. I’m just... me. I’m a Beta.” He said the word with a desperate, pleading conviction.

“You are a miracle, Kongpob,” Dr. Somsak corrected him softly. “Not a Beta. And not, in the traditional sense, an Omega. You are something... in between. Your body, after the pregnancy, it... it built a fortress. It recognized that it was not in a safe, stable environment with a bonded Alpha, so it sealed your Omega nature away. It’s a profound, biological act of self-preservation. A way to protect you, and to allow you to raise your child without the... complications... of a cycle.”

“So... I’m safe?” Kongpob whispered, the word a prayer. “It won’t... come back?”

Dr. Somsak’s kind face was etched with a deep, professional concern. He hesitated, choosing his words with a surgeon’s precision. “The fortress is strong, Kongpob. You have proven that for five years. Your isolation, your lack of... romantic involvement...” He raised a questioning eyebrow.

“There’s been no one,” Kongpob confirmed instantly, a dull flush rising in his cheeks. “I haven’t... I don’t... I’m too busy with Leo. With my work. I haven’t... been with anyone. Not since...” He couldn’t say the name.

“That, primarily, is what has kept the fortress secure,” the doctor said with a nod. “By avoiding any new, significant Alpha pheromonal signatures, you have given your body no reason to ‘awaken,’ as it were. As long as you continue to... be careful... you should remain perfectly stable. You can live your entire life as you are now, as a Beta-presenting, healthy man.”

The relief that washed over Kongpob was so profound, so complete, that it made him dizzy. He hadn’t realized he had been holding his breath for five years. He was safe. He could stay safe.

“But.”

The single word, sharp and sudden, made Kongpob’s blood run cold.

“But?” he echoed, his voice trembling.

“But a fortress, no matter how strong, is not invulnerable,” Dr. Somsak said, his gaze steady and serious. “It has a weak point. An Achilles’ heel, if you will.”

“What?”

“The Alpha who... triggered... your presentation in the first place,” the doctor said, his voice low. “Your son’s father.”

Kongpob felt the blood drain from his face, leaving him cold and clammy. His mouth went dry.

“What... what about him?”

“Your body didn’t just react to an Alpha, Kongpob. It reacted to that Alpha. You formed a deep, biological bond with him, whether you consciously knew it or not. It was a bond potent enough to awaken your dormant genes. That bond... it doesn't just disappear. Your body... it remembers him. His scent, his genetic signature... it’s imprinted on you.”

“What... what are you saying?” Kongpob whispered, his heart hammering against his ribs, a cold, terrifying dread creeping up his spine.

“I am saying,” Dr. Somsak said, his voice kind but firm, “that while any dominant Alpha could potentially cause a reaction, he is the one true key to the lock. A significant exposure to him, to his pheromones... it wouldn’t just knock on the door of your fortress, Kongpob. It would be a battering ram. It would shatter the walls. The "awakening" that we’ve managed to keep at bay for five years... it would likely be immediate. And... dramatic.”

“Dramatic?”

“A first heat,” the doctor said bluntly. “But not a normal one. A five-year-delayed, trauma-induced, bond-recognition heat. It would be... overwhelming. Potentially dangerous, both for you and... for him. An Alpha, faced with his bonded, unrecognized Omega in a sudden, violent first heat... the biological imperative would be... difficult to control. For both of you.”

The clinical, sterile room was suddenly, terrifyingly, hot. Kongpob couldn’t breathe. The image the doctor was painting... it was apocalyptic. It was a scene from a nightmare. It wasn't just a scandal he was hiding from. It was a biological time bomb.

“So I just... I have to stay away from him,” Kongpob breathed, the realization a cold, hard stone in his gut.

“Yes,” Dr. Somsak said, his eyes full of a deep, profound pity. “I know he is in Bangkok. I know he is... very famous. The city is not as big as it seems, Kongpob. You must be careful. Truly, exceptionally careful. Your health, your stability, your entire, carefully constructed life... it depends on it.”

Kongpob just nodded, his mind a roaring white void of pure, unadulterated panic. He had come home. He had come home to the one place in the world that held the key to his own self-destruction. He had escaped the tiger, only to walk straight into the crocodile’s waiting jaws.

The Kid's Cafe was a chaotic, primary-colored explosion of noise and energy. It was the absolute antithesis of the hospital's sterile, hushed atmosphere, and it was exactly what Kongpob needed. The air smelled of french fries, sugary, fruit-flavored syrups, and the faint, unmistakable tang of children’s sweat. The walls were painted with cartoon jungles, and the space was dominated by a massive, multi-level play structure complete with slides, tunnels, and a ball pit that looked like a giant bowl of brightly colored cereal. The soundtrack here was not quiet classical music, but the high-pitched, joyous shrieks of two dozen children and the relentless, upbeat thrum of a K-Pop playlist.

Leo, having been a model of perfect, angelic behavior at the hospital, immediately transformed into a tiny, feral creature the moment his sneakers hit the padded floor. “Ball pit!” he shrieked, and was gone, a small, dinosaur-pajama-clad blur, launching himself into the sea of plastic balls with a triumphant, joyful roar.

Kongpob, his heart still thrumming with the residual anxiety from Dr. Somsak’s warning, found a small table in a relatively quiet corner, one that had a good view of the play structure. He ordered a coffee for himself, a beverage that was probably 90% sugar, and a plate of chicken nuggets and french fries for Leo, which was 100% bribe.

He sank into the small, plastic chair, his body trembling with the adrenaline crash. He is the one true key. The doctor’s words echoed in his head, a relentless, terrifying refrain. He had to be careful. He had to stay hidden. His plan for the holidays, a quiet, cloistered visit with his parents, suddenly felt like the most important strategy of his life. He would stay in their home. He would not go out. He would be a ghost in his own hometown.

He watched Leo, who had already made a friend, a small girl with pigtails, and they were now collaboratively (and loudly) defending the ball pit from imaginary pirates. A small, involuntary smile touched Kongpob’s lips, the pure, uncomplicated joy of his son a soothing balm on his own raw nerves. He was doing this for Leo. He had sacrificed his love for him. He could sacrifice his holiday for him, too. He could stay hidden.

“Excuse me, is this seat taken?”

The voice, cheerful, polite, and achingly familiar, cut through the din of the cafe and his own internal monologue like a hot knife. Kongpob’s head snapped up, his heart leaping into his throat. His carefully laid plans of staying hidden, of being a ghost, crumbled to dust in the space of a single, shocked heartbeat.

Standing in front of his table, a bright, friendly, and utterly stunned smile on his face, was Nattawin, 'Nat', an old friend from a short, intensive acting workshop they had both taken, years ago, in the very early days before either of them had found their agencies. Nat had been kind, funny, and one of the few people who hadn't treated him like a fragile piece of glass.

“Nat?” Kongpob breathed, his mind struggling to reconcile the boy he remembered with the man standing in front of him. Nat looked good. He was taller, his lanky, youthful frame filled out. He was dressed in a stylish, paint-splattered denim shirt and trendy glasses, a large, professional-looking sketchpad tucked under his arm.

“I knew it was you!” Nat’s smile widened, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He pointed a finger at him, his expression one of pure, delighted disbelief. “Kongpob Jirojmontri! P̄hī h̄lxk! (A ghost!) I thought you’d moved to, like, the moon! What are you doing here?”

“Hi, P’Nat,” Kongpob said, his voice weak. He felt a hysterical laugh bubble up in his throat. So much for staying hidden. He hadn't even lasted six hours. “I’m... I’m just visiting my parents. For the holidays.”

“That’s amazing!” Nat said, pulling out the chair opposite him without waiting for an invitation and slumping into it, dropping his sketchpad on the table. “It has been… what, five, six years? You look…” His eyes roamed over Kongpob’s face, his expression open and appreciative. “You look incredible, Kong. You haven’t aged a day. Still got that ‘beautiful, breakable flower’ thing going on, I see.”

Kongpob flushed, a familiar, uncomfortable heat rising in his cheeks. “Stop it, P’,” he mumbled, dropping his gaze to his coffee cup. “You look great, too. The... paint-splattered artist look. It suits you. Are you... a set designer?”

“Lead concept artist for a new game studio, actually,” Nat said with a proud grin. “I gave up the acting thing. Too much...” He waved his hand vaguely. “You know. Bullshit. Not enough art. But you! What about you? Last I heard, you were going to be a star. And then... poof. You vanished. What happened?”

The question was a minefield. Kongpob’s carefully rehearsed, camera-ready smile slipped into place. “Oh, you know,” he said with a breezy, dismissive shrug. “Acting wasn’t for me. I... I moved to the UK. Went to culinary school. I’m a chef now. Sort of. I have a... a cooking channel. On YouTube.”

“No shit?” Nat’s eyes were wide. “A chef? Like, a real one? That’s... so random. And so cool! I always knew you were too nice for the acting world.”

The easy, friendly banter was a balm, and Kongpob felt himself relaxing, just a tiny bit. It was nice. It was so, so nice to talk to someone from his old life who wasn’t his parents, who wasn’t a doctor, who wasn’t... connected.

And then, as if summoned by the thought, the inevitable happened.

“Papa! Papa! Look! I’m King Kong!”

Leo, his face flushed and sweaty from playing, his hair plastered to his forehead, came roaring up to the table, his arms held high, his hands curled into tiny, menacing claws. He stopped dead when he saw Nat, his "roar" dying in his throat, his big, dark eyes going wide with sudden shyness. He immediately dove behind Kongpob’s chair, his small hand clutching a fistful of his father’s shirt.

Nat, who had been in the middle of a sip of his own coffee, froze, the cup halfway to his lips. His jaw went slack, his eyes wide with a shock that was becoming distressingly familiar to Kongpob. He stared at the small, dark-haired boy hiding behind Kongpob’s chair, and then at Kongpob, and back again.

“Kong...” Nat said, his voice several octaves higher than it had been a moment before. “Who...”

Kongpob closed his eyes for a brief, painful second. He let out a slow, steadying breath. Here we go again. He reached behind him, his hand finding Leo’s, and gently coaxed him out from his hiding spot, pulling him into the safety of his lap. Leo went willingly, burrowing his face into Kongpob’s chest, a tiny, shy, breathing shield.

“P’Nat,” Kongpob said, his voice quiet but steady. He stroked Leo’s hair, his touch protective, defiant. “This is my son. Leo. Leo, this is P’Nat, an old friend of Papa’s.”

Leo risked a tiny, one-eyed peek at Nat from the safety of Kongpob’s shirt, before burying his face again.

Nat just stared. He was speechless, his mind visibly, almost audibly, trying to process the scene in front of him. Kongpob, the sweet, shy, delicate boy from his workshop. With a child. A child who looked... He squinted, his artist’s eyes taking in the boy’s features. The dark, unruly hair. The stubborn set of his small, pouting mouth. The almond shape of his eyes. It was like...

“My god,” Nat breathed, his voice a horrified, fascinated whisper. “He… he looks…”

“He looks like me,” Kongpob cut him off, his voice suddenly sharp, cold. A warning.

Nat’s eyes snapped to his, and he saw the fierce, protective, do-not-go-there light in Kongpob’s gaze. He immediately backtracked, holding up his hands in surrender.

“He looks like you,” Nat agreed quickly, his face paling. “Wow. A son. Kong, that’s... that’s incredible. I just... I had no idea. You’re a dad. Wow.” He let out a shaky, disbelieving laugh. “Who... I mean... is his mom... Are you... married?”

This was it. The question. He gave Nat the lie he had given his parents, the one he had perfected in his mind, the one that was just ambiguous enough to stop further questions.

“No,” he said, his voice soft, tinged with a carefully practiced sadness. He kept his gaze on Leo’s hair, stroking it gently. “It’s... it’s just us. It has been, from the beginning. His... other parent...” He paused, taking a shaky breath, a brilliant piece of acting that was fueled by a very real, very deep well of pain. “It’s a complicated story, P’Nat. And not a very happy one. They aren’t... they aren’t in the picture.”

The words hung in the air, pregnant with implied tragedy. They aren’t in the picture. It could mean death. It could mean abandonment. It could mean a hundred different heartbreaking things. And it was all, technically, true. Thomas was not in the picture. And the story was definitely not a happy one.

Nat’s friendly, curious expression immediately melted into one of deep, profound sympathy. “Oh, Kong,” he said, his voice soft. “I... I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I didn’t mean to pry. That must... that must have been so hard. To do this all... all on your own.” He looked at Kongpob, really looked at him, with a new, profound respect. “You’re amazing. Truly.”

“We’re happy,” Kongpob said simply, his voice firm, his arms tightening around his son. “He’s my whole world.”

Nat was quiet for a moment, his gaze soft. “He’s a lucky kid,” he said. He seemed to shake himself, as if trying to dispel the heavy, emotional cloud that had settled over the table. “Well, fuck... this is... this is a lot to process,” he laughed, a little unsteadily. “I’m so glad I saw you! This is fate! It has to be!”

He leaned forward, his earlier excitement returning. “Listen, Kong, this is even more reason for you to come!”

“Come where?” Kongpob asked, his mind still catching up.

“My engagement party!” Nat said, his eyes bright. “I’m getting married! My fiancée, Ploy, she’s amazing, you’d love her. We’re having a party. This weekend. Just a small thing, at her parents’ house. You have to come! And bring Leo! Ploy’s little sister will be there, they can play.”

Kongpob’s heart, which had just started to return to a normal rhythm, immediately kicked back into a frantic, panicked gallop. A party. A party in Bangkok. A party with Nat, who was an artist, who probably knew other artists, who...

“Oh, P’Nat, I don’t know...” he stammered, his mind racing for an excuse. “We’re... we’re here for my parents. I don’t want to...”

“Nonsense!” Nat interrupted, his friendly enthusiasm an unstoppable force. “It’s Saturday night! Your parents can spare you for one evening! Please, Kong? For me? It would... it would mean the world to me. To have one of my oldest, kindest friends there.” He was looking at him with such genuine, uncomplicated affection that Kongpob felt a sharp, sudden pang of loss for this easy, normal friendship he had sacrificed.

He looked down at Leo, who was now sleepily rubbing his face against his shirt. He was tired of hiding. He was so, so tired of being a ghost. It was one night. A small party. With an old, kind friend. What were the chances? He had to live, just a little. He couldn't stay locked in his parents' house for a month.

“Okay,” he heard himself say, the word feeling foreign and reckless on his tongue. “Okay, P’Nat. I... I’ll try. I’d love to. I’m... I’m so happy for you. Really.”

Nat’s face lit up, a brilliant, joyous smile. “Yes!” he cheered, punching the air. “This is amazing! Here,” he said, grabbing a pen from his bag and scribbling on a napkin. “This is my number. And the address. Text me, okay? And I’ll see you Saturday.”

He stood up, his sketchpad under his arm, his entire being radiating a happiness that was infectious. “It’s so good to see you, Kong,” he said, his voice soft again, his eyes flicking to the sleeping boy in Kongpob’s arms. “And I’m... I’m really proud of you. You’re a good man.”

And then he was gone, disappearing into the chaotic, colorful crowd of the cafe, leaving Kongpob alone at his table, his heart a wild, warring mess of fear, nostalgia, and a tiny, treacherous flicker of hope. He had a party to go to. He was going to be a normal person, for one night. The thought was the most terrifying, and the most thrilling, thing in the world.

The gym was Thomas’s church, his sanctuary, his high-tech, chrome-and-steel torture chamber. It was the one place where the ghosts couldn't keep up. He was on the treadmill, his body a blur of motion, the machine set to a punishing, uphill sprint that would have left most men in a gasping heap after three minutes. He had been at it for twenty.

The air was thick with the smell of sweat, iron, and the faint, ozonic hum of expensive machinery. The gym, which was his own, private one, built into a sprawling section of his penthouse, was silent, save for the rhythmic, pounding slap of his running shoes on the track and his own harsh, ragged breaths. He was staring at the wall-mounted television in front of him, but he wasn't seeing the financial news program that was playing on mute.

He was seeing a photograph. A photograph of a face he knew better than his own, softened by a love he had thought was reserved only for him, gazing down at a child. A child that was not his.

The image had been burned into his retinas for two days straight. Every time he closed his eyes, it was there. Kongpob. And his son. His son. The word was a twist of a knife, every single time.

He had been in a black, silent, simmering rage ever since Ja’s message. He had skipped his fittings. He had cancelled a meeting with his director. He had spoken to no one, not even P’Fon, who was currently blowing up his phone with a string of increasingly frantic, unanswered texts. He was a caged animal, a wounded Alpha, and he was too dangerous to be around.

He had tried to fuck the image away, calling an Omega model from a long list of willing, beautiful, and utterly disposable numbers. She had arrived, all perfume and pouting lips, and he had looked at her, at her adoring, empty face, and had felt nothing but a cold, profound, and violent wave of revulsion. He had sent her away before she had even taken her coat off, his own coldness so palpable it had made her cry.

He couldn't fuck. He couldn't eat. He couldn't sleep. The only thing he could do was run, was lift, was push his body to the absolute brink of failure, the physical pain a welcome, grounding distraction from the emotional agony that was threatening to drown him.

His phone, sitting on the console of the treadmill, buzzed. It wasn't P'Fon. It was the group chat. He ignored it. It buzzed again. And again. A frantic, staccato burst of notifications.

With a low snarl of pure irritation, he slammed his hand on the 'stop' button. The treadmill whined to a halt. He was breathing like a bellows, his entire body drenched in sweat, his muscles screaming. He grabbed the phone, his thumb swiping angrily at the screen.

[Zee Pruk]: Holy shit. Holy SHIT. [Max Kornthas]: What? What now? [Ja Phachara]: What did you hear? [Zee Pruk]: It’s Nat. You guys remember Nat? From that workshop years ago? [Zee Pruk]: He just called me. He’s hyperventilating. Guess who he just ran into at a goddamn kid’s cafe. [Max Kornthas]: ...No. [Ja Phachara]: You’re shitting me.

Thomas’s heart stopped. His fingers, slick with sweat, tightened on the phone.

[Zee Pruk]: I am not. He sat and talked with him. With Kongpob. And the kid. [Max Kornthas]: Did he ask? About the mom? About... anything? [Zee Pruk]: YES. He asked!

Thomas felt his vision go grey at the edges. He was holding his breath.

[Zee Pruk]: And Kongpob got all weird. He said, and I quote, ‘His other parent isn’t in the picture.’ [Ja Phachara]: ...what the FUCK does that mean? [Max Kornthas]: 'Isn't in the picture'? Is she dead? Did she leave him? [Zee Pruk]: Nat says he sounded really sad and shut down. Nat thinks she must have died or something. He said Kongpob is raising the kid all on his own. [Max Kornthas]: Jesus. So... he’s a single dad?

Thomas’s mind was reeling. The image in his head, the one that had been torturing him—of Kongpob, happy, in love, with a beautiful wife or Omega, a perfect family—shattered. It was replaced by a new, infinitely more complex, and somehow more painful, image.

Kongpob. Alone. Raising a child. For five years. A single father.

The rage that had been a sustaining, white-hot fire in his chest for two days didn’t disappear, but it was suddenly... confused. It was diluted by a new, strange, and unwelcome emotion. A cold, sharp pity. And a burning, agonizing, all-consuming curiosity.

He left me... to be a single dad? It didn’t make sense. The boy who had claimed he was tired of being poor, who was leaving for a better life... had run off to a life that was, by all accounts, a thousand times harder?

His thumb was moving before he had even processed the thought, his fingers flying across the screen, his own message appearing in the chat, curt and cold.

[Thomas Teetut]: Where did he see him?

The chat went silent for a half-second. His friends were so surprised to see him engage that it took them a moment to respond.

[Zee Pruk]: Uh... some kid's cafe. 'Dino-Mite Playland' or something. In Ekkamai. [Zee Pruk]: But that’s not the crazy part.

Thomas’s fingers were already typing, ‘What’s the crazy part?’ when the new message came through.

[Zee Pruk]: Nat invited him to his engagement party. This Saturday. [Zee Pruk]: And he said he’d try to come.

Thomas froze. The phone felt impossibly heavy in his hand. Nat’s engagement party. He knew about that. Zee had mentioned it weeks ago. He was invited. He was supposed to go.

[Max Kornthas]: ...Uh oh. [Ja Phachara]: ...Well. That’s... going to be a scene. [Zee Pruk]: Thomas? You still there, man?

Thomas stared at the screen, his heart a cold, heavy, pounding thing in his chest. A party. This Saturday. Kongpob was going to be there. After five years of searching, of hiring PIs, of screaming his name into the void... the ghost was just... going to be at a party. A party he could walk into.

He could see him. He could stand in the same room. He could look him in the eye. He could see the man who had ripped his heart out, the man who had haunted his every waking moment, the man who had apparently run off to have a child with someone else, and then... what? Been abandoned? Become a widower?

The confusion, the rage, the grief, the pity... it all coalesced into a single, sharp, and undeniable point of pure, obsessive need. He had to go. He had to see. He had to know.

He tossed the phone onto the treadmill console, his face a cold, unreadable mask. He turned and walked out of the gym, his mind a steel trap, the date, time, and location of that party branding itself onto his brain. He was going to see his ghost. And he was going to find out, once and for all, what was real, and what was just another one of Kongpob’s beautiful, devastating lies.

Chapter Text

The man who fled the shadow built a house of glass, Believing distance and the bright, clear sun would keep his ghost at bay. He filled his rooms with light and love, he taught his heart to beat anew, Forgetting that a shadow is not cast by the dark, but by the light itself. And the brighter his new world shone, the sharper the relief Of the past that stood just outside his door, patiently waiting.

The plan, in Kongpob’s mind, was simple. It was elegant. It was, he felt, foolproof. He would navigate this holiday in his homeland like a submarine navigating a minefield: in absolute silence, deep beneath the surface, his presence a mere whisper, a ghost on the sonar of the life he had fled. He was not Kongpob, the runaway Omega, the bearer of the entertainment industry’s most explosive secret. He was "Chef Kong," the quiet, devoted father, on a private, familial visit. He was his son’s Papa, and he was his parents’ lukchai. That was all.

His parents’ house, a sprawling, modern-Thai masterpiece of teak wood, white walls, and glass, set in a lush, high-walled garden in a quiet, wealthy moo baan outside the city’s frantic core, was the perfect submarine base. It was his fortress. Here, surrounded by the sweet, heavy scent of frangipani and the near-constant, cheerful chatter of his mother, the Bangkok that held his ghost—the city of glittering media towers and penthouse apartments—felt a million miles away.

He had, in his mind, cataloged the potential landmines. There were two. The first, and most terrifying, was Nat’s engagement party on the upcoming weekend. This was the true danger zone. Nat was a friend, yes, but he was a friend from the old world. He was connected. He knew people who knew Zee, who knew Max, who knew… him. The guest list was a terrifying unknown. Kongpob had agonized over it, his thumb hovering over the 'decline' button a dozen times, his mind racing to invent a plausible, non-offensive excuse.

But Nat’s invitation had been so pure, so full of uncomplicated, nostalgic affection. And his mother, who had overheard the phone call, had been so delighted.

“Nong Nat! From the workshop!” she had beamed. “Oh, I remember him! Such a funny, kind boy! You must go, luk! You cannot hide in this house with us old people for your entire holiday. You must see your friends! Go! Have fun! We will take care of Leo. It will be our pleasure!”

And so, against his better judgment, against the screaming, primal instincts of self-preservation that Dr. Somsak’s warning had instilled in him, he had agreed. One night. He would go for one hour. He would be polite, he would smile, he would give his gift, and he would flee. He would be a ghost at the feast. He just had to survive it.

The second, smaller, and theoretically safer landmine was the one that had just fallen into his lap.

He was standing in the kitchen, a sanctuary of white marble and warm sunlight, watching his son, Leo, who was sitting on the cool tile floor, conducting a very serious, high-stakes negotiation with a piece of pa thong ko (Thai donut).

“You must tell me your secrets, Mr. Donut,” Leo was whispering to the pastry, his small, chubby face a mask of pure, four-year-old gravity. “How do you get so… so sugary? Papa! He won’t tell me!”

Kongpob was laughing, a soft, easy sound that was becoming more common in the safety of these walls, when his UK mobile buzzed on the countertop. He glanced at it, his smile fading, a familiar knot of anxiety tightening in his stomach.

P’PIM.

P’Pim was his Thai-based brand manager, a woman he had never met in person, but whose voice, a high-pitched, caffeine-fueled whirlwind, was burned into his memory. She was a force of nature, a petite, fast-talking, charmingly manipulative woman who had, through a series of relentless emails and effusive compliments, convinced "Chef Kong" to sign a lucrative deal for a line of branded Thai curry pastes. She was brilliant. And she was terrifying.

He had sent her a polite, vague text when he’d landed: “Arrived safely for a private family holiday, P’Pim. Will be in touch before I leave.” He had hoped this would be enough to keep her at bay. He was a fool.

He took a deep breath, plastered a calm, professional smile on his face (as if she could see him), and answered.

“P’Pim, s̄wạs̄dī khrạb,” he said, his voice a smooth, polite baritone. “It’s so nice to finally hear your voice. How are you?”

“Kong-darling! Angel! Sweetheart!” The voice that erupted from the speaker was, as predicted, a high-velocity burst of pure, unadulterated energy. It sounded like a hummingbird that had just mainlined a pot of espresso. “He’s here! He’s in Bangkok! My golden boy, my culinary genius, my beautiful, beautiful cash cow!”

Kongpob winced, pulling the phone an inch from his ear. “It’s good to hear you too, P’Pim. I’m... I’m just settling in. It’s a very private, quiet trip. Just for my family…”

“I love that!” she steamrolled over him, her words tumbling out in a breathless rush. “Family! It’s so wholesome! It’s so on-brand! 'Chef Kong, the Devoted Father and Son.' The fans would eat it up! But I know, I know you said it was private, and I respect that, I adore that, I live for that! I would never ask you to work. Never.”

There was a pause. A dramatic, perfectly timed, deeply ominous pause.

“...Unless,” she continued, her voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial, seductive purr, “...a tiny, tiny, adorable little opportunity just happened to fall out of the sky and land right in my lap, an opportunity that isn't even work, it's just a chat. A tiny, 15-minute chat. On a sweet, little, tiny morning show. It’s not even a popular one! Honestly, no one really watches it, it’s just this cute, new lifestyle thing, ‘Morning Joy,’ or something. So small! So cozy!”

The knot of dread in Kongpob’s stomach, which had been dormant, uncoiled like a cold snake. “P’Pim, I... I really can’t,” he said, his voice firming. He had to be firm. He had the party this weekend. That was his one, allotted risk. “I’m not here to work. I promised my son. I’m on holiday. And I have... plans. This weekend.”

“Oh, this isn't the weekend! This is tomorrow!” she chirped, as if that made it better. “And I know, darling, I know!” she crooned, her sympathy a velvet-covered hammer. “And I would be a monster to ask you. A MONSTER! But… here’s the thing.” Her voice became a whisper of pure, uncut guilt. “The producer, P’Nok, she’s… she’s my old roommate. From university. She’s… she’s like a sister to me. And her guest for tomorrow, a celebrity, I won’t say who, so unprofessional, just… cancelled. Five minutes ago. She called me, Kong. She was crying. Not just crying, like, sobbing. Hysterically. She said her boss would fire her. And I… my heart, it just broke. And I just… I happened to mention, 'My beautiful, angelic client, Chef Kong, is in town…' And she just... she started praying. It was heartbreaking.”

Kongpob closed his eyes. He could see it. The manipulation was so blatant, so perfectly executed, it was almost art.

“P’Pim…”

“It’s not even an interview!” she insisted, her voice rising in pitch again. “It’s a favor! A favor to your Thai fans, who are starving for just a little crumb of you! They have been begging me, Kong! ‘When can we see him?’ ‘When will he come home?’ This... this is for them. Fifteen minutes. You make one tiny dish. You smile. You're adorable. You save my friend’s job. You make your fans weep with joy. And you're home in time for lunch. In and out. No fuss. Please, Kong? For me? Your loving, devoted manager who has never asked you for anything?”

He was silent. He looked over at his mother, who was unabashedly listening, her eyes wide with a mixture of excitement and pride. A TV show. Her son. On TV. In Thailand.

He looked at Leo, who was now attempting to build a small, greasy fort out of the pa thong ko.

His mind was racing, weighing the risks. A small, unpopular morning show. A quick, 15-minute segment. It wasn't a party full of his old, shared friends. It was a controlled, professional television studio. What were the chances... the astronomical, impossible chances... that he would be anywhere near a low-tier, "cozy" morning show?

Zero. Absolutely zero. The "Ice Prince," the nation's biggest movie star, was not doing fluff pieces on "Morning Joy."

This was safe. This was, paradoxically, safer than going to Nat's party. The party was the real landmine. This... this was just a small, controlled pop-up target. In and out.

And… P’Pim was right. He did owe his fans. He owed P’Pim. And… he looked at his mother's beaming, hopeful face… he wanted to make her proud. He wanted to show her that her son, the boy who had run away, had become someone.

“...One show?” he said, his voice a sigh of surrender. “Just this one?”

“YES!” P’Pim’s shriek of triumph was so loud, Leo actually jumped, dropping his donut fort. “You are an ANGEL! A god! My savior! I love you! I love you! A car will pick you up tomorrow at eight. Wear something lovely! You are a dream! Bye!”

The line clicked dead.

He stared at the phone, his hand trembling. His mother was already clapping her hands, her face alight with a joy that was blinding.

“A television show!” she cried, rushing over to hug him. “My son! On TV! Oh, your father will be so proud! We will watch! We will tell all the aunties! 'Morning Joy!' Oh, I love that show! The host, P'Noon, she is the sweetest, kindest woman! Oh, luk, that’s wonderful!”

Kongpob let himself be hugged, his heart hammering a new, strange, and uncomfortable rhythm against his ribs. P'Noon. "Morning Joy." It sounded... fine. It sounded safe.

It’s safe, he told himself, the lie a comforting, warm balm on his raw anxiety. It’s a studio. It’s controlled. It’s fine.

He was just making a small, sensible, public appearance. He was ignoring the fact that he was, by his own choice, stepping out of his fortress, out of his submarine, and taking his first, tentative, and utterly foolish step onto the minefield.

The GMM Media Tower was not "small." It was not "cozy."

It was a gleaming, fifty-story behemoth of black glass and steel that loomed over the Asoke skyline, a dark, imposing, and ridiculously powerful monument to the entertainment empire it housed. The lobby was a four-story, freezing-cold atrium of white marble, brushed steel, and massive, floor-to-ceiling LED screens that played a relentless, high-decibel loop of glamorous, beautiful, and famous faces. The air was not calm; it was electric, thrumming with the high-stakes, high-stress, high-speed energy of a thousand people who were not just in the entertainment industry, but who were the entertainment industry.

This was not the home of "Morning Joy." This was the lion's den. This was the beating, black heart of the entire, terrifying machine.

Kongpob stood in the center of the lobby, a small, insulated bag containing his pre-prepped ingredients clutched in his hand, and he felt like he was going to be physically ill. He was wearing his carefully chosen "Chef Kong" armor: a soft, cream-colored, V-neck cashmere sweater that was hopelessly, ridiculously warm for the Bangkok heat but perfect for a freezing studio, and a pair of loose, pale-grey linen trousers. He looked, he felt, like a very soft, very pale, very edible lamb that had just been personally delivered to the slaughterhouse.

P’Pim had lied to him. She had lied with the skill and precision of a master general.

A young, impossibly chic PA with bright pink hair, a headset, and an iPad, spotted him instantly. Her eyes lit up, not with the warm recognition of a fan, but with the sharp, assessing gaze of a predator that had just spotted its target.

“Khun Kongpob! Chef Kong!” she called out, her voice crisp and efficient, already clicking towards him on dangerously high heels. “S̄wạs̄dī khrạb! I’m P’Aom, the floor manager. P’Dao is so excited to have you! We’re running a little tight, so we’re going straight to makeup, pị kạn ṭhexa (let's go)!”

Kongpob’s blood didn't just run cold. It froze solid in his veins.

P'Dao.

Not P'Noon. Not "Morning Joy."

He followed the pink-haired PA on numb, wooden legs, his mind a roaring, static-filled void. He was hustled into an elevator, whisked up thirty floors, and deposited into a makeup room that was larger than his entire cottage in England. It was a blindingly bright, chaotic hive of activity, mirrors, and beautiful, half-dressed people.

He was pushed into a chair. Hands, dozens of them, immediately descended. A makeup artist began buffing his face with a brush, tutting about his "translucent" English skin. A hairstylist was aggressively combing a strong-smelling product through his hair.

“Oh, his skin is just… like porcelain,” the makeup artist, a man with dramatic, winged eyeliner, was murmuring to the hairstylist. “And these eyes. My god. Like a sad, beautiful deer. P’Dao is going to eat him alive.”

Kongpob’s stomach did a violent, sickening flip. Eat him alive?

He just sat there, his eyes squeezed shut, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists in his lap. He was a prisoner. He was trapped. His only thought, a desperate, frantic, looping prayer, was Get me out. Get me out. Get me out.

He was led to the studio, and his last, pathetic, clinging shred of hope that this was somehow a mistake, a small segment in a big building, was publicly and spectacularly executed.

The studio was colossal. It was a high-tech amphitheater, with a live studio audience of at least three hundred people, who were all being expertly warmed up by a comedian, their laughter a roaring, terrifying wave of sound. Robotic cameras, looking like sleek, black, predatory insects, glided silently across the polished floor. The set was a stunning, multi-million-baht replica of a luxurious, open-plan home, complete with a kitchen that looked like it belonged in an architectural magazine.

And on a massive LED screen that dominated the entire back wall, the show’s logo glittered in sharp, elegant, gold-and-white script:

‘DAO’S KITCHEN.’

P’Dao. The P’Dao. The most famous, most powerful, most beloved, and most feared host in all of Thailand. The woman who built careers and just as easily, with a single, perfectly phrased, velvet-gloved question, destroyed them.

This was not a "cozy morning show." This was the number one, highest-rated, celebrity-centric, flagship morning program in the entire kingdom.

Kongpob felt his vision begin to tunnel, the roaring of the audience fading to a distant, high-pitched ringing in his ears. He was going to faint. He was going to be sick. He was going to faint and be sick, right here, on the impossibly expensive, polished concrete floor.

“Nong Kong! My angel! You’re here!”

The voice, as rich and as warm and as famously smooth as honeyed whiskey, cut through his panic. He turned, and she was there, gliding towards him. P’Dao. She was even more beautiful, and more intimidating, in person. She was a vision in a chic, crisp, white pantsuit, her famous, perfectly coiffed hair not moving a millimeter. She was not a woman. She was an icon.

And she was beaming at him, her smile a 1000-watt, megaton-force weapon. She didn't wait for him to bow. She just grabbed his hands, her own surprisingly warm, her grip firm.

“An absolute honor!” she exclaimed, her eyes, sharp and startlingly intelligent, doing a quick, comprehensive scan of his face, his body, his trembling hands. “I am your biggest fan, truly. My son is obsessed with your cinnamon rolls. He says you’re a wizard. I think he’s right.”

“P’Dao… khrạb…” Kongpob’s voice was a dry, rasping whisper. He was so terrified, he even forgot to wai. “I… I’m so… I… I didn’t know…”

Her smile softened instantly. The high-wattage, public-facing persona vanished, replaced by a shrewd, surprisingly maternal kindness. She saw it all, in a single, devastatingly perceptive glance: his paleness, his terror, the fact that he was a guileless, terrified lamb who had been led, not just to the slaughter, but to the personal, private abattoir of the queen lioness.

“Oh, you sweet, poor boy,” she murmured, her voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial hush, for his ears only. She gave his hands a firm, grounding squeeze. “P’Pim is a menace, isn't she? She threw you right into the fire.”

Kongpob just stared at her, his eyes wide, his lips parted in a silent, terrified plea.

“Don’t you worry about a thing,” P’Dao continued, her voice a soothing, hypnotic balm. She was a master. “You’re not on a TV show. You’re in my kitchen. And I’ve just invited a brilliant, charming, and very handsome young friend over to cook with me. That’s all. There are no cameras. There is no audience.” She winked. “It’s just us. And two million of our closest friends.” She laughed, a low, musical sound, and squeezed his hands again. “Just breathe. And cook. I will take care of everything else. I promise. We are going to have a wonderful time.”

Her confidence was its own kind of anesthetic. He felt his panic, which had been at a screaming, incapacitating crescendo, recede, just a little. It was still there, a cold, vast, churning ocean of dread, but her words were a life raft.

“...Okay,” he breathed, his voice trembling. “Okay. Just... cooking.”

“Just cooking,” she promised, her 1000-watt smile snapping back into place as the floor manager began a frantic, 10-second countdown with his fingers. “Showtime, darling.”

The next forty-five minutes were an out-of-body experience. Kongpob was running on pure, unadulterated adrenaline and the deeply ingrained muscle memory of his "Chef Kong" persona. He was floating, watching himself from somewhere up in the lighting grid. He saw his hands, steady now, deftly chopping herbs, searing a beautiful piece of sea bass, plating it with the elegant, artistic flair that had made him famous.

He heard his own voice, surprisingly calm and smooth, explaining his process, talking about his love for fusing traditional Thai flavors with modern, European techniques. He was charming. He was humble. He was, as P’Dao had predicted, "a wizard."

P’Dao, for her part, was a genius. She was the most generous, intuitive host he could have ever imagined. She guided him, she supported him, she made him shine. She asked him all the "soft" questions she had promised.

“And this amazing journey, Nong Kong… from Bangkok to a tiny, beautiful cottage in England. What inspired that move? You were so young!”

“I… I’ve always loved the quiet, P’Dao,” he heard himself say, the well-practiced, half-true answer sliding off his tongue. “And I love the seasons. I love the rain. I wanted… a peaceful life. A place where I could just… focus on the food. And grow a garden.”

“A true artist!” P’Dao cooed, to rapturous applause from the audience. “So humble! So pure!”

He was doing it. He was actually doing it. He was surviving. The worst was over. The segment was almost done. He was plating his final dish, a beautiful, seared sea bass with a chili-lime-coconut foam. He was safe.

And then, P’Dao, her eyes sparkling with that sharp, journalistic intelligence that had made her a legend, leaned in, her expression one of gentle, fascinated curiosity.

“You are just a treasure, Nong Kong. So talented, and so incredibly modest,” she said, her voice a purr. “But you know, my producers, they are so thorough. They were digging, and they found the most fascinating little piece of your history.”

The air in Kongpob’s lungs turned to ice. His hand, the one holding the spoon to drizzle the foam, stopped, frozen, mid-air.

“Before you were 'Chef Kong,'” P’Dao continued, her voice light and playful, “you were… an actor!”

The camera zoomed in for a tight close-up of Kongpob’s face. He could feel it, the cold, glass eye of the nation staring at him. He could hear the sudden, sharp, collective gasp of the studio audience.

His blood roared in his ears. This is it. This is the trap. The picture is coming. The picture of me and Thomas. She’s going to show it. She’s going to ask. He’s here. He’s in the building. It’s a setup.

But P’Dao just smiled, her kind, searching gaze fixed on his. There was no picture on the monitors. There was just his own, pale, terrified face, broadcast to millions.

“A trainee, with Domundi, yes?” she prodded, gently. “My goodness! That is a world away from a quiet, English garden! You were on the same path as some of our biggest stars today. What happened? Why did you make such a dramatic change?”

He was staring at her, his mind a blank, white, screaming void. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. He could only feel the crushing, absolute, suffocating weight of two million people waiting for his answer.

He had to say it. The lie. The great, beautiful, heartbreaking lie he had been perfecting for five years. He had to perform, one last time.

He let out a shaky, trembling breath, a perfect, audible display of vulnerability. He lowered his gaze from her face to his own hands, as if in shame. He managed a small, trembling, self-deprecating smile.

“P’Dao… khrạb…” he began, his voice a whisper, forcing the entire studio, the entire nation, to lean in to hear him. “The… the truth is...” He took another, shaky breath. “...the truth is... I... I just wasn’t strong enough for it.”

He looked up, his eyes, those "sad, beautiful deer" eyes, wide and shining with an unshed, genuine moisture. “The entertainment world… it requires a very, very special kind of person. A person with… with a fire inside them. A person who is brave, and strong, and… and loud.”

He gave a small, helpless shrug, a gesture of pure, heartbreaking resignation. “I… I was not that person, P’Dao. I’m… I’m quiet. I’m… shy. And that world... it terrified me. I was… I was just a boy. And I was... very lonely. And very scared. I realized...” His voice cracked, a perfect, Emmy-worthy piece of emotional control. “...I realized my heart wasn't in it. My heart… it was… it was in the kitchen. It was... in making quiet, simple things that made people feel… happy. And safe.”

He dropped his gaze again, a final, profound admission of his own gentle, artistic weakness. “So... so I ran away, I suppose. I chose the quiet path. The one... the one where I could just be me. And just... cook.”

The silence in the studio was absolute. It was a dense, heavy, sacred thing. Not a single person coughed. Not a single camera moved.

P’Dao was staring at him, her own famous, clever eyes wide and, impossip, brimming with real, actual tears. She was completely, totally, and utterly undone. She had come expecting to interview a celebrity chef. She had found, instead, a wounded, beautiful, artistic soul.

“Oh, Nong Kong…” she breathed, her own voice thick with an emotion that was 100% genuine. She reached out, her hand, adorned with a massive diamond ring, covering his trembling one on the counter. “That...” She swallowed, composing herself. “...that is not weakness, my dear. That is the most profound, and the most beautiful, kind of strength. To know your own heart. To choose your own peace.”

She turned, her eyes shining, to the main camera. Her voice was a low, rich, and powerful thrum. “What an incredible, brave, and honest soul. Please, everyone, a round of applause for the truly wonderful Chef Kongpob!”

The applause was deafening. It wasn’t polite. It was a roar. A standing ovation. People were weeping. Kongpob just stood there, his hand in P’Dao’s, his face pale, his heart hammering, as the wave of sound and emotion washed over him. He had done it. He had survived. He had faced the lioness in her den, and he had not been eaten. He had been embraced.

“BRILLIANT!” P’Chai, the show's producer, a large, boisterous man in a blindingly expensive, lime-green silk shirt, was bellowing. “Absolutely gold! Pure gold! The phones are on fire! My god, P’Dao, he’s a star! A real one! He cried! We cried! The audience cried! Ratings are going to be through the roof!”

They were in the high-speed executive elevator, descending from the stratosphere of the studio. Kongpob was leaning against the wood-paneled wall, his body boneless, his mind a hollowed-out, exhausted shell. The adrenaline had vanished, leaving behind a bone-deep, trembling weariness.

P’Dao still had her arm linked protectively through his. “You were wonderful, darling,” she murmured, patting his arm. “You were so brave. I am so sorry my team put you on the spot like that. They are… ambitious. But you, my dear, you handled it with such grace.”

“It’s… it’s okay,” Kongpob whispered. It was all he could say. He just wanted to go home. He wanted to curl up in his childhood bed. He wanted to hold his son. He had survived. He just wanted to go home.

“Home?” P’Chai boomed, as if he had read his mind and found the idea personally offensive. “Home! Nonsense! We are not letting our new national treasure go home! We are celebrating! We are having lunch!”

“Oh, P’Chai, no, really, I...” Kongpob began, a fresh wave of panic rising. He had done his part. He had paid his dues.

“I will not hear it!” P’Chai declared, holding up a hand. “I am starving. And I am taking my two favorite stars to lunch. P’Dao, you’re coming. Kong, you’re definitely coming. We’re going to Baan Rim Naam. It’s impossible to get a table, but…” He tapped the side of his nose, a gesture of pure, unadulterated power. “...they know me. It’s my treat. It is not a request. It is a demand. A celebration!”

Kongpob looked, desperately, at P’Dao. She was his lifeline. She would save him.

P’Dao just gave him a small, sympathetic, and utterly resigned smile. “There is no arguing with him when he’s like this, Nong Kong,” she sighed. “He’s a very sweet, very generous bulldozer. It’s easier to just... go with it.” She squeezed his arm. “Come. Just for an hour. You look like you need a good meal. You’re as white as a ghost. Let us feed you. You’ve earned it.”

He was trapped. He was flanked. He was too tired to fight, too polite to be rude, and too intimidated by these two titans of the media world to do anything but nod, his head feeling impossibly heavy.

“...Okay, P’Chai,” he said, his voice a sigh of pure, profound exhaustion. “Just... just for a little while. You are... very kind.”

It’s fine, he told himself, as the elevator doors slid open to the gleaming, chaotic, sun-drenched lobby. It’s just lunch. At a restaurant. A public, open place. I’ve just been on national television. The worst is over. The absolute worst. What else could possibly happen?

Baan Rim Naam was not just a restaurant. It was a fantasy. It was a sprawling, multi-tiered complex of reclaimed, antique teak pavilions, all connected by winding, elevated walkways, built around a series of lush, tropical gardens and shimmering lotus ponds. It was, as its name suggested, right on the bank of the Chao Phraya River, with a breathtaking, panoramic view of the glittering, golden spires of the Grand Palace on the opposite side.

It was, Kongpob realized with a fresh, cold, sinking wave of dread, the single most expensive, exclusive, and famous restaurant in all of Bangkok. The clientele was not just "people." It was everyone. Politicians, royalty, old-money Hi-So families, and—most terrifying of all—the absolute, glittering, A-list cream of the entertainment industry. It was the industry’s unofficial cafeteria.

He had not escaped the lion's den. He had just been transferred, via private car, to the lion's exclusive, five-star, riverside feeding ground.

He kept his head down, his gaze fixed on the back of P’Chai’s ridiculously bright green silk shirt, as the producer blustered his way through the fawning, bowing staff. P’Dao had her hand on his back, a gentle, guiding pressure, as if she were steering a small, terrified, and very breakable boat through a storm.

They were led, of course, to the best table. A semi-private terrace, shaded by a massive, ancient banyan tree, that jutted out over the river, offering a postcard-perfect, uninterrupted view. It was beautiful. It was exquisite. And it was, Kongpob noted with a surge of panic, completely visible to the three other, equally exclusive, private terraces that flanked it.

He sat immediately, his back to the rest of the restaurant, his gaze fixed on the slow, hypnotic, brown-green churn of the river. He could feel the eyes on him. He was the new, unknown, beautiful boy at the table of the king-makers. He could hear the whispers, the low, curious murmurs from the surrounding tables.

“Isn’t this just civilized?” P’Chai sighed, sinking into his chair and immediately ordering a bottle of champagne. “See? Better than going home! Now… P’Dao, you saw the ratings from the first segment? Off the charts…”

They talked. The words washed over Kongpob, a meaningless, high-speed babble of industry-speak. Ratings, budgets, new projects, scandals. He just nodded, and smiled when they looked at him, and murmured “khrạb” at what he hoped were the right moments. He took a sip of his water, his hand trembling. The knot of anxiety in his stomach was so cold and so tight, he knew he wouldn't be able to eat a single bite.

He was a mouse. A tiny, terrified, field mouse, sitting at a table with two very sleek, very well-fed, and currently very happy lions, trying desperately to pretend he wasn't food.

“…but the real problem, the real headache,” P’Chai was saying, his voice dropping, “is him. He’s a genius, yes. He’s a god. But he is… difficult. He’s cold, P’Dao. He’s empty. He’s the 'Ice Prince.' He doesn't talk to anyone. He doesn’t do anything. He just… shows up, is brilliant, and leaves. You can’t produce a man like that. You just… aim a camera at him and pray.”

“Oh, be kind, Chai,” P’Dao chided, though her own voice was laced with a fond, sympathetic exasperation. “The poor boy is… he’s not empty. He’s haunted. Can’t you see it? It’s in his eyes. It’s what makes him such a transcendent actor. He’s carrying some… profound, tragic, old-world pain. It’s...” she paused, searching for the word, “...it’s heartbreaking. And very marketable.”

Kongpob was only half-listening, his attention focused on a long-tail boat that was speeding down the river, its motor a high-pitched, angry whine. The "Ice Prince." They were talking about the "Ice Prince." It was, he had gathered, the industry’s nickname for the actor he had seen on the billboard, the one from that watch commercial his parents had seen. The one whose name he still, blessedly, didn't know.

“Well, his 'heartbreaking, marketable pain' is about to give me an ulcer,” P’Chai grumbled, signaling for more water. “But, what can I do? He’s P’Aof’s golden boy. And as long as he’s attached to the project, the studio will give us anything we want. And speaking of the devil, look…”

P’Chai nodded, not discreetly at all, towards the main entrance of the terrace, a wide archway draped in purple orchids. “Here comes the man himself. P’Aof. And… oh, for god’s sake… he’s brought the whole, gloomy, beautiful circus with him.”

There was a shift in the atmosphere of the terrace. It was a palpable, physical thing. The low, ambient murmur of high-society lunching didn't just quiet; it shifted. It was as if the entire restaurant, which had been a diffuse, multi-centered constellation of bright stars, had suddenly found a new, singular, massive sun, and all the planets were slowly, inexorably, tilting their orbits towards it.

“My goodness,” P’Dao murmured, her professional, star-watching radar on high alert. “It’s the whole cast. And... yup. There he is. Wow. He's... he's even more breathtaking in person, isn't he?”

Kongpob didn't look. He wouldn't look. It wasn't his world. It wasn't his business. He kept his back to the room, his gaze fixed on the river, on the golden temple, on a piece of drifting water hyacinth. He was a rock. He was invisible. He was just a quiet chef, having a quiet lunch.

“P’Chai! P’Dao! S̄wạs̄dī khrạb!” A new voice, a rich, cultured, and powerful baritone, boomed across the terrace.

Kongpob heard his two companions shifting, their chairs scraping as they turned to greet the newcomers.

“Aof! My god!” P’Chai was instantly on his feet, his voice a jovial, welcoming roar. “What a surprise! You’re slumming it with us commoners today?”

“Only if you’re buying, Chai!” the new voice, P’Aof, laughed.

Kongpob could hear the group approaching their table. He could feel the subtle shift in the air, the change in the smell. The light, floral, and food-based scents of the restaurant were suddenly, sharply, overlaid with something else. A scent that was dark, and cold, and shockingly potent. A scent like ozone, and expensive, subtle cologne, and… and something else. Something primal. Something… familiar.

His heart, which had just settled into a low, anxious thrum, gave a single, violent, painful kick.

No.

It was just his anxiety. It was the phantom limb of his memory. It wasn't real.

“...and you know my lead actress, of course, the beautiful Nong Mintra,” P’Aof was saying, his voice closer now. “And her co-star, Nong Gun… and of course, my Ice Prince himself…”

Kongpob squeezed his eyes shut. Don’t look. Don’t turn around. It’s not him. It’s not him. It’s just a famous actor. It’s just a coincidence of pheromones. You are safe. You are hidden. You are fine.

“...Thomas, come and say hello to the legendary P’Dao.”

The name hit him like a physical blow. It was not a sound. It was a fist. A fist that slammed into his solar plexus, driving all the air, all the blood, all the life, from his body.

Thomas.

It was a dream. It was a nightmare. It was his exhausted, adrenaline-poisoned brain, hallucinating. It wasn't real. It couldn't be.

“P’Dao,” a new voice said. A voice that was not new at all. It was a voice that was imprinted on his DNA. It was the voice that had haunted his dreams, his nightmares, his lonely midnights, for five years. But it was wrong. The boyish, laughing warmth was gone, replaced by a deep, smooth, and utterly, chillingly, cold baritone. It was the voice of a king. The voice of a stranger. “An honor. I am a great admirer of your work.”

Kongpob’s entire body was frozen. He was a statue of pure, screaming ice. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't feel his own hands. The only thing that was real was the sound of that voice, and the scent.

It was him. The ozone, the coldness, the expensive, subtle layer... but underneath it, buried deep, was the scent he had dreamed of, the scent that was his own personal, biological catnip. The scent of woodsmoke, and storms, and that unique, indefinable, Thomas-ness. It was his Alpha. His imprinted, biological mate. The battering ram that Dr. Somsak had warned him about.

And he was standing, Kongpob calculated, less than ten feet behind him.

His heart, which had stopped, now exploded into a frantic, panicked, trapped-bird rhythm, so violent he was sure they could hear it. The fortress... the fortress was under attack. He could feel the walls, his carefully constructed, five-year-old walls of self-preservation, shuddering.

“And who is this?” P’Aof, the director, asked, his voice suddenly full of a new, appreciative curiosity.

Kongpob realized, with a wave of pure, white-hot horror, that he was the only one at the table who had not turned around. He was the only one being unpardonably, screamingly, rude.

“Oh! This is our guest of honor!” P’Chai boomed, oblivious. “This is the boy who made P’Dao cry on national television this morning! This is 'Chef Kong'! Nong Kong, turn around! Say hello to the great P’Aof!”

This was it. There was no escape. It was happening.

Slowly, his movements stiff, robotic, his neck vertebrae grinding together in protest, Kongpob turned.

He lifted his head. His gaze, wide, terrified, and full of the ghosts of a thousand lost nights, traveled past the smiling, curious face of P’Aof, past the stunning, perfect face of the actress, Mintra...

And he locked eyes with him.

Thomas.

He was... he was... breathtaking. The boy he remembered was gone, burned away, replaced by this... this man. He was taller, broader, his body honed and sculpted into a lethal, powerful weapon, perfectly packaged in a black, ridiculously expensive-looking silk shirt and tailored trousers. His face was all sharp, brutal angles, a masterpiece of cold, carved beauty. He was a king. He was a god. He was a stranger.

And he was staring at Kongpob.

His eyes. His dark, familiar, beautiful eyes. They were not smiling. They were not cold. They were not empty. They were… they were burning. They were two black, bottomless pits of pure, undiluted, and absolutely agonized shock.

The world did not stop. It did not slow down. It simply... ceased to exist. There was no restaurant. There was no river. There was no P’Dao or P’Chai. There was only the fifty-foot, echoing, cavernous, silent void between his table and Thomas’s. There was only the single, unbroken, and utterly devastating line of sight between his eyes, and the eyes of the man he had loved, the man he had destroyed, and the man who was, he now knew with a terrifying, biological certainty, the absolute, undisputed, and only father of his child.

He was frozen. A butterfly, pinned to a board. His heart, his treacherous, stupid, bonded heart, gave a single, massive, lurching thump of pure, agonizing... recognition.

And in his pants, beneath the table, in a place that had been dormant, asleep, and dead for five long, chaste years, Kongpob felt a sudden, sharp, and terrifyingly warm, wet slick of moisture.

The fortress, in a single, devastating, silent instant, had just been breached.

Chapter Text

อ้อมกอดที่เคยอุ่น กลับกลายเป็นความเย็นชา ดวงใจที่เคยส่องแสง ถูกซ่อนไว้ใต้เมฆหมอกหนา กลิ่นหอมของมะลิปนฝน ยั่วเย้าในความมืด แสร้งทำเป็นไม่เห็น ทั้งที่รู้ว่าคนรักเก่ากำลังจ้องมอง ดวงตาเป็นเหมือนกระจก แต่เราปิดมันเสียแน่น ปล่อยให้ความจริงกลายเป็นเงา เลือนหายไปกับสายลม

The embrace that was once warm, turned cold and stark, The heart that used to shine, hidden beneath a thick, dark cloud. The scent of jasmine mingled with rain, a cruel lure in the dimness, Pretending not to see, while knowing the former love's gaze is fixed. The eyes are mirrors to the soul, yet we choose to seal them tight, Allowing the truth to become a phantom, fading with the distant wind.

The very air around Table Three, perched precariously on the river's edge at Baan Rim Naam, felt viscous and heavy, clinging to Kongpob’s skin like an ill-fitting shroud. He was seated with his back to the main throng, yet he knew, with the chilling, absolute certainty of a prey animal sensing the predator, that Thomas Teetut Chungmanirat—the Alpha who had once owned his entire world—was watching him.

The casual, high-stakes banter of P'Dao and P'Chai, titans of Thai media, swirled around him, a meaningless, high-pitched symphony of power and ambition. He forced a faint, deferential smile, nodding at the appropriate moments, his hand gripping the stem of his water glass so tightly his knuckles were white marble against his pale skin.

Don’t look. Don’t turn. Just breathe and be the chef.

He focused the entirety of his consciousness on the delicate kaeng som (sour curry) on his plate, dissecting the flavor profile with manic intensity. The tang of tamarind, the heat of the chillies, the fragrant complexity of the shrimp paste—he tried to drown his panic in the food, treating the culinary exercise as a desperate, internal lifeline.

“Aróy mâak kràb, P’Chai.” he murmured, forcing the compliment out smoothly. "It’s incredibly delicious, P’Chai."

"Of course it is, Nong Kong! Only the best for my new star!" P'Chai boomed, completely oblivious to the silent, invisible war being waged three feet behind Kongpob’s back. "P'Dao was right! Your palate is as refined as your face. A true artist!"

Kongpob offered a small, deferential wai (a gesture of respect), his movements deliberately constrained, ensuring he showed no profile that could offer a clearer view to the adjacent table. Every instinct, every fiber of his being, was screaming at him to flee, to dive into the murky brown depths of the Chao Phraya River just beyond the terrace railings, rather than suffer the searing, psychological brand of that Alpha gaze. He could feel it—a hot, heavy weight on the nape of his neck, a pressure that was not sight, but imprint. It was the Alpha’s soul seeking the weakness in his fortress.

He knew Thomas still believed the lie: that he was a simple Beta who had run off to chase a richer life, perhaps finding a woman along the way to give him the family he craved. A Beta who had abandoned his Alpha out of greed. This fabricated narrative—a shield built from jagged shards of their broken future—was his only protection. If Thomas knew the truth—the late-presenting Omega anomaly, the biological bondage, the terrible, magnificent truth of Leo’s parentage—the delicate balance would shatter, and the firestorm would consume them all.

He lifted a piece of sea bass to his lips, his hand trembling slightly. Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.

Thomas Teetut Chungmanirat sat at his table, the cold, silent center of his own chaotic galaxy. His fork, holding a pristine cube of grilled Australian wagyu, remained suspended halfway to his mouth. The rich, succulent scent of the beef was utterly meaningless; all he could taste, all he could smell, was the faint, maddeningly elusive scent of jasmine and rain, overlaid with a thin, brittle layer of fear.

He was the "Ice Prince," the untouchable titan of the industry, yet his entire being was focused with agonizing, white-hot intensity on the back of a small, pale man seated across the terrace.

Kongpob.

Five years. The passage of time should have been a glacier, freezing the memory, turning the pain into a manageable, chronic scar. Instead, it had been an artisan, refining the vision, carving the boy he had lost into an impossibly beautiful man. Kongpob should have looked weathered, burdened by the life of a single parent in a foreign land—the hardship of raising another woman's child. Yet, Thomas could not deny the devastating reality: Kongpob had blossomed.

His neck, visible above the cream cashmere sweater, was still that slender, elegant line Thomas remembered, but the shoulders beneath were broader, suggesting a quiet, self-made strength. The dark hair was shorter, styled with an effortless grace that spoke of London sophistication, not Bangkok desperation. He had shed the soft, boyish vulnerability that had made him so fragile, replacing it with the lean, handsome planes of a man who had survived a terrible war and emerged victorious.

He’s prettier. The thought was a dagger plunged into Thomas’s massive, proud Alpha heart. The world stole him from me, and then polished him for someone else.

He watched Kongpob take a sip of water, the movement delicate, familiar, and unbearably sensual. The sight—so utterly normal, so utterly out of reach—ignited a complex storm of pain, fury, and a terrifying, desperate longing. He was seeing the perfect man he had promised a palace, a man now living a life he believed was built on a lie of infidelity.

He left me because I was poor, found a Beta woman to give him the baby I couldn’t, and now he looks like a goddamn work of art. Thomas clenched his jaw, the muscle ticking furiously. The world is a cruel, mocking thief.

“Khun Thomas, are you unwell?”

The interruption was subtle, soft, and delivered with perfect, professional concern. It was Mintra, Thomas’s stunning co-star and leading actress for the new series, perched gracefully at his elbow. She was a vision of feminine Omega perfection, her scent a carefully curated blend of peaches and cinnamon, and her eyes, wide and intelligent, held a shrewd curiosity that went beyond simple politeness.

Thomas blinked, the world snapping back into focus. He was surrounded by his team: P'Aof, the director, Gun, his supportive co-star, and Mintra. The King had been caught staring at the phantom in the courtyard.

“I am fine, Nong Mintra,” Thomas replied, his voice a low, cold rumble, the ‘Ice Prince’ mask slamming back into place. “The lighting on the terrace is harsh. Nothing more.”

Mintra smiled, a slow, knowing, industry-perfect expression that did not reach her eyes. “Ah. I thought perhaps you were intrigued by the gentleman at P’Dao’s table. He is quite captivating, isn’t he? Like a character from a tragic period piece.”

Thomas merely raised a skeptical eyebrow, a silent challenge that dared her to continue.

“I confess, I’m secretly a rather large fan,” Mintra continued, tapping a perfectly manicured nail against her wine glass. “That is ‘Chef Kong’—the influencer. He’s huge on the platforms. He does fusion Thai cooking, you know. He has that lovely cottage in England, where he films with his… his little boy. Leo. He’s quite the sensation.”

Thomas’s throat tightened. Chef Kong. An influencer. Not a struggling actor, not a washed-up extra. A star in his own right, living out the domestic, fulfilled life Thomas had sworn to provide. Mintra’s words were a cold, sharp rain of salt on his deep, unhealed wound.

“He said he wasn’t strong enough for the industry, Mintra. That’s why he left,” Thomas dismissed, his tone dangerously flat, quoting P'Dao’s earlier gossip with glacial sarcasm. “I find it difficult to believe that making cinnamon rolls requires more strength than an audition.”

Gun, usually quiet and observing, leaned in, a flicker of mischievous excitement in his eyes. He was a popular Alpha actor, known for his laid-back, boyish charm.

“Ah, but P’Thomas, you misunderstand,” Gun interjected, his voice smooth and playful. “It is not the cinnamon rolls themselves, but the discipline that is required. P’Dao said he built a life of ‘quiet strength.’ That is a very rare kind of fire. And, P’Mintra is right. His fan base is fiercely protective of him and his little boy.”

Mintra chuckled softly, nodding in agreement. “And he is gorgeous. So delicate. Every Omega on set was talking about his eyes after the show this morning, Khun Thomas. Apparently, he possesses a deep sadness. Very artistic.”

Sadness. The word was a spear. Thomas’s jaw clenched tighter. He knew that sadness. It was the reflection of his own soul, a sorrow that Kongpob had taken upon himself for the sake of Thomas’s fame.

He’s not sad. He’s a magnificent, beautiful liar. The Alpha in Thomas screamed a possessive denial. He is not delicate. He is tight and wet and passionate, and that beautiful body has belonged only to me.

The wave of jealousy that crashed over Thomas was physical, blinding, and overwhelming. He was jealous of the fame, jealous of the independence, and most devastatingly, jealous of the cooking. He was jealous of the very career Kongpob had dreamed of building, the small, domestic joy they had shared in their poverty.

The table, the co-stars, the entire glamorous scene dissolved into a single, aching point of memory.

The small, cramped kitchen in their dilapidated Bangkok apartment was less a culinary space and more a chemical lab. It was suffocatingly hot, the air heavy with the aroma of garlic, fish sauce, and the sweet, clean scent of Kongpob's nervous Beta pheromones.

Thomas stumbled in, his body heavy with the dull, metallic taste of rejection. Another audition, another round of being told his looks were too Alpha, too intense, not boy-next-door enough. He was dragging his feet, ready to collapse onto the lumpy mattress and nurse his wounded pride.

But the kitchen was glowing.

Kongpob stood over a single, rattling gas burner, stirring a shallow pan with focused, intense concentration. He was wearing an apron—a cheap, floral pattern he’d stolen from his grandmother’s forgotten sewing kit—over a too-large, threadbare t-shirt. The sight of his back, slender and elegant, bathed in the soft, bruised light filtering through the thin window, was an immediate, soothing balm to Thomas’s frayed nerves.

“Ai’Kong…” Thomas murmured, his voice thick with exhaustion and possessive love. He crossed the short space, wrapping his arms immediately around Kongpob's narrow waist, pulling the Beta's slender back flush against his chest.

Kongpob jumped, a small, startled gasp escaping his lips, but he immediately softened, leaning back into the powerful, familiar heat of his Alpha. The simple act—the automatic capitulation to the embrace—was a thousand unspoken words of love.

“P’Thomas! Swaŝdī kràb. Welcome home,” Kongpob whispered, his tone filled with soft relief. He tilted his head back, his dark, beautiful eyes shining with a deep, liquid devotion that instantly erased the sting of the day’s rejections. “How was the audition? Did you get it?”

“They said I look like a killer, not a lover,” Thomas grumbled into the soft, fragrant curve of Kongpob’s neck, inhaling the sweet, precious scent that was better than any drug. “I’m too heavy, they said. Too much Alpha.”

“Rûeang bâa! You are perfect, P’Thomas. They are blind,” Kongpob chided, the small, fierce defense of his Alpha immediately strengthening Thomas’s bruised ego. "Nonsense! They are blind." He shifted slightly, pointing the wooden spoon toward the pan with a soft giggle. “Taste this! I got the recipe from Mae. I managed to get real river prawns—they were so expensive, P’Thomas, I almost fainted! But I had to use them for this.”

Thomas released one hand to cup Kongpob’s chin, turning his head to press a hard, possessive kiss onto his trembling lips, tasting the mixture of fish sauce, lime, and sweet human love. “What is it, thìrak? Why the royal treatment?” "What is it, sweetheart? Why the royal treatment?"

“It is the kài phàt khing yàt sài,” Kongpob whispered, his eyes wide with serious, culinary pride. “Chicken stir-fried with ginger, stuffed into an omelet. It’s my family’s secret recipe. Mae said I could only cook it for someone I was certain about. And I want to make sure my Alpha is eating enough, after a long, frustrating day of auditioning.”

Thomas melted. The simple, domestic offering—the ultimate, familial sign of absolute commitment in Thai culture—was more valuable than any crown. He held Kongpob tighter, his Alpha heart swelling with a desperate, fierce tenderness that bordered on agony.

“It smells perfect, châo ying,” Thomas murmured, burying his face in Kongpob’s hair. "My princess." “You are going to be a phenomenal chef, Ai’Kong. When I make it, when the roles are mine and the money is flowing, I’m buying you the biggest, shiniest kitchen in Bangkok. You will have all the marble and stainless steel you want. No more tiny gas burners. I promise you a kitchen the size of this entire apartment, khun phâk klùa. You deserve the best, my love.” "My love."

Kongpob sighed, a sound of perfect, complete contentment, leaning back into Thomas’s strength. “I don’t need marble, P’. I only need you to be successful. And for you to hug me like this while I cook. That is my perfect kitchen.”

The image of their future—a life built on equal success, fierce love, and quiet, domestic harmony—was so vivid, so real, it was a searing pain in Thomas’s memory. He closed his eyes, inhaling the sweet-and-sour perfume of their ambition, swearing that he would never, ever let this perfect, loving fool go.

The memory snapped, a thread of gold tearing in the present moment, replaced by the grating, high-pitched laughter of Mintra.

“...He’s going to be the next big culinary sensation,” Mintra was chirping, completely unaware of the cataclysm she had just broken open in Thomas’s mind. “P’Chai, you must book him for the food festival next year!”

Thomas’s jaw was locked, his entire body rigid with a devastating, complex blend of fury, yearning, and loss. The pain of the kitchen, the memory of the promise of a big, bright kitchen—it was all now a cruel, mocking reality. Kongpob was a culinary sensation. He did have a big, shiny kitchen in a cottage in England. And Thomas, the man who had promised it all, was alone, ruling his palace of glass and cold air.

He watched the table across the terrace begin to move. P'Dao, P'Chai, and Kongpob were rising from their seats, the final greetings being exchanged.

“K̄hx tạw k̀xn ná, P’Dao, P’Chai,” Kongpob was murmuring, performing his final bows, his voice too soft, too polite, too distant. "I should be going first, P'Dao, P'Chai."

He turned, following P'Dao and P'Chai, his pale, elegant back now fully exposed to Thomas’s raw, burning gaze. It was the same back that had been pressed against Thomas’s chest thousands of nights, the same back Thomas had kissed and claimed a thousand times over, and the same back that had been turned to him in cold, final dismissal five years ago.

Thomas felt a violent, animalistic urge—the pure, undiluted instinct of the Alpha proprietor—to rise from his seat, to slam his hand down on the marble table, to let out a guttural, terrifying roar that would stop Kongpob in his tracks, to seize that slender waist and haul the man back to his side. He wanted to demand an answer to the promise, an explanation for the lie, a reckoning for the five years of exquisite, agonizing emptiness.

But the Ice Prince could not move.

He was trapped by his own fame, his own power, his own carefully constructed prison. A scene here would be catastrophic; a confrontation would break the Ice Prince persona and expose the bleeding, betrayed man beneath. It would drag Kongpob and his son—his son—into the very public, merciless dirt Kongpob had tried to save him from.

Mintra, Gun, P'Aof—they were all watching him, their faces reflecting mild curiosity about his sudden, profound stillness.

Thomas could only stare, his eyes black, bottomless pits of agony and possessive rage. He watched Kongpob’s back—the back that contained the secret of his Omega existence, the back that contained the shame of his flight, the back that contained the love he had lost years ago.

The back that was walking away from him, again.

Kongpob disappeared through the archway, his cream cashmere sweater the last, faint glimmer of a retreating phantom.

Thomas finally released the breath he had been holding, a shuddering, silent sound that was swallowed by the high ceiling of the terrace. He lifted the glass of untouched wagyu to his lips and bit down, not chewing, but devouring the meat, the frantic, desperate violence of the act the only release for the Alpha fury that was threatening to consume him.

“It is not over, châo ying,” Thomas vowed silently, his gaze fixed on the empty archway, his voice a cold, silent thunder in the mausoleum of his heart. "My princess." “You came back to my city. You are in my world now. I will find you. And you will tell me everything.”

He had his answer: Kongpob was not a pauper; he was an object of beauty, an artist, a single father to another man’s child, and a celebrated figure in the world Thomas had abandoned him to save. The lie was monumental, and the price of that lie would be absolute.

Chapter Text

เสียงกระซิบนั้นแหลมคมดั่งหนาม แทงทะลุหน้ากากที่สวมใส่ อดีตที่ฝังกลบ กลับถูกขุดคุ้ยขึ้นมาใหม่ ในที่แจ้ง ท่ามกลางสายตาผู้คน สิงโตน้อยหลงทาง ร้องหาอ้อมกอดที่คุ้นเคย ไม่รู้เลยว่าอ้อมกอดนั้น คือจุดเริ่มต้นของพายุ โชคชะตาช่างโหดร้าย สานใยให้เราพบกัน ในวันที่หัวใจ...อ่อนแอที่สุด

The whisper, sharp as a thorn, Pierces the mask that is worn. The past, long buried, is unearthed anew, In the open, under the public view. A lost little lion, crying for a familiar hold, Never knowing that embrace is the eye of the storm. Fate is so cruel, weaving its web to make us meet, On the day the heart... is at its weakest.

The measured, sterile chill of CentralWorld was a jarring contrast to the humid, chaotic embrace of the Bangkok streets Kongpob had just fled. The air inside was scrubbed clean, smelling of floor wax, expensive perfume diffusing from the Chanel boutique, and the sugary, roasted-bean aroma of a high-end coffee shop. It was a cathedral of commerce, vast, white, and echoing, and Kongpob felt like a mouse scurrying across its polished marble altar.

He kept his head down, the brim of a plain black baseball cap pulled low, shading the dark, reflective lenses of his sunglasses. A medical-grade face mask covered the lower half of his face, a shield that was both a necessity of the lingering post-pandemic culture and a desperate, flimsy piece of camouflage.

He was a ghost in his own city, but he was a ghost that was suddenly, terrifyingly, being seen.

The four days since the encounter at Baan Rim Naam had been a special kind of hell. The restaurant sighting, the split-second of agonizing, soul-searing eye contact with Thomas, had shattered his fragile peace. He had fled that lunch with P'Dao and P'Chai, claiming a sudden, violent migraine, his heart hammering a rhythm of pure, unadulterated panic. He’d spent the subsequent ninety-six hours cloistered within the high, bougainvillea-covered walls of his parents’ home, his body thrumming with a low-grade, residual anxiety.

But the television appearance on Dao’s Kitchen had been the true tactical error. P'Pim, his manager, had assured him it was a "small, cozy" segment. Instead, it was the highest-rated morning show in the kingdom. His performance—the quiet, humble "Chef Kong" spinning a heartbreaking, false narrative of being too weak for the entertainment world —had been a catastrophic success.

He was no longer just an anonymous YouTube chef. In Thailand, he was now a "person of interest."

“Khun… khun Chef Kong, châi má khráp?” (Is that Chef Kong?)

The whisper, hesitant and high-pitched, came from two schoolgirls in uniforms, their phones clutched in their hands.

Kongpob froze. He gave a short, jerky nod, not trusting his voice, and quickly pushed the stroller he was guiding around the corner, his heart jackhammering against his ribs.

This—all of this—was for Nat’s engagement party. His mother had insisted, her eyes bright with the pride of her son finally rejoining the world . “You must look handsome, luk! You must show them how well you are doing!”

He wheeled the stroller into the bright, colorful chaos of the Zara Kids department. The sudden blast of upbeat pop music and the sight of tiny, immaculate mannequins briefly settled his nerves.

“เอาล่ะ, jâo nŭu,” Kongpob murmured, his voice soft beneath the mask as he parked the stroller and unbuckled his son. "Alright, little mouse."

Leo Jirojmontri, four years old and the undisputed, bright, singular sun of Kongpob’s universe, scrambled out, his dark, almond-shaped eyes wide with wonder at the new territory.

“Pà-pá! Look! Sêuua (Shirt)! Dinosaur!”

Kongpob’s anxiety melted, the ice in his veins turning to warm, flowing honey. He knelt, his gaze softening as he watched his son pat a tiny, green t-shirt emblazoned with a T-Rex.

“That is a T-Rex, khráp,” Kongpob smiled, his fingers automatically brushing a stray lock of dark, silky hair from Leo’s forehead. “But P’Nat’s party is a ngaan taeng (wedding party). It is very important. We must be sù-phâap (polite). We must be law-law (handsome).”

For the next hour, Kongpob existed only in this perfect, luminous bubble. He held up tiny, ridiculously small linen blazers, soft-collared shirts in pale blue, and miniature chinos.

“Oh, Leo, luk… look at this one,” Kongpob breathed, holding a tiny, cream-colored vest against his son’s chest. “You look like a little jâo châai (prince). My handsome, handsome boy. You are so perfect, luk. You know that? You are Papa’s whole world.”

Leo, preening under the undivided adoration, giggled and spun in a circle. “Leo law-law! Papa law-law!”

Kongpob’s heart clenched with a love so fierce it was almost painful. This was why he endured the fear. This was why he lived the lie. For this small, perfect, radiant human being who was the living, breathing proof of a love that was supposed to be dead.

He bought Leo the entire, ridiculously expensive outfit: the cream vest, the soft white shirt, the little beige trousers, and tiny, boat-shaped leather shoes. His son would be the most beautiful boy at the party.

Then, his own gaze fell on a rack of men’s clothing. He needed something too. He bypassed the fashionable, low-cut shirts, the tight-fitting trousers that were popular. His eyes landed on a simple, almost monastic, high-necked linen shirt, the color of oatmeal. It was perfect. It was anonymous. It covered his scent glands. It was the armor of a man trying to be invisible.

“Okay, my little lion,” Kongpob sighed, packing the bags into the stroller’s undercarriage. “We are all set for the party. Now, what does my brave boy want for lunch?”

Leo’s head snapped up, his dark eyes—so hauntingly familiar, so much like his —lit with a sudden, single-minded, four-year-old’s conviction.

“KÀI THÂWT!”

Kongpob winced. “Fried chicken? Leo, luk, we can have kôw man kài (Hainanese chicken rice) at the food court. It’s healthier.”

“MAI AO!” Leo’s lower lip shot out, the stubborn, adorable pout that was a carbon copy of the one Thomas used to deploy . “Want Golden Garuda Chicken! Nâá khráp, Pà-pá! (Please, Papa!) Please! Please! Please!”

Golden Garuda Chicken. The most popular fast-food chain in Thailand, famous for its crispy-skinned, garlic-and-pepper-marinated chicken, served with sticky rice and a searingly hot jaew (chili dipping sauce). It was also, Kongpob knew with a sinking feeling, famously expensive, and known for its celebrity brand ambassadors.

But Leo’s face was a mask of such profound, tragic longing that Kongpob’s resolve crumbled. He was a good father. And good fathers, sometimes, bought their sons greasy, unhealthy, delicious fried chicken.

“Okay, khráp, okay,” he relented with a sigh, adjusting his mask. “Golden Garuda it is. But you must eat all your vegetables at dinner tonight. Dtohk-lohng mái (Deal)?”

“DEAL!” Leo cheered, pumping his small fists in the air.

Kongpob smiled, his heart settling. What were the chances? It was just a fast-food restaurant. It was midday on a Thursday. It would be fine. He pushed the stroller toward the escalators, descending into the lower-level food hall, completely unaware that he was not just walking to lunch.

He was walking into the epicenter of the minefield.

The moment they rounded the corner, Kongpob knew he had made a catastrophic mistake.

The Golden Garuda Chicken restaurant was not just a restaurant. It was a shrine. The entire storefront was unrecognizable, plastered in a massive, floor-to-ceiling vinyl decal. And on that decal, ten feet tall, rendered in god-like, high-definition, was his face.

Thomas Teetut Chungmanirat, the Ice Prince, was smirking, his gaze cold and predatory, holding a drumstick like it was a scepter.

The restaurant itself was besieged. A velvet rope line snaked around the perimeter, corralled by stressed-looking security guards. Inside, past the throng of screaming fans, Kongpob could see him.

Thomas was seated at a high-top table, a microphone clipped to his sharp black shirt, a silver marker pen in his hand. He was on autopilot, flashing his million-dollar, devastatingly handsome media smile as he signed posters, his other hand accepting boxes of chicken from a fawning brand manager. A pop-up fan sign event. Of course. Why would the universe be anything but exquisitely, breathtakingly cruel?

Kongpob’s blood didn’t just run cold; it evaporated. His limbs turned to ice. His first, only instinct was to run.

He grabbed the stroller handles, his knuckles white, and executed a sharp, 180-degree turn, his movements jerky with panic.

“Pà-pá! Where go?” Leo’s voice piped up from the stroller, confused. “Chicken yùu nâi! (is there!)”

“It’s… it’s too crowded, luk,” Kongpob hissed, his voice tight with terror, pushing the stroller rapidly away, his gaze fixed on the exit sign 100 meters ahead. “We’ll go somewhere else. Papa will make you chicken tonight, I promise.”

“MAI! (NO!)”

The word was not a request. It was a declaration of war.

“Leo want that chicken! Jâo châai chicken!” Leo shrieked, pointing at the ten-foot-tall image of his biological father.

“Leo, yàa seuua-dahng (don’t be loud),” Kongpob pleaded, his voice cracking. He was walking faster, almost jogging, pushing the stroller past a bewildered family.

And then, Leo Jirojmontri—his calm, sweet, gentle, well-behaved son, the child who never made a fuss, the boy who was his quiet shadow—did something he had never, ever done before.

He arched his back, braced his small feet against the stroller frame, and with a surge of pure, four-year-old fury, launched himself out of the seat belt and onto the hard marble floor.

The thud was sickening. Kongpob’s heart stopped.

Leo wasn’t hurt. He was furious. The shock of the fall, combined with the denial of his chicken, triggered a full-blown, catastrophic, DEFCON 1 meltdown.

A scream—a sound so piercing, so raw, so full of primal, childish rage—tore from Leo’s lungs. “MAI AO! MAI PÂI! JA AO KÀI THÂWT! RÁWN! HUUUUUUEEEEEE!” (I DON’T WANT TO! I’M NOT GOING! I WANT FRIED CHICKEN! I’M CRYING!)

Kongpob spun around, his face pale with horror. Leo was on the floor, kicking his small, expensive leather shoes against the marble, his face screwed up, tears and snot streaming.

Every head in the vicinity turned. The security guards at the fan meet turned. The line of fans turned.

And then, on the small stage, Thomas Teetut Chungmanirat, his media smile frozen, his marker pen paused mid-signature, turned.

His gaze, cold and sharp as a shard of obsidian, sliced through the crowd and landed directly on the source of the commotion. He saw the discarded stroller. He saw the small, furious child on the floor. And he saw the man in the mask, cap, and sunglasses, standing over the child, frozen in a rictus of pure, unadulterated panic.

Even with the disguise, Thomas knew. The slender frame. The way he held his hands. The aura of sheer, terrified energy.

It was Kongpob.

Thomas watched, his entire body going rigid. The professional mask of the Ice Prince remained perfectly in place, but beneath it, his Alpha heart began a low, heavy, predatory drumbeat.

He’s here. After four days of me tearing the city apart trying to find a whisper of him, he just… walks into my fan meet.

He watched Kongpob drop to his knees, his movements frantic, desperate. The man was clearly panicking, his disguised head swiveling as he realized he was the center of attention.

“Leo! Leo, yùt ná khrâp! (Stop it, please!)” Kongpob’s voice was a strained, muffled plea, audible even over the din. He was trying to lift his son, but Leo had gone boneless, a thrashing, screaming dead weight. “Leo, please, luk, get up! We have to go! Yùt ráwn hai (Stop crying)!”

Kongpob was failing. Publicly. The “Chef Kong” who had charmed a nation with his quiet strength was just a man, brought to his knees by a screaming toddler. A flicker of cold, cruel schadenfreude sparked in Thomas’s chest. See? Not so easy, is it? Raising him all alone.

Then, his gaze sharpened. He saw Kongpob’s hands tremble as he tried to wipe Leo’s face. The man was visibly shaking. He looked… helpless. A Beta, completely unequipped to handle a public tantrum, unable to project the kind of calming, dominant aura an Alpha—or even a bonded Omega—could use. A wave of unwelcome, bitter pity washed over Thomas. It was a pathetic sight.

“Please, my little lion, please be quiet…” Kongpob begged, the endearment a desperate, tear-choked whisper. “Papa will buy you anything… just ngîiap (be quiet)…”

Thomas’s blood turned to ice.

My little lion.

The world dissolved. The screaming fans, the bright lights, the smell of chicken—it all vanished, sucked into the vortex of a single, searing memory.

The lumpy mattress in their tiny, stifling apartment. Rain lashing against the thin windowpanes. Kongpob was curled against his chest, pouting, his fragile confidence shattered after another casting director had sneered at him for being "too pretty, too feminine".

“I’ll never make it, P’Thomas,” Kongpob had whispered, his voice thick with unshed tears. “I’m not strong enough. I’m just… I’m not like you.”

Thomas had held him tighter, his heart aching with a fierce, protective love. He’d nudged his chin, forcing the boy to look at him.

“Don’t you ever say that,” *Thomas had growled, his voice a low, loving rumble. “You are the strongest person I know. You just… you hide it. You’re like a sĭng-toh nóy (little lion). You look all soft and quiet, but inside, you have the heart of a king.”

*Kongpob had blushed, a beautiful, shy crimson. “I’m not a lion… I’m just… your maew (kitten)…”

“No,” *Thomas had insisted, kissing his forehead. “You’re my fierce, beautiful, little lion. Sĭng-toh nóy khxng phom (My little lion). And I will protect you from all the măa jâawk (jackals) in this city. I promise.”

The memory crashed back into the present with the force of a physical blow. Thomas stared at the man on the floor, his heart a cold, heavy stone of bitterness in his chest.

He took our name. He took our private, sacred promise, and he gave it to his child. The child he made with someone else. The child he chose over me.

The bitterness was so profound, so acidic, it nearly made him gag.

And then, the impossible happened.

The child, Leo, in the midst of his rage, suddenly broke free from Kongpob’s grasp. He scrambled to his feet, his small face a mess of tears and misery. He looked around, disoriented, his gaze sweeping past his panicked father.

His eyes landed on Thomas.

He saw the man on the stage. The man from the giant poster. The man who smelled, on a primal, cellular level, like safety. Like home. Like the other, missing half of his own dominant Alpha genetics.

Leo stopped crying. He sniffled, his lower lip trembling. And then, with a small, determined grunt, he ran.

He didn't run to the chicken. He didn't run back to his father. He ran straight through the gap in the velvet ropes, past a stunned security guard, and launched himself directly at Thomas’s legs, wrapping his small, chubby arms around the Alpha’s tailored trousers.

He looked up, his big, dark, tear-filled eyes—Kongpob’s eyes —staring directly into Thomas’s soul.

“ʔûm!” (Carry me!) Leo demanded, his voice a small, hiccupping, utterly undeniable command.

The entire restaurant fell silent. The music stopped. The fans gasped, phones held aloft, a hundred cameras capturing the scene.

Kongpob was frozen, his hand outstretched, his visible eyes wide with pure, undiluted horror. “Leo! Klâp maa níi! (Come back here!) Yàa rbp-kuan kháw! (Don’t bother him!)”

Thomas was trapped. He was the Ice Prince. He was on camera. And his nemesis’s child was clinging to his leg, demanding to be held.

A slow, cold, lethally charming smile spread across Thomas’s face. It was his media smile, the one that made nations swoon, but it was aimed like a weapon at Kongpob. He reached down, his movements fluid and graceful, and effortlessly scooped the small, warm, trembling child into his arms.

The moment Leo’s body made contact with Thomas’s chest, the most profound, biological click echoed in the child’s soul. The tantrum vanished. The fear evaporated. He was safe. He let out a long, shuddering sigh and buried his face in the warm, expensive fabric of Thomas’s shirt, his small hand clutching a fistful of the black silk. He was instantly, perfectly calm.

The crowd erupted. “AWWWW! Nâa-rák jang! (So cute!)” “He’s so good with kids!” “Look, the baby stopped crying!”

Thomas held the child, his own body rigid with shock. The small, warm weight in his arms felt… it felt right. It was a terrifying, treacherous, biological betrayal. The child smelled faintly of milk, of baby powder, and... underneath it all… of jasmine and rain.

He smells like Kongpob.

Kongpob rushed forward, his panic overriding his disguise. He stumbled to a stop in front of the stage, his face pale, his eyes screaming a desperate plea from behind his sunglasses.

“Khun Thomas… khx-thôt khrâp (I’m sorry). Please… khx-thôt… he’s… he’s never done this. Please, hâi phom (give him to me). Leo! Come to Papa!”

He reached for his son.

Leo just burrowed deeper into Thomas’s chest, his small hand gripping the Alpha’s shirt tighter. “Mai pâi!” (Not going!) he mumbled, his voice sleepy. “ʔyùu nîi.” (Stay here.)

Kongpob’s arms froze in mid-air. He was being rejected. His son—his entire world—was rejecting him for the one man he was terrified of. The public humiliation was a fresh, hot slap in the face.

Thomas looked down at the child clinging to him, then at the desperate, broken man at his feet. A cold, magnificent, and utterly cruel idea formed in his mind. He would not cause a scene. He would control the scene.

“P’Fon!” he called out, his voice calm and commanding.

His manager, P’Fon, was instantly at his side. She was a sharp, impeccably dressed woman who had been with him since his first big break. Her eyes darted to Kongpob, and a flicker of pure, unadulterated shock crossed her features.

“Nong Kongpob?” she breathed, her professionalism faltering for a split second. She remembered this boy—the shy, beautiful Beta trainee who had been Thomas's shadow, the one who had disappeared and nearly broken him. “Pen bpai dâi yang-ngai (How is this possible)? You…”

“Take him to my dressing room,” Thomas ordered, cutting her off. His voice was low, for her ears only. “Take both of them. Now.”

To the crowd, he raised his voice, his media smile firmly back in place, his hand gently stroking Leo's back. The child was purring, a low, contented rumble vibrating against his chest.

“Khàawp-khun khrâp (Thank you all). It seems I have a new assistant,” he joked, and the crowd laughed. “I apologize, but I must take care of this little jâo nŭu (little mouse). He seems to have mistaken me for his phâaw (father).”

The jab was deliberate, a poisoned dart aimed directly at Kongpob’s heart. Kongpob flinched as if he’d been physically struck.

“P’Fon,” Thomas continued, “Please make sure our security team escorts my... guests... privately. And please remind our friends in the press that this is a child. His face is not to be shown. We protect children, nâ khráp (right)?”

“Of course, Khun Thomas,” P'Fon said, her face a mask of efficiency. She turned to her team. “NO PHOTOS OF THE CHILD’S FACE! Châwy kan nàwy (Cooperate, please)! Block the cameras!”

Security moved in, forming a human wall. P'Fon put a firm, guiding hand on Kongpob’s trembling back. “This way, Nong Kongpob. Please. Quickly.”

Kongpob was defeated. He couldn't fight. His son was in the arms of his Alpha, and he was being herded like a lamb by the man’s staff. He lowered his head, the brim of his cap hiding his face, and allowed himself to be pushed through the back entrance of the restaurant, following the impossible, terrifying tableau of the Ice Prince of Thailand, his greatest enemy, his only love, walking away with his child.

The dressing room was a cold, windowless box backstage, smelling of stale air conditioning, half-eaten catering, and Thomas's sharp, expensive cologne. The door clicked shut, sealing them in an aggressive, suffocating silence.

Kongpob stood in the corner, his back pressed against the wall, his mask and sunglasses clutched in his white-knuckled fist. He was shaking, his entire body vibrating with a terror so profound it was almost silent.

Thomas didn’t speak. He walked slowly to the small, worn-out sofa, and sat. He did not try to put Leo down. The child was now fast asleep, his small chest rising and falling in a rhythm of perfect, trusting peace, his fist still clutching Thomas’s shirt.

This was the first time Thomas had been truly close to the boy. He allowed himself to look.

The child was beautiful. He had Kongpob’s delicate, dark eyelashes, his pale skin, his bow-shaped mouth. But the set of his small, stubborn jaw… the shape of his nose… the fierce, determined line of his eyebrows, even in sleep…

A cold, impossible, treacherous thought flickered in Thomas's mind. He looks…

He crushed the thought. It was impossible. A Beta and an Alpha couldn't. This was Kongpob's child with her. The Beta woman who had stolen his "little lion."

Thomas slowly, almost reverently, stroked the boy's soft, dark hair. The weight in his arms felt ancient, familiar. It felt like his. This small, warm, breathing creature was the physical manifestation of Kongpob’s betrayal, and yet, holding him felt like the only real, true thing Thomas had done in five years. The conflict was tearing him apart.

The silence stretched, thick and agonizing, broken only by Leo's soft, sleeping breaths.

Finally, Kongpob’s voice, small and brittle, shattered the quiet.

“P’Thomas… khx-thôt (I’m sorry). I am so, so sorry for the rûeang wûn-waai (trouble). He… he’s never done that. I don’t know what… Please… hâi phom (give him to me). I’ll take him home. We won’t bother you again.”

He took a half-step forward, his arms outstretched, his eyes pleading.

Thomas didn't look at him. His gaze remained fixed on the sleeping child’s face. His large hand, splayed protectively across Leo’s small back, was an unconscious gesture of pure, Alpha possession.

“He’s comfortable with me,” Thomas stated, his voice flat, dangerously quiet. “A complete stranger. He ran to me, Kongpob. Not to you.”

Kongpob flinched, the cruelty of the observation landing like a physical blow. He wrapped his arms around his own waist, a gesture of self-protection. “I… I don’t know why. He was just… tired. He didn’t mean it.”

“Didn’t he?” Thomas’s voice was laced with a cold, sharp irony. He finally, slowly, lifted his head.

His eyes met Kongpob’s.

The Ice Prince was gone. The media mask was gone. The anger from the restaurant was gone. All that remained was the man from the rainy apartment , the man who had been left on his knees, his heart ripped from his chest. His eyes were not cold; they were black, bottomless, and shining with a profound, tragic, and unbearable pain that mirrored Kongpob’s own.

He looked at Kongpob, truly looked at him, seeing the new lines of maturity, the exhaustion around his beautiful eyes, the haunted look of a man who had been running for half a decade.

Thomas took a slow, deep, shuddering breath. His voice, when it came, was not a command, not an accusation. It was a whisper, a heavy, devastating question that seemed to suck all the air from the small, cold room, a question that held the weight of five years of agonizing, unanswered silence.

“For five years… while you were building this… this new life… while you were teaching him my nicknames… did you ever, even for a single, quiet moment in that country… ever think of me?”

Chapter Text

เสียงกระซิบนั้นแหลมคมดั่งหนาม แทงทะลุหน้ากากที่สวมใส่ อดีตที่ฝังกลบ กลับถูกขุดคุ้ยขึ้นมาใหม่ ในที่แจ้ง ท่ามกลางสายตาผู้คน สิงโตน้อยหลงทาง ร้องหาอ้อมกอดที่คุ้นเคย ไม่รู้เลยว่าอ้อมกอดนั้น คือจุดเริ่มต้นของพายุ โชคชะตาช่างโหดร้าย สานใยให้เราพบกัน ในวันที่หัวใจ...อ่อนแอที่สุด

The question hung in the cold, sterile air of the dressing room, a physical, heavy thing. It was not a question; it was a vivisection.

“For five years… while you were building this… this new life… while you were teaching him my nicknames… did you ever, even for a single, quiet moment in that country… ever think of me?”

ก้องภพ (Kongpob)’s breath, which he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, left him in a silent, agonizing rush. The world, which had already tilted and shattered at the restaurant, now simply dissolved. There was no floor. There was no wall. There was only โทมัส (Thomas), his eyes black, bottomless, and shining with a pain so profound, so ancient, it mirrored the vast, hollowed-out cavern in Kongpob’s own chest.

He had prepared for anger. He had spent five years rehearsing his defense against the "Ice Prince", against the cold, righteous fury of the man he had betrayed. He had expected to be yelled at, to be cursed, to be dismissed as the greedy, heartless creature he had pretended to be.

He had not, in all his nightmares, prepared for this.

He had not prepared for the pain.

He had not prepared for the man who was supposed to be a "King of Ashes" to look at him with the same raw, bleeding vulnerability of the boy he had left on his knees in the rain.

The scent in the room was suffocating. It was Thomas, but magnified, concentrated. It was the sharp, sterile scent of his expensive cologne, a scent Kongpob had smelled on the street, on billboards, a scent that signified the stranger he had become. But underneath that, buried deep, was the scent that was imprinted on his very DNA, the scent that had, five years ago, acted as the key to his biology—woodsmoke, ozone, and that unique, possessive, Alpha musk that was just Thomas.

It was the scent of the battering ram.

And Kongpob’s fortress, breached at the restaurant, was now crumbling. The biological self-preservation that Dr. Somsak had spoken of, the "dormant" state, was failing. He could feel it. He could feel a deep, internal, and utterly treacherous warmth spreading through his lower belly, a liquid heat that was both agonizingly familiar and terrifyingly new. It was the feeling of his body, his Omega body, recognizing its bonded Alpha, its mate.

He was slicking. Not enough for Thomas to smell—he was a Beta in Thomas's eyes, his own scent still mercifully muted, smelling of nothing but his faint, clean jasmine-and-rain and the sharp, metallic tang of his terror. But he could feel it. The dampness in his trousers, the sudden, pulling need in his core, the desperate, humiliating, instinctual urge to close the distance, to drop to his knees, to bury his face in that broad chest and just… confess.

I think of you every second. I have never stopped thinking of you. This child, this child in your arms, he is the living, breathing proof that I have never, for one moment, belonged to anyone else.

The words died on his tongue, a silent, bloody scream. To say them was to destroy the one thing he had left. His sacrifice. To say them was to detonate the bomb he had given his entire life to defuse.

He stared at Thomas, his own eyes naked, haunted, and pleading from behind the mask of "Chef Kong." He was trembling, his body vibrating with the force of his suppressed biology and his profound, soul-deep grief. He wrapped his arms around his own waist, a desperate attempt to hold himself together.

He opened his mouth. A lie. He would find a lie. I… I did. Sometimes. A polite, distant, cruel lie.

But before the sound could form, a small, sleepy whimper broke the agonizing tension.

“Pà-pá…”

ลีโอ (Leo) stirred in Thomas's arms, his small face nuzzling against the black silk of Thomas’s shirt, his eyes still closed. He was dreaming, or half-awake, his body instinctively seeking comfort.

“Nom… jà ao nom…” (Milk… want milk…)

The small, mumbled request for milk was a gunshot in the silent room.

For Kongpob, it was salvation. It was a lifeline thrown to a drowning man. The question, Thomas’s devastating, unanswerable question, was sucked away, replaced by the immediate, primal, and grounding demands of fatherhood.

“Leo…” Kongpob breathed, his voice a raw, broken thing. He lunged, not for Thomas, but for the stroller that P'Fon’s assistants had summarily wheeled into the room after them. His hands, clumsy and shaking, tore at the zipper of the black canvas baby bag. He was a man possessed, his movements frantic.

The journal. The baby wipes. The dinosaur toys. Where was it? Where?

His fingers closed around the cool, hard plastic of the insulated tumbler. He ripped it out, his knuckles white.

Thomas watched this frantic display, his expression unreadable. The profound pain in his eyes had been shuttered, the "Ice Prince" mask sliding back into place. The moment of vulnerability was over, stolen by the very child who was the living proof of the betrayal.

A fresh, cold wave of bitterness washed over him. Even now, Kongpob was hiding behind the child.

“He needs his milk,” Kongpob stated, the words clipped, impersonal. He fumbled with the lid, his hands shaking so violently he almost dropped it. He was trying to regain control, to re-establish his role. I am the father. You are the stranger.

He took a step forward, his arms automatically reaching out. “Khx Leo khuen… I need to…”

Thomas didn't move. He didn't look at Kongpob. He looked down at the child in his arms, who was now beginning to fuss, his small mouth rooting against Thomas’s chest, searching for the comfort he’d requested.

“He’s fine where he is,” Thomas said, his voice a low, cold rumble that vibrated through the small room.

He shifted, not to give the child over, but to settle Leo more securely against his own body. He rose from the sofa, a single, fluid, powerful motion. He was a "lethal, powerful weapon," a king on his throne, and Kongpob was just a subject in his court.

He walked past Kongpob, his shoulder brushing his, and Kongpob flinched as if he’d been burned. The sheer proximity, the wave of those pheromones, was an assault. He could feel the heat radiating from Thomas’s body, and his own treacherous Omega biology leaned into it, a flower seeking a sun that would incinerate it.

Thomas sat back down on the small, worn-out sofa, the sleeping child cradled against his chest as if he’d been holding him his entire life. He looked at Kongpob, his eyes cold, his hand resting possessively on Leo’s back. “The milk.”

It was not a request. It was an order.

Kongpob stared, his mind reeling from the humiliation. He was being ordered. He was being forced to participate in this… this grotesque parody of a family. He was being forced to serve the man he’d run from, as that man cradled the son he’d kept secret.

His hands were shaking, but he did as he was told. He was powerless. He walked over and handed the blue, dinosaur-covered tumbler to Thomas.

Their fingers brushed.

Kongpob recoiled, snatching his hand back as if he’d touched a live wire. The brief contact was a jolt of pure, high-voltage energy that shot straight from his fingers to his core, where that insidious, traitorous warmth was pooling.

Thomas’s face didn't flicker, but his eyes, those "agonized, black" pits, narrowed. He had felt it. Not the slick, not the scent—but the fear. He had felt the electric, terrified flinch.

He’s terrified of me. Good.

With a gentleness that was a stark, brutal contrast to the coldness in his eyes, Thomas brought the tumbler to Leo’s mouth. “Here, jâo nùu. Drink.”

Leo, still half-asleep, latched onto the silicone straw. His small body, which had been tense with his fading tantrum, went completely boneless, melting into the solid, warm wall of Thomas’s chest. He sighed, a sound of pure, unadulterated contentment, and began to drink the warm milk, his eyes fluttering shut.

Thomas held him, his large hand stroking the boy’s back in a slow, hypnotic rhythm.

He had not held another living being with this tenderness in five years. He had not wanted to. His encounters were transactional, cold, and empty, designed to reinforce the walls of his ice palace.

But this… this was different.

This child, this evidence of Kongpob’s new life, was not cold. He was a small, radiating furnace. The warmth was seeping through the silk of his shirt, through his own cold skin, and deep into his hollowed-out chest. It was a confusing, treacherous, and utterly addictive sensation.

He looked down at the child. He was beautiful. He had Kongpob’s eyelashes, long and dark against his pale skin. He had Kongpob’s perfect, bow-shaped mouth, now slack with sleep. But the stubborn set of his jaw, the fierce line of his brows even in rest… that was not Kongpob.

That was…

Thomas’s gaze drifted to the cheap, laminate wall of the dressing room, his mind racing. He looks… He crushed the thought, as he had in the restaurant. It was impossible. A trick of the light. A desperate, grieving mind seeing ghosts where there were none. This was her child. The child of the Beta woman who had given Kongpob the "richer life" he craved.

And yet… the child had run to him. A complete stranger. He had chosen him over his own father. He had calmed instantly in his arms.

A cold, analytical part of his mind, the part that had built an empire, began to calculate.

“How old is he?” Thomas’s voice cut the silence, sharp and sudden.

Kongpob, who had been standing frozen in the corner, a spectator at his own life, jumped. “Khráp?”

“Your son,” Thomas clarified, his voice laced with a new, sharp impatience. “Leo. How old is him?”

Kongpob’s blood ran cold. This was the question. The one he had dreaded. The one that required a date. A timeline.

“He’s… four,” he whispered, the lie feeling thick and clumsy on his tongue. “He just turned four. Last month.”

Thomas’s eyes snapped to his. The coldness was back, but it was no longer just pain. It was a bright, sharp, glittering rage.

Four.

He did the math. His mind was a steel trap. He had left five years ago. Five years. A child who was four…

The timeline was a brutal, cold, mathematical slap.

“Four,” Thomas repeated, his voice dangerously soft. “We broke up five years ago.”

Kongpob said nothing. He could only stare, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

“Five years,” Thomas continued, his voice dropping into a sneer. “And you have a four-year-old child. You didn’t waste any time, did you, Kongpob?”

The accusation landed, a physical, stinging blow.

“You must have found your ‘richer life’ the moment you stepped off the plane,” Thomas spat, his gaze raking over Kongpob’s simple, oatmeal-colored linen shirt, his pale, exhausted face. “You replaced me in… what? A month? Two? Was she already waiting for you in London? Was that the plan all along?”

“No…” Kongpob whispered, the word a desperate, breathless plea. “It wasn’t… it wasn’t like that…”

“Wasn’t it?” Thomas’s voice was a whip. “You stood in our apartment, the one I was about to get us out of, and you told me you were tired of being poor. Tired of struggling.”

He gestured around the small, windowless, backstage dressing room. He looked at Kongpob’s clothes—simple, elegant, but not the flashy armor of the nouveau riche. He looked at his haunted, terrified eyes.

“You left me for a better life,” Thomas said, his voice dropping, the rage giving way to a cold, profound, and devastating confusion. “But you’re standing here, looking like a ghost. You look… you look like you haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in five years. You’re dragged to a TV studio to cry on command, and your son throws himself at strangers in a shopping mall because you can’t control him.”

He leaned forward, the full, crushing weight of his Alpha presence pinning Kongpob to the wall. The Ice Prince was gone, and the betrayed, heartbroken man was back, his eyes burning with a desperate, agonizing need to understand.

“Tell me, Kongpob,” he whispered, his voice raw. “This life you have… this ‘Chef Kong’ with his sad eyes… is this really the rich, successful life you left me for? Because from where I’m sitting… it looks just as broken as the one you ran away from.”

Kongpob couldn't breathe. He couldn't speak. He just shook his head, a small, jerky, negative motion. Tears were welling, hot and fast, blurring the terrifying, beautiful face of the man he had never stopped loving.

He couldn't defend himself. Every word of truth was a confession. Every lie was another twist of the knife in his own heart. He was trapped. Utterly, completely, and finally trapped.

He was saved by a sharp, professional rap on the door.

The sound made both men flinch. Thomas’s head snapped toward the door, his expression instantly hardening, the mask of the Ice Prince falling back into place.

“Khun Thomas?” P'Fon’s voice called through the wood, crisp and efficient. “The event is concluded. The car is at the private exit.”

The bubble, this small, agonizing, intimate pocket of hell, burst. The real world came rushing back in.

Kongpob moved, his body acting on pure, desperate instinct. He scrubbed the tears from his face with the back of his hand and lunged for the sofa. “Khx Leo khuen… I’ll take him. We’ll go. I’m… khx-thôt… I’m so sorry for the rûeang wûn-waai…”

He reached for his son.

Thomas simply stood up.

He didn't hand Leo over. He just rose, using his height and his sheer physical presence to block Kongpob, his body a solid, immovable wall. Leo, still fast asleep, was settled securely in the crook of his left arm, his small head tucked perfectly under Thomas’s chin.

“P’Fon,” Thomas called to the door, his voice the calm, commanding baritone of the superstar. “Open it. Tell the team to clear the path. No one follows us.”

“Khráp, Khun Thomas!”

The door opened. P'Fon stood there, her face a mask of polite efficiency, but her eyes—her sharp, intelligent eyes—darted from Thomas, who was holding the child with a shocking, paternal ease, to Kongpob, who stood frozen, his arms empty, his face pale and tear-streaked. She saw it all. And her blood ran cold.

“This way, Khun Thomas.”

“Wait!” Kongpob cried, his voice a panicked whisper. “P’Thomas, please! He’s my son! You can’t… just… give him to me!”

Thomas turned, his back to the open door. He looked at Kongpob, his expression utterly devoid of emotion. It was the face of a god carved from glacial ice. “He’s asleep. You’re a mess. You’re shaking so hard you’ll drop him. I’ll carry him.”

He didn't wait for a reply. He signaled to one of his assistants, a young man who was hovering nervously in the hallway. The assistant rushed forward, holding a black, designer suit jacket.

Thomas nodded. “Cover him. The flashes are bright in the garage.”

The assistant, his hands trembling, gently draped the jacket over the sleeping child, creating a dark, protective cocoon. It was a practical, thoughtful gesture.

It was also, on a primal, pheromonal level, a devastating act of possession.

Thomas was shielding the child. He was covering him with his own scent. He was claiming him.

“I’ll take him home,” Thomas stated. It was not an offer.

“No!” Kongpob’s panic was rising, his voice cracking. “No, you can’t! We’re… we’re fine! I can get a taxi! Please, P’Thomas, don’t do this…”

“Do what, Kongpob?” Thomas’s voice was lethally soft. “Ensure the child who ran to me for protection gets home safely? Or are you afraid I’ll see the ‘palace’ you live in?”

He turned his back, a deliberate, final, and devastating gesture of dismissal. “My car is this way. You can either follow, or you can explain to your son why you let a stranger carry him away. Your choice.”

He stalked out of the room, his long, powerful strides eating up the corridor. He was an Alpha, in his territory, with a child in his arms, and there was nothing in the world that was going to stop him.

Kongpob stood frozen for a single, agonizing second. He was trapped. He was being kidnapped. His son was being kidnapped. But he was also being… rescued? The conflict was a dizzying, nauseating vortex.

“Nong Kongpob,” P'Fon said, her voice soft, but firm. “Please. This way. It is better not to make a scene.”

He had no choice. Humiliated, terrified, and utterly defeated, Kongpob Jirojmontri followed the ghost of his past, who was carrying the secret of his future, down the cold, private hallway.

The ride in the private elevator was a suffocating, silent hell. Kongpob was pressed into the back corner, as far from Thomas as he could get. Thomas stood near the front, his back to him, a solid, unmoving wall of black silk, his gaze fixed on the numbers as they descended. He held Leo the entire time, his hand gently, almost unconsciously, rubbing the boy’s back through the jacket.

The private parking garage was dim and cool. A gleaming, black Mercedes S-Class was waiting, the engine purring. A driver stood at attention. P'Fon and the assistants handled the bags, including Kongpob's abandoned stroller, which they folded and placed in the trunk with a grim, silent efficiency.

The driver opened the rear passenger door. Thomas ducked in, sliding across the plush leather seat, Leo still held securely to his chest.

He looked up at Kongpob, who was hovering on the concrete, his face a mask of indecision and terror.

“Get in,” Thomas ordered, his voice flat.

Kongpob’s entire being screamed No. To get in that car was to surrender. It was to be trapped, confined in a small, enclosed space with the one man Dr. Somsak had warned him against, the man who was a "battering ram" to his biology.

But Leo was in there. His son.

He got in the car.

The door shut with a heavy, expensive thud, sealing them in. The silence was immediate, absolute, and deafening.

Kongpob pressed himself against the opposite door, his entire body rigid, his hands clenched in his lap. He was a million miles away, separated by a vast, leather-upholstered canyon.

But the scent.

In the confined space of the luxury car, it was overwhelming. It was no longer just a hint; it was the entire atmosphere. It was Thomas. And Kongpob’s body, his treacherous, secret Omega body, reacted.

The heat that had started in the dressing room intensified, a low, coiling burn deep inside him. The slickness was no longer a vague dampness; it was a humiliating, undeniable wetness. He squeezed his thighs together, a desperate, futile attempt to control it, praying, praying that Thomas, with his classic, powerful Alpha senses, couldn't smell it.

He was safe. He was a Beta to Thomas. Thomas believed he was a Beta. He wouldn't be looking for the scent of an Omega in heat. He wouldn't recognize it.

But he could. And it was torture. His body was yearning, pulling him across the seat, begging him to submit, to present, to finally, finally stop fighting the bond that had been screaming in his blood for five agonizing years.

He stared out the window, his breath fogging the glass, as the car pulled smoothly out of the garage and into the bright, chaotic glare of the Bangkok streets.

They drove in that deafening, agonizing silence for several minutes. Kongpob was vibrating, his anxiety a high-pitched scream just beneath his skin.

“Where?”

Thomas’s voice, so close, made him jump violently.

He turned. Thomas was looking at him, his face impassive in the dim light of the car. “Your address. Where are we going?”

“Oh. I… I’m staying with my parents. In Thonburi,” Kongpob stammered, his voice barely a whisper. He gave the driver the address to his family’s home, the one place he had thought was his sanctuary, the fortress he had just, stupidly, led the enemy to.

Thomas just nodded, a single, curt gesture. He turned his gaze back to the window, his hand still stroking the sleeping child’s back.

When the car finally pulled up to the high, bougainvillea-covered gates of his parents' home, Kongpob nearly wept with relief.

The car stopped. The engine idled.

“We’re here,” Kongpob said, his voice trembling. He reached for the door handle. “Khx-thôt… and khàawp-khun… for the ride. I’ll… I’ll take him now.”

He reached across the divide, his arms outstretched for his son.

Thomas looked at him. He looked at the sleeping child. He looked at the high, imposing, secure gates. And he made his decision.

He didn't hand Leo over.

He opened his own door and got out of the car, Leo still held securely in his arms.

“P’Thomas!” Kongpob scrambled out of the car, his panic returning full force. “What are you doing? Please! My parents… they’ll…”

“They’ll what?” Thomas said, his voice cold. “Be happy to see their son? Or are they not part of the ‘richer life’ either?”

He walked past Kongpob, toward the gate, as if he owned the place. “Open it. I’m not handing a sleeping child over in the street. I’ll put him to bed.”

“You can’t come in!” Kongpob pleaded, his voice high and thin. He ran in front of Thomas, blocking his path, his hands held up in a desperate, warding-off gesture.

Thomas stopped, looming over him. He was so much taller, so much broader than he had been five years ago. He was a "lethal weapon", a king, and Kongpob was just… a lost boy.

“Get out of my way, Kongpob,” Thomas said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl.

“No! Please! This is… this is my home! You can’t…”

“He’s heavy,” Thomas said, his voice cutting through Kongpob’s panic. “And he’s my jacket. Are you going to make me stand out here all night, or are you going to let me put your son down?”

Kongpob stared at him, his will crumbling. He was being checkmated at every turn. Thomas was using his son, his own son, as a key to unlock his fortress.

Defeated, his shoulders slumped. He turned and fumbled with the keypad, his fingers trembling so badly it took him three tries to enter the code. The heavy teak gate slid open with a soft, electronic whine.

He led Thomas through the garden, his "sanctuary," which now felt violated, exposed. He slid open the glass door to the main house. His parents were out, thank god, at a dinner with his aunts. The house was dark, quiet.

“This way,” Kongpob whispered, his voice a dead, hollow thing. “The guest room is… it’s my room, when I’m here. It’s just down the hall.”

He led the way, his back rigid. He could feel Thomas’s presence behind him, a heavy, dark, silent shadow that filled the entire house.

He pushed open the door to his room. It was simple, clean, smelling of his mother’s jasmine-scented fabric softener. A king-sized bed dominated the center.

Kongpob turned on the dim, bedside lamp. He pulled back the duvet. “Here. You can… you can put him here.”

Thomas walked past him. He didn't just dump Leo. He moved with a surprising, shocking, paternal grace. He bent low over the bed, his broad shoulders shielding the child, and gently, gently, lowered Leo onto the pillows.

He was so careful. He uncurled Leo’s small, starfish hands from his shirt. He slowly, centimeter by centimeter, slid his arm out from under the boy’s warm, heavy head. He tucked the duvet around Leo’s shoulders, his large, calloused hands moving with a tenderness that was a profound, physical ache in Kongpob's chest.

Leo sighed in his sleep, his small mouth parting, and burrowed deeper into the pillow, never stirring.

Thomas stood there for a long moment, just looking down at the child. His face, in the soft, warm glow of the lamp, was unguarded. The "Ice Prince" was gone. The "King of Ashes" was gone.

There was only a man, haunted and hollow, staring at a child who felt, terrifyingly, like his.

Kongpob’s heart was breaking all over again. Oh, Thomas… if you only knew…

Finally, Thomas straightened up. He turned, the mask of cold indifference sliding back into place.

He looked at Kongpob, who was standing by the door, clutching his own arms, a refugee in his own bedroom.

Thomas didn't speak. He just let his gaze drift around the room, taking it in. It was a simple room. A stack of cookbooks. A framed photo of his parents. A…

His gaze stopped. It snagged on the bedside table, on the other side of the bed.

He took a step closer.

Kongpob’s heart stopped. No. Oh, no. Not that.

On the table, placed neatly next to the lamp, was a worn, leather-bound journal. It was dark green, the corners scuffed, the leather soft with age and use.

Thomas knew that journal.

His blood turned to fire.

He had bought it at a small, dusty shop in Chatuchak Market, in the before-time. He’d spent money he didn’t have. He’d given it to Kongpob, a silly, romantic, hopeful gift. “You have to write them down,” he’d insisted, kissing Kongpob’s flour-dusted cheek. “All of them. All your secret recipes. Especially the kài phàt khing. The one you only make for me. Write it down, so when we have our palace, our big, shiny kitchen, you can make it for me every night.”

He reached out, his hand, the one that had just so gently tucked in a child, trembling slightly. His fingers brushed the worn leather.

He looked at Kongpob.

The confusion, the rage, the profound, agonizing pain of the last five years, all of it crashed together in his eyes, creating a storm of pure, devastating conflict.

“You kept it,” he whispered, his voice a raw, broken accusation.

“You told me you were tired of being poor. You told me you wanted a richer life. You ran away, you found another man, you had his child…”

He gripped the journal, his knuckles white.

“So why,” he demanded, his voice cracking, the carefully constructed walls of his ice palace shattering into a million pieces, “why, after all that, did you keep the one thing I gave you… to write down the recipes you were only supposed to cook for me?”

📖 Thai-English Dictionary

• Nom (นม): Milk

• Jà ao nom (จะเอานม): (I) want milk

• Khx Leo khuen (ขอเลโอคืน): (I) ask for Leo back / Give me Leo back

• P'Thomas (พี่โตมัส): "P'" is an honorific for an older person (brother/sister/senior). Kongpob uses this from their past.

• Khun Thomas (คุณโตมัส): "Khun" is the formal, polite "Mr./Ms." Used by P'Fon.

• Krab/Khráp (ครับ): Polite male particle, added to the end of sentences.

• Luk (ลูก): Child

• Jâo châai (เจ้าชาย): Prince

• Mâi pâi (ไม่ไป): (I'm) not going!

• Rûeang wûn-waai (เรื่องวุ่นวาย): Trouble, chaos, a complicated situation.

• Hâi phom (ให้ผม): Give (him) to me.

• Jâo nùu (เจ้าหนู): "Little mouse," an affectionate term for a small child.

• Khráp? (ครับ?): "Yes?" or "What?" (polite).

• Khx-thôt (ขอโทษ): Sorry / I apologize.

• Khàawp-khun (ขอบคุณ): Thank you.

Chapter Text

The question was a brand, hissing against the raw, exposed nerve of Kongpob's soul.

“So why,” Thomas demanded, his voice a raw, broken whisper that was somehow louder than any scream, “why, after all that, did you keep the one thing I gave you… to write down the recipes you were only supposed to cook for me?”

Kongpob's world, which had been fracturing all day, finally shattered. The glass, the steel, the carefully mortared bricks of his five-year fortress of lies—it all pulverized to dust, leaving him naked, shivering, and impaled by the single, devastating piece of evidence he had been too weak, too sentimental, too in love to destroy.

He couldn't breathe. The air in his childhood bedroom was gone, sucked into the vacuum of Thomas’s agonizing, black-hole gaze. He saw the man he had left on his knees in the rain, the man whose heart he had ripped from his chest. But that man was gone, replaced by this king, this "Ice Prince," this god of cold, carved beauty, whose eyes were now, impossibly, shining with the same raw, unshed tears of the boy he’d abandoned.

The contradiction was a physical agony. He was supposed to be angry. He was supposed to be cold. He was not supposed to be in pain.

“I…” Kongpob started, his voice a dry, rasping croak. “P’Thomas, I… I just…”

What lie could he possibly tell? I forgot I had it? The journal was right there, on his bedside table, not in a dusty, forgotten box. It was a companion. It didn't mean anything? His trembling hands, his pale, tear-streaked face, was a testament to that lie.

He was trapped. The journal was the ultimate paradox, a relic of a past that directly contradicted the cruel, greedy narrative he had authored. It was the one, true thing in a room full of ghosts and deception.

He was about to say it. He was about to break. The pressure in his chest, the agonizing pull of his own biology that was slicking his thighs and screaming at him to submit, to confess, to finally end this five-year torture, was too much. He was going to tell him. I kept it because it’s all I have left of you…

“Kong? Luk? Are you in there? We saw the car… taai laew, did you leave the front gate open?”

The voice, warm, familiar, and utterly maternal, was a lifeline and a death sentence all at once.

Kongpob’s head snapped toward the door, his eyes wide with a new, sharper, more immediate panic. “Mae…” he breathed, the word a strangled plea.

Thomas flinched as if he’d been physically struck. The raw, profound pain in his eyes vanished, shuttered instantly, as if a steel door had slammed down. In the space of a single heartbeat, the "Ice Prince" was back, his face a mask of cold, unreadable, aristocratic indifference. He took one step back from the journal, his hand dropping to his side, his entire posture shifting from betrayed lover to polite, distant stranger.

The bedroom door pushed open. Mae Ornan stood in the doorway, a kind-faced woman with her son’s gentle eyes, her hands dusted with flour from the dinner preparations she had clearly just left.

She smiled, a warm, welcoming expression. “Oh, good, you’re home, luk. I was worried. I saw a very fancy car pull up, I didn't know who…”

Her gaze drifted past her son, who was frozen by the door, pale as a ghost. She saw the man standing in the center of the room, tall, broad, and radiating an aura of cold, breathtaking power. Her smile faltered, her eyes widening, her hand flying to her chest.

“Taai laew…” she breathed, the words a soft puff of pure shock. “Nong… Nong Thomas?”

Thomas, the superstar, the "Ice Prince" of Thailand, the man who graced every billboard and magazine cover, turned. The mask was flawless. He lowered his gaze respectfully, his hands coming together in a perfect, elegant wai, his bow deep and reverent.

“Sawatdii khráp, Mae Ornan,” his voice was a smooth, cold, beautiful baritone, utterly devoid of the raw, broken emotion that had filled the room only seconds before. “It has been a very long time. I apologize for the intrusion. Phom… I was just bringing Khun Kongpob home.”

He used the formal, distant Khun Kongpob. Not Nong Kong. The shift was a blade, neatly severing their past.

Mae Ornan was frozen for a beat, but her shock was quickly overridden by the deeply ingrained, powerful surge of Thai hospitality, and a genuine, uncomplicated affection.

“Nong Thomas!” she finally beamed, her entire face lighting up. She bustled into the room, wiping her floury hands on her apron. “Look at you! Aigoo, just look at you! A real superstar! In my house! You must stay for dinner!” she declared, her voice leaving no room for argument. “Your Por Sak is at the table, he will be so thrilled to see you! I’ve made gaeng jued and his favorite pla tod. There is more than enough!”

“Mae…” Kongpob finally found his voice. It was a weak, strangled protest. “P’… Khun Thomas is very busy. He… he can’t stay.”

Mae Ornan just waved a dismissive hand at her son. “Nonsense! Busy people must eat, too! You used to love my gaeng jued. You cannot refuse an old woman, Nong Thomas. It would be rude!”

Thomas was trapped. The Ice Prince was being strong-armed by a 60-year-old Thai mother. He looked at Kongpob, his eyes flat and cold, recognizing the silent plea to leave. Thomas’s decision was made: he would not grant Kongpob the relief.

A slow, devastatingly charming smile spread across his face. The Ice Prince melted, replaced by the perfect, respectful, adopted son.

“How could I possibly refuse, Mae Ornan?” he said, his voice like warm honey. “If you are sure it is not an intrusion. I… I have missed your cooking. It would be my honor.”

“Wonderful!” Mae Ornan clapped her hands. “Kong! Stop standing there like a statue! Go wash your hands! Nong Thomas, come, come! Let’s get you a plate before your Por eats everything!”

She looped her arm through Thomas’s, tugging the superstar—the King of Ashes—out of the bedroom as if he were still the skinny, ambitious teenager she remembered.

Kongpob was left alone in the hallway, the echo of their voices fading toward the dining room. He leaned his head against the wall, his eyes squeezing shut. He was a prisoner in his own home, forced to sit at a table of lies, with the one man who could expose every single one of them.

He walked, his legs feeling like lead, toward the warm light of the dining room.

Por Sak looked up as Mae Ornan led Thomas in, and his face split into a grin of pure, unadulterated shock and delight.

“Aof! No… taai laew… it’s Nong Thomas!” he boomed. He stood up, shaking Thomas's hand. “Ai’Thomas! Look at you! My goodness, you’re a giant now! And a superstar! Sawatdii khráp!”

“Sawatdii khráp, Por Sak,” Thomas replied, his smile respectful. “It is so good to see you.”

Kongpob slipped into the room, a shadow in the bright light.

“Kong, don’t just stand there!” Mae Ornan chided, gesturing to the empty chair.

The chair, of course, was directly across from Thomas.

Kongpob sat, his movements stiff. He kept his gaze fixed on his plate.

“I checked on Leo, Mae,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. “He’s… he’s fast asleep. He had a… a very long day.”

Mae Ornan began piling food onto Thomas’s plate. “Here, Nong Thomas, you must eat! Pla tod, you always loved this. And the gaeng jued. And this one, the phad phed…”

“Khàawp-khun khráp, Mae. You are spoiling me,” Thomas murmured, his performance of the humble, grateful guest flawless.

Por Sak settled back into his chair. “So, tell us, Thomas! How is it? Being a superstar?”

“Por Sak, you listen to too much gossip. My life is very boring. Just work.”

“You must focus on your career! You have worked so hard to get here,” Mae Ornan said approvingly. “We always knew you had it in you. That… fire.”

The word hung in the air. Fire. The word Kongpob had used on national television just that morning to describe what he lacked.

Kongpob’s stomach churned. His own internal heat was still simmering, a low, humiliating fire. He was sitting in a room with a dominant Alpha, his bonded Alpha, and his body was in a state of quiet, agonizing, pre-heat panic.

“We were so sad when you stopped visiting, you know,” Mae Ornan said, her expression turning nostalgic. “After our Kongpob left for England… poof. You vanished, too. It was like we lost two sons in one month.”

The air in the room crackled.

Kongpob had to say something. He forced a smile, a brittle, trembling thing. “Mae… I told you. We just got busy. P’Thomas became… P’Thomas, and I was… I was in the UK. We just… we lost touch. It’s normal, khráp.”

“Lost touch?” Thomas repeated, his voice quiet, dangerously smooth. He was looking at Kongpob, his gaze a physical weight. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

Kongpob’s blood turned to ice.

Mae Ornan quickly tried to smooth it over. “Well, of course, of course. You are both men now, with your own busy lives.”

Thomas turned his devastating, polite charm back on her, but his eyes were cold. He was not letting this go.

“It is I who should apologize, Mae Ornan,” he said, his voice laced with a subtle, tragic note of a man deeply wronged. “I was… surprised. I suppose I was hurt. I thought Nong Kong and I were… closer. I was very sad to hear he had… settled down. He never even mentioned he was getting married.”

The bomb detonated, silently, in the middle of the dining table.

Kongpob’s spoon clattered from his numb fingers, striking the ceramic plate with a sharp, piercing clack.

Por Sak looked confused. “Married? What? Who’s married?”

Mae Ornan’s eyes sharpened. She looked at Thomas, then at her son, who looked like he was about to faint. She knew. She didn't know the truth, but she knew her son was protecting a big secret, and this man was the source of it. She would protect his story, even if it was a lie.

She let out a light, tinkling laugh, a perfect, social performance. “Taai laew! Married!” she exclaimed, as if it were the most ridiculous idea in the world. “Goodness, no, Nong Thomas! What an idea!”

Thomas froze. His polite smile faltered. His eyes, fixed on her, were sharp, disbelieving. “…No?”

“Of course not!” Mae Ornan said, waving her hand dismissively. “Our Kongpob? Married? He’s too busy with his work. And with his son. He’s not married. He never was.”

The silence that followed this declaration was different. It was the silence of a catastrophic, tectonic shift.

Thomas was staring at her, his mind reeling. Not… married?

“But… the child,” Thomas managed, his voice no longer smooth, but tight, strained. “Leo. He’s… four.”

“Yes, he is,” Mae Ornan said, her voice full of a simple, sad, and perfectly rehearsed story. “Leo’s mother… she and Kongpob… well, it was not a grand love story, Nong Thomas. It was… a mistake, I suppose. A university thing. She left Leo with him, right after he was born. She… she’s not in the picture.”

“So it has just been Kongpob,” she finished. “Just him and his lukchai. From the very beginning. He has been a single father, all on his own, for four years.”

It all clicked.

Thomas’s world, his entire, carefully constructed, five-year-old reality—which was built on the single, foundational lie of Kongpob’s greed—imploded.

Not married. A single father. She left him.

He looked at Kongpob. He saw the man from the TV show this morning. It hadn’t been a performance. It had been a confession.

He hadn't run to a richer life. He had been running from this one, and in the process, had been burdened with a child. A child he was raising alone.

The towering, white-hot rage that had been his only companion for five years suddenly had no foundation. The motive was gone.

Kongpob hadn't left him for greed. He had left him… and had immediately fallen into a life that was a thousand times harder than the one they had shared.

The hate faltered, confused, replaced by a vast, cold, and agonizing void. And into that void, the one emotion he had ruthlessly suppressed… the longing… roared to the surface.

Kongpob wasn't taken. He wasn't married. He was a single father. He was haunted, and he was exhausted. And he was, Thomas realized with a jolt that was half-fury, half-desire, still the most beautiful, captivating man he had ever seen.

He hated him. But, god, he still wanted him.

After what felt like an eternity, Thomas finally made his excuses. “Mae, Por, I cannot thank you enough. But I have an early call time tomorrow. I must be going.”

“I’ll… I’ll walk you to your car, P’Thomas,” Kongpob said, his voice flat.

He followed Thomas out of the bright, warm house, back into the dark, quiet, jasmine-scented garden.

They reached the gate. The black Mercedes was waiting.

Thomas stopped, his body blocking Kongpob from the view of the driver. They were hidden in the deep shadows of the bougainvillea.

“He’s not married,” Thomas said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

Kongpob just looked at the ground. “I… no. I’m not.”

“You’re a single father.”

“…Yes.”

“She left you.”

“Yes.”

Thomas was silent for a long, agonizing moment. His scent—that pure, undiluted Alpha scent of woodsmoke and storms—washing over Kongpob.

“Your lie on the television this morning,” Thomas said, his voice soft. “About being too weak, too quiet. That was… very convincing.”

Kongpob flinched. “I… I don’t know what you mean.”

“And your story to your parents,” Thomas continued, ignoring him. “About a girl from university. Also very convincing. You’ve become a magnificent actor after all, Kongpob. All those years, practicing on me.”

“P’Thomas, please…” Kongpob’s voice broke.

“You lied to me for five years,” Thomas whispered, his voice raw. “You let me believe you were greedy. You let me build my entire life on that one, single, fucking lie.”

He took a step closer. Kongpob was trapped against the gate. Thomas raised his hand, and Kongpob flinched, his eyes squeezing shut.

Thomas froze, his hand hovering in the air.

“You’re afraid of me,” he stated, the realization a cold, sharp, and deeply unsatisfying victory.

Kongpob just trembled, his eyes still shut. “Please… just go.”

Thomas looked at him, at this beautiful, terrified, broken man. The hate was there. But the longing was stronger.

“This isn’t over,” Thomas said, his voice a low, quiet vow. “This…us… is not over. You are not ‘losing touch’ with me again, Kongpob.”

He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of Kongpob’s ear, a shockingly intimate, possessive gesture that made Kongpob’s entire body light up with a forbidden, biological fire.

“I’ll see you soon,” he whispered.

And then he was gone.

He turned, got in the car, and didn't look back. The car pulled away, its red taillights disappearing into the dark Thonburi night.

Kongpob was left alone at the gate, his legs finally giving out. He slid down the cool, hard wood until he was sitting on the ground, his head in his hands, his entire body shaking with a violent, terrifying, and utterly agonizing combination of fear, and a small, treacherous, impossible flicker of hope.

It wasn't over. The King of Ashes had found his lost love, and he was already trying to rebuild his house over the stump of their past.

📖 Thai-English Dictionary

• Taai laew (ตายแล้ว): "Oh my god!" / "Goodness gracious!" (Literally: "I've died!")

• Nong (น้อง): Honorific for a younger person (brother/sister/junior). Mae Ornan uses this for Thomas, as she's known him since he was young.

• Sawatdii khráp (สวัสดีครับ): The formal male greeting ("Hello").

• Phom (ผม): "I/me" (formal, male).

• Khun (คุณ): Formal pronoun for "you," or "Mr./Ms."

• Mae (แม่): Mother.

• Por (พ่อ): Father.

• Kanom (ขนม): Snack/dessert.

• Pàak wăan (ปากหวาน): "Sweet mouth," a flatterer, someone who says sweet things.

• Oei (โอ๊ย): "Oh!" / "Ouch!" (an exclamation).

• Gaeng jued (แกงจืด): A mild, clear broth soup with vegetables and minced pork.

• Pla tod (ปลาทอด): Fried fish.

• Phad phed (ผัดเผ็ด): A spicy, dry-style curry stir-fry.

• Phrik nam plaa (พริกน้ำปลา): A classic condiment of fish sauce, chillies, lime, and garlic.

• Khráp (ครับ): Polite male particle.

• Lukchai (ลูกชาย): Son.

• Aigoo (ไอ้กู): A common exclamation of exasperation or fondness (Korean, but widely used in Thailand due to K-drama influence).

• Jâo nùu (เจ้าหนู): "Little mouse," affectionate term for a small child.

• Khàawp-khun khráp (ขอบคุณครับ): "Thank you" (polite, male).

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

แสงตะวันสาดส่องลอดม่านขาว ปลุกให้ตื่นจากฝันอันหวานฉ่ำ สองแขนโอบกอดร่างที่รักใคร่ ดั่งภาพฝันที่วาดไว้ในใจ ความจริงที่ซ่อนเร้นเริ่มเผยตัว ดั่งรอยร้าวบนแก้วที่รอวันแตก ความสุขนี้จะอยู่ได้นานเพียงใด หรือเป็นเพียงแค่สายลมที่พัดผ่านไป

[The sunlight shines through the white curtains, Waking one from a sweet, luscious dream. Two arms embrace the beloved bodies, Like a dream image painted in the heart. The hidden truth begins to reveal itself, Like a crack in the glass waiting to shatter. How long will this happiness last? Or is it just the wind passing by?]

The morning light in the Blue Suite of Villa de Bua was not the harsh, intrusive glare of the city; it was a soft, diffused luminescence that filtered through the heavy, cream-colored drapes, painting the room in shades of pearl and gold. The air conditioning hummed a low, steady note, a counterpoint to the quiet, rhythmic breathing of the three figures entangled in the center of the massive four-poster bed.

Kongpob woke slowly, surfacing from a sleep deeper and more restful than any he had known in five years. He didn't open his eyes immediately. He lay there, cataloging the sensations that were anchoring him to the mattress.

There was a warmth along his back, solid and heavy. A strong arm was draped over his waist, the hand large and relaxed, resting possessively on his stomach. The scent—rain, woodsmoke, and the musky, intimate smell of a sleeping Alpha—enveloped him completely, a pheromonal blanket that made his Omega instincts purr with a deep, satisfied contentment.

On his other side, curled into his chest like a small, heat-seeking missile, was Leo. His son’s small arm was thrown over Kongpob’s neck, his face buried in the hollow of his throat, breathing soft, milky puffs of air against his skin.

Kongpob opened his eyes.

The sight that greeted him stole the breath from his lungs.

Thomas was asleep. The "Ice Prince," the man who wore his coldness like armor, looked impossibly young and unguarded in the morning light. His features were relaxed, the sharp lines of his jaw softened by sleep, his dark lashes fanning against his cheeks. His hair was messy, a chaotic, boyish mop that defied the perfect styling of the night before.

And in the space between them lay Leo.

Kongpob shifted slightly, careful not to wake them, propping himself up on one elbow. He looked from father to son.

The resemblance, usually masked by Leo’s softer, childish features, was undeniable in this unguarded moment. They slept the same way—brow slightly furrowed, lips parted, one hand curled into a loose fist. The curve of their noses, the sweep of their eyelashes… it was like looking at a mirror image across time.

A fierce, bittersweet ache bloomed in Kongpob’s chest. My universe, he thought, his throat tightening. Here. In one bed.

He reached for his phone on the bedside table, his movements slow and stealthy. He needed to capture this. He needed proof that this moment, this impossible, perfect morning, had actually existed.

Click.

He took the photo. The image on the screen was blurry, shadowed, and perfect. Thomas, Leo, and the curve of Kongpob’s own shoulder. A family portrait that could never be framed, never be shown.

As he set the phone down, the bed shifted.

The arm around his waist tightened reflexively. Thomas inhaled deeply, a long, shuddering breath, and buried his face in the back of Kongpob’s neck.

“Mmm… hom… (Smells good…)” Thomas mumbled, his voice rough with sleep, vibrating directly against Kongpob’s spine.

Kongpob froze, his heart hammering. “P’Thomas…?”

Thomas cracked one eye open. He blinked, focusing on the back of Kongpob’s head, then shifted to look over him at the sleeping child. A slow, lazy smile spread across his face, sleepy and devastatingly handsome.

“Morning,” he rasped. He lifted his head, leaning over Kongpob to press a soft, lingering kiss to his forehead. “Did you sleep well?”

“I… yes,” Kongpob whispered, his face heating up. The domesticity of it—the morning breath, the tangled limbs, the casual affection—was overwhelming.

Thomas hummed, shifting to sit up against the headboard. He rubbed a hand over his face, stretching his neck. He reached for his own phone, which was sitting on the nightstand on his side of the bed.

“Let’s see what the world is doing while we were sleeping,” he murmured, unlocking the screen.

His smile vanished instantly.

Kongpob watched as Thomas’s expression hardened, the sleepy softness replaced by a sharp, alert intensity. His eyebrows drew together. His thumb scrolled rapidly.

“What is it?” Kongpob asked, sitting up, alarm bells ringing in his head. “P’Thomas? Is it work?”

Thomas didn't answer immediately. He was staring at a barrage of notifications. 50 Missed Calls from P’Fon. 200+ LINE messages. Instagram notifications: 99+.

He opened the LINE chat with P’Fon.

[P’Fon (Manager)]: THOMAS. PICK UP THE PHONE.
[P’Fon (Manager)]: Did you post that? Or did you get hacked?
[P’Fon (Manager)]: The press is going insane. #ThomasSecretSon is trending #1 on Twitter.
[P’Fon (Manager)]: DELETE IT NOW.

Thomas switched to Instagram. He didn't need to look far. The very first post on his feed, posted 10 hours ago, was a blurry, low-angle selfie.

It was him and Leo.

In the photo, Thomas was looking at the camera with a soft, unguarded expression Kongpob had rarely seen. Leo was grinning toothily, a smear of corn soup on his cheek, looking up at Thomas with pure, unadulterated adoration.

The caption was a string of gibberish emojis: 🦖🍔🚗👑💖

Leo.

Thomas let out a short, incredulous breath through his nose. He remembered handing the phone to the boy. “Uncle! Phone! I want play game!”

“Clever little mouse,” Thomas muttered, shaking his head.

He looked at the comments.

• User1: OMGGGG WHO IS THAT KID???

• User2: Is that… his son? 

• User3: Thomas has a secret child?! I’m fainting!

• User4: He looks so happy… look at his eyes!

The rumor mill was not just spinning; it was on fire. 

Thomas felt a surge of annoyance at the invasion of privacy, but beneath it… a strange, calm sense of satisfaction. Let them talk, he thought. Let them see.

He didn't delete it. He closed the app and put the phone face down on the table.

“P’Thomas?” Kongpob touched his arm, his eyes wide with worry. “You’re frowning. What happened?”

Thomas looked at Kongpob. He looked at the panic rising in those beautiful, deer-like eyes. If he told Kongpob now—that their "secret" was trending, that Leo’s face was all over the internet—Kongpob would bolt. He would grab Leo and run back to England so fast Thomas wouldn't be able to catch him.

He couldn't let that happen. Not yet. Not when he had just gotten them back.

“Nothing,” Thomas lied smoothly, covering Kongpob’s hand with his own. “Just work. P’Fon is… enthusiastic, as always. Don’t worry about it.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” He leaned in, kissing the tip of Kongpob’s nose. “Forget about the world. Look who’s waking up.”

Leo was stirring. He stretched, his little back arching, his fists rubbing at his eyes. He let out a massive, jaw-cracking yawn that ended in a squeak.

“Hnggg…”

He blinked his eyes open, looking confused for a moment, before his gaze landed on Kongpob. “Pà-pá?” Then he turned his head and saw Thomas. “Uncle!”

A sleepy, delighted grin spread across his face. “Good morning!”

Thomas laughed, the sound rich and genuine. “Good morning, jâo nùu. Did you sleep well?”

“Yes!” Leo sat up, his hair a wild bird’s nest. He looked at Thomas, then at Kongpob, then back at Thomas. “Why Uncle sleep here? Uncle have no bed?”

Kongpob flushed. “Uh… Uncle Thomas… he…”

“I wanted to make sure you didn't get scared by the monsters,” Thomas improvised, poking Leo’s tummy.

“I not scared of monsters!” Leo giggled, squirming. “I am T-Rex!” He paused, his stomach giving a loud, undeniable growl. “T-Rex hungry. Want kai dao (fried egg).”

Kongpob moved to get up. “I’ll… I’ll go check with the staff…”

“Stay,” Thomas commanded gently, putting a hand on Kongpob’s shoulder to keep him in bed. “You rest. You look tired. I’ll take the beast to hunt for food.”

He scooped Leo up in his arms, lifting the boy high in the air. Leo shrieked with laughter.

“To the kitchen!” Thomas announced, marching toward the door with Leo perched on his hip. He turned back to Kongpob. “Take a shower, Kong. Take your time. We’ll find something for you to eat too.”

He winked, a playful, devastating gesture, and disappeared into the hallway with their son.

Kongpob sat alone in the big bed, the silence of the room settling around him. He touched his forehead where Thomas had kissed him. He touched his nose. His heart was full to bursting, but beneath the joy, the cold knot of fear remained.

This is too good, he thought. This is a dream. And I’m going to wake up.

He forced himself out of bed and went into the bathroom. The shower was hot, the water pressure incredible. He scrubbed himself, trying to wash away the scent of Thomas that was clinging to his skin, though deep down, he never wanted it to leave.

When he came out, wrapped in a plush white robe, he saw several shopping bags sitting on the unmade bed. They hadn't been there before.

He walked over and peeked inside.

It was clothes.

A soft, oversized white shirt, the kind that looked casual but cost a fortune. A pair of tailored shorts in a pale olive green. And… underwear.

There was a note on top, written in a familiar, jagged scrawl on hotel stationery.

“Your clothes from yesterday looked uncomfortable. Wear these. You always looked good in my shirts, even if this one is technically yours now. - T”

Kongpob picked up the note, his fingers trembling. You always looked good in my shirts. The memory of wearing Thomas’s oversized t-shirts in their old apartment, the fabric smelling of him, hit Kongpob with the force of a physical blow.

Thomas had bought these. When? How? He must have had staffs send them over this morning. The attentiveness, the care… it was suffocatingly sweet.

He dressed slowly. The shirt was soft against his skin. It fit perfectly. Of course it did. Thomas knew his body better than he knew his own.

He took a deep breath, steeled himself, and headed for the kitchen.

The kitchen of the Villa de Bua was an open-air masterpiece, overlooking the pool. As Kongpob approached, he heard laughter.

Thomas was sitting on a stool at the breakfast island. Leo was perched on a high chair next to him.

But they weren't alone.

Nat and Ploy, the newly engaged couple, were sitting opposite them, looking fresh and happy in matching linen outfits.

“Open wide!” Thomas was saying, holding a spoon of yogurt.

Leo opened his mouth like a baby bird. “Aaaah!”

“Good boy,” Thomas praised, wiping Leo’s mouth with a napkin.

“My god,” Ploy sighed, leaning her chin on her hand, watching them with heart-eyes. “Thomas, stop it. My heart is exploding. You are too good at this.”

Nat laughed, sipping his coffee. “Seriously, man. It’s scary. You look more like a dad than I do, and I’m the one planning to have five kids.”

Ploy looked from Thomas to Leo, squinting slightly. “You know… it’s weird. But they really do look alike. Look at the nose. And the eyebrows.”

Kongpob froze in the doorway.

Thomas didn't flinch. He just chuckled, a low, easy sound. “That’s because all handsome men share the same features, Nong Ploy. It’s a club.”

He turned to Leo, grinning. “Right, Leo? We’re the handsome club.”

“Handsome club!” Leo agreed, banging his spoon on the tray.

“See?” Ploy laughed. “But seriously, if I didn't know better, I’d say you were father and son. The vibe is… identical.”

Thomas’s smile faltered for a microsecond, then returned, brighter than before. He looked at Leo. “Hear that, Leo? Auntie Ploy thinks I should be your Papa. What do you think? Do you want another Papa?”

It was a joke. A lighthearted question.

Leo stopped chewing. He looked at Thomas seriously. Then he shook his head vigorously.

“Mai ao! (Don’t want!)” Leo declared firmly. “I have Papa! Papa Kong is Papa! No more Papa!”

The adults cooed at the loyalty. “Awwww!”

Thomas laughed, but Kongpob saw the flicker of something—pain? longing?—in his eyes before he masked it.

“Fair enough,” Thomas said, ruffling Leo’s hair. “One Papa is enough for any boy.”

Kongpob stepped into the room. “Good morning.”

Everyone turned. Thomas’s eyes lit up when he saw Kongpob in the white shirt. His gaze raked over him, possessive and appreciative.

“Kong!” Nat cheered. “Sleeping beauty awakens! Come, sit! The chef made khao tom (rice soup) and pancakes.”

“Morning, P’Nat, P’Ploy,” Kongpob smiled, walking over.

Thomas stood up immediately. He pulled out the stool next to Leo. “Sit here.”

Kongpob sat. Thomas didn't sit back down. He walked to the stove where a private chef was working. He returned a moment later with a steaming bowl of shrimp congee and a plate of perfectly cut fruit.

“Eat,” Thomas said, placing the food in front of Kongpob. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please. Black. No sugar.”

Thomas nodded. He knew. He poured the coffee and set it down.

Ploy poked Nat. “See? See that? Why don’t you serve me like that?”

“I do!” Nat protested.

“Thomas is putting you to shame, darling,” Ploy teased. She looked at Kongpob. “He’s a keeper, Kong. Don’t let this one go again.”

Kongpob choked on his coffee. Thomas just smirked, taking a bite of a banana. “I’m working on it, Ploy.”

The breakfast was a warm, chaotic affair. Leo was the center of attention, charming everyone with his chatter. Thomas was attentive, constantly refilling Kongpob’s water, wiping Leo’s hands, engaging in banter with Nat.

He played the part of the partner perfectly. Too perfectly.

As the meal wound down, Thomas checked his watch. “Alright. Fun’s over. I have a meeting at noon.” He looked at Kongpob. “I’ll drive you home.”

“You don’t have to,” Kongpob started. “I can call a…”

“I’m driving you,” Thomas cut him off gently but firmly. “It’s on the way.” (It wasn't. Thonburi was in the opposite direction of the GMM building).

“Go get Leo ready,” Thomas said. “I need to shower.”

Back in the Blue Suite, the domestic routine continued. Kongpob bathed Leo in the massive tub, the boy splashing and playing with bubbles.

Thomas had disappeared into the separate shower stall.

Kongpob was drying Leo off, wrapping him in a towel, when the shower door opened.

Steam billowed out. Thomas stepped into the room.

He was naked from the waist up. A white towel was slung low around his hips, barely clinging to his hipbones. Water droplets clung to his broad chest, his defined abs, running in rivulets down the V-line disappearing into the towel. His hair was wet, slicked back.

He looked… magnificent.

Kongpob stared. He couldn't help it. His eyes traced the muscles of Thomas’s chest, the broad shoulders he had clung to last night.

Thomas caught him looking. He paused, a slow, arrogant smirk curling his lips.

“Like what you see, Khun Kongpob?” he teased, his voice low.

Kongpob turned bright red. He spun around, burying his face in Leo’s tummy. “I… I wasn't looking! Put some clothes on!”

Thomas laughed, walking past them to his bag. “You used to look a lot more than that.”

The heat in the room spiked. Even Leo seemed to sense it, looking between his Papa and his Uncle with wide eyes.

“Uncle naked!” Leo pointed out helpfully.

“Yes, Uncle is naked,” Thomas agreed, pulling on a fresh black t-shirt. “But we have to go now. Let’s get in the car.”

The drive back to Thonburi was different from the drive to the party. The silence was heavy, but not with anger. It was heavy with things unspoken.

Leo, exhausted from the excitement and the bath, fell asleep in his car seat almost immediately, clutching Thomas’s phone which he had been allowed to "hold" (Thomas had wisely put it on airplane mode).

Thomas drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the center console, inches from Kongpob’s hand.

Kongpob stared out the window at the passing cityscape. The euphoria of the night before, the warmth of the morning, was fading, replaced by the cold, hard reality of his situation.

He was in love with Thomas. He had never stopped.

And Thomas was in love with him.

But he was lying to him. Every second he didn't tell Thomas about Leo was a betrayal. Every time Thomas looked at Leo with that confusing affection, thinking he was bonding with another man’s child, it was a knife in Kongpob’s heart.

And the career.

Thomas was at the peak. He was the Ice Prince. If the truth came out—that he had a secret child with a former trainee—it would destroy him. The scandal would be unimaginable.

I can’t do it, Kongpob thought, his chest tightening. I can’t be the reason he loses everything. Again.

He pulled his hand away from the console, tucking it into his lap.

Thomas noticed the movement. His jaw tightened, but he didn't say anything. He just drove, his eyes fixed on the road, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

They pulled up to the Jirojmontri house. It was late morning now, the sun high and bright.

Kongpob unbuckled his seatbelt. “Thank you, P’Thomas. For… everything. The ride. The clothes.”

He turned to the back to get Leo.

“Leave him,” Thomas said. He opened his door and got out.

He walked around the car, opened the back door, and unbuckled the sleeping child. He lifted Leo into his arms with an ease that was becoming second nature.

“P’Thomas, really, you don’t have to…”

“Grab the bags,” Thomas said.

He carried Leo to the gate. He waited for Kongpob to open it. He walked through the garden, up the steps, and into the house.

Mae Ornan and Por Sak were in the living room, watching TV. They looked up, surprised to see the superstar walking into their home again, carrying their grandson.

“Nong Thomas!” Mae Ornan exclaimed. “You brought them back?”

“Sawatdii khráp, Mae, Por,” Thomas said, performing a difficult wai while holding a child. “I wanted to make sure they got home safely. Leo is asleep again. He parties hard.”

Por Sak laughed. “Just like his father used to! Thank you, son. You are very kind.”

Thomas smiled at them—a genuine, warm smile. “It is my pleasure. I should get going, though. Work calls.”

He walked to the sofa and gently laid Leo down on the cushions. He smoothed the hair back from the boy’s forehead.

Then he turned to Kongpob.

He held out his hand. “Phone.”

Kongpob blinked. “What?”

“Your phone,” Thomas repeated. “Give it to me.”

Kongpob pulled his phone from his pocket and handed it over, confused.

Thomas unlocked it (he still knew Kongpob’s passcode: 0062, the date they had first met). He typed something in. His own phone, in his pocket, buzzed.

He handed it back.

“That’s my personal number,” Thomas said, his eyes locking onto Kongpob’s. “Not P’Fon’s. Mine. And I have yours now.”

He stepped closer, invading Kongpob’s personal space. He lowered his voice so the parents wouldn't hear.

“If you don’t answer when I call,” he whispered, his voice low and intense, “I will come here. If you try to run away again, I will find you. Do you understand?”

It was a threat. It was a promise. It was a declaration of war against the distance between them.

Kongpob nodded, breathless. “I… I understand.”

Thomas stared at him for a second longer, his gaze dropping to Kongpob’s lips. Then, in front of Kongpob’s parents, in the middle of the living room, he leaned in.

He pressed a firm, chaste, but unmistakably possessive kiss to Kongpob’s cheek.

“See you soon, teerak,” he whispered.

He straightened up, wai-ed to the parents again—“Sawatdii khráp”—and turned on his heel.

He walked out the door, his stride long and confident.

Kongpob stood in the doorway, his hand touching his cheek where Thomas’s lips had been. He watched the black Mercedes back out of the driveway and disappear down the street.

He was trapped. He was terrified.

And god help him, he was happy.

Thai-English Dictionary

• Hom (หอม): Smells good / Fragrant. Often used to describe someone's scent or food.

• Mai ao (ไม่เอา): Don't want / No (childish/informal refusal).

• Kai dao (ไข่ดาว): Fried egg (sunny side up).

• Khao tom (ข้าวต้ม): Rice soup / Congee.

• Teerak (ที่รัก): Darling / Beloved / Dear. (A very intimate term).

• Sawatdii khráp (สวัสดีครับ): Hello / Goodbye (formal).

• Jâo nùu (เจ้าหนู): Little mouse / Little one.

Chapter Text

เปลวไฟที่ซ่อนเชื้อ ปะทุขึ้นเมื่อลมพัดหวน ความลับที่เก็บงำ ร้อนรุ่มดั่งลาวาใต้ภูผา กลิ่นหอมที่โหยหา กลับกลายเป็นพิษร้ายทำลายใจ ร่างกายที่อ่อนล้า พ่ายแพ้ต่อสัญชาตญาณดิบ เมื่อความรักและความใคร่ หลอมรวมเป็นหนึ่งเดียว เหตุผลใดๆ ก็มิอาจหักห้าม

[The hidden flame ignites when the wind returns.
The secret kept hidden burns like lava beneath the mountain.
The scent one yearns for becomes a deadly poison destroying the heart.
The weary body succumbs to primal instincts.
When love and lust merge into one, no reason can forbid it.]

The air in the garden of the Jirojmontri residence hung heavy and still, a suffocating blanket of humidity that seemed to press against the very earth. It was 3:00 PM, the time of day when the Bangkok sun was less a celestial body and more a physical weight, a golden hammer beating down on the lush, tropical foliage.

Kongpob knelt on the grass, a small trowel in his hand, staring blankly at a patch of stubborn weeds choking his mother’s prize-winning jasmine bush. The scent of the flowers—usually his favorite, usually a source of comfort—was today cloying, thick, and nauseatingly sweet. It mingled with the smell of damp earth, wet fertilizer, and his own perspiration, creating a dizzying olfactory cocktail that made his head spin.

“Pà-pá! Look! Worm!”

The shrill, delighted squeal of his son cut through the haze. Leo was squatting a few feet away, his small, expensive trousers from the party now replaced by practical denim shorts and a t-shirt stained with mud. He was poking at an earthworm with a twig, his face a mask of intense, scientific fascination.

“That’s… that’s great, luk,” Kongpob managed, forcing a smile that felt like it was made of plaster. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist, leaving a streak of dirt across his pale skin. “Be gentle. Don’t hurt him.”

“I name him… Mr. Wiggle!” Leo announced, abandoning the worm to run toward the small plastic watering can Kongpob had filled for him.

It had been twenty-four hours.

Twenty-four hours since the engagement party. Twenty-four hours since Thomas had kissed his cheek in his parents' living room. Twenty-four hours since the fortress of his life had been besieged, breached, and occupied by the enemy who was also the love of his life.

And in those twenty-four hours, Thomas Teetut Chungmanirat had been relentless.

Kongpob’s phone, currently resting on the wooden bench under the mango tree, had become a dedicated hotline to the superstar. Thomas called. He FaceTimed. He sent photos of his lunch, his view from the office, his cat.

But he didn't talk to Kongpob. Not really.

Every time the phone rang, Leo would hear it. The boy had developed a supernatural hearing for the specific marimba ringtone Kongpob had assigned to Thomas (a mistake, a sentimental error he hadn't changed).

“Uncle! Uncle calling!” Leo would shriek, abandoning whatever he was doing to snatch the phone.

And Kongpob, paralyzed by a mix of guilt, fear, and a desire to see his son happy, would let him.

He would sit there, watching as Leo chattered away to the screen, telling Thomas about his breakfast, his toys, the neighbor’s dog. And he would hear Thomas’s voice, tinny through the speaker but warm, patient, and undeniably affectionate, answering every nonsensical statement with the gravity of a state secret.

“Really, Leo? The dog barked three times? That is very serious.”

“Yes! He go woof woof woof! Scary!”

“Don’t worry. If he barks again, you call me. Uncle will come bark back at him.”

It was domestic. It was adorable. It was terrifying.

Thomas was weaving himself into the fabric of Leo’s life, thread by thread, pixel by pixel. He was becoming indispensable. And Kongpob was just… watching. He felt like a ghost in his own family, a spectator to the bond forming between the father who didn't know and the son who didn't understand.

“Pà-pá, phone ring!”

Kongpob flinched. He looked at the bench. The screen was lit up.

“No, Leo,” Kongpob said, his voice sharper than he intended. He stood up, the world tilting slightly on its axis. A wave of dizziness washed over him, leaving him swaying. “No phone. We are gardening. Nature. Remember?”

“But Uncle promise to show me the big car!” Leo protested, his lower lip jutting out.

“Uncle is working,” Kongpob lied, walking over to the bench. He picked up the phone. It was Thomas. Of course it was.

He stared at the name on the screen. P’Thomas (Do Not Answer).

He ignored the call. He flipped the phone face down.

“Gardening,” he repeated, the word feeling thick in his mouth. “We need to… we need to finish weeding.”

He felt… hot. Not just the weather hot. It was a heat that seemed to be radiating from his bones, a low-grade fever that made his skin prickle and his clothes feel abrasive. He tugged at the collar of his t-shirt, trying to get some air.

His doctor’s warning echoed in his mind, distant and distorted.

“The fortress… it has a weak point… A significant exposure to him… it would be a battering ram.”

He shook his head, trying to clear the fog. It was just the sun. It was stress. It was the lack of sleep from lying awake all night, replaying the kiss in the hallway, the touch of Thomas’s hand on his waist.

“Kong? Are you okay?”

His mother’s voice drifted from the patio. Mae Ornan was standing there with a tray of iced tea, looking concerned.

“You look very flushed, luk. Your face is red.”

“I’m fine, Mae,” Kongpob said, the lie automatic. “Just… hot. The sun is strong today.”

“Come inside,” she urged. “Rest a bit. Por and I will watch Leo. He can help Grandpa water the orchids.”

Kongpob looked at Leo, who was now happily drowning a patch of weeds with his watering can. He looked at his phone. He looked at the high walls of the garden, which suddenly felt less like a sanctuary and more like a cage.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Just for a minute. I need to… freshen up.”

He walked into the house, the sudden blast of air conditioning hitting his sweat-dampened skin like a physical shock. It made him shiver, violent and uncontrollable.

He stumbled toward his bedroom, his legs feeling heavy, as if he were wading through water. He needed a shower. He needed to wash the sweat, the dirt, and the confusing, cloying scent of jasmine off his skin.

He entered his room and closed the door, leaning back against it. The silence was a relief.

He peeled off his dirty t-shirt, throwing it into the hamper. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His skin was indeed flushed, a hectic, unhealthy pink spreading across his chest and neck. His eyes looked glassy, the pupils dilated.

Heatstroke, he told himself firmly. It’s just heatstroke.

His phone, which he had carried in with him, began to ring again.

He groaned, reaching for it, expecting to see Thomas’s name again. He was ready to reject it, to turn the phone off completely.

But it wasn't Thomas.

Incoming Call: Namping

Kongpob frowned. Namping never called. He texted. He sent voice notes. He sent stickers. A phone call meant an emergency. Or gossip so juicy it couldn't wait for typing.

He slid the answer button.

“Hello? Ping?”

“KONG!” Namping’s voice exploded from the speaker, shrill and panicked. “Don’t tell me you haven't seen it. Please tell me you know.”

“Seen what?” Kongpob asked, sitting heavily on the edge of the bed. The room was spinning slightly. “I’ve been outside. Gardening.”

“Gardening?!” Namping screeched. “ The world is burning down and you’re playing with dirt?! Open the link I sent you! NOW!”

“Ping, calm down. What is it?”

“Just open it! It’s… oh god, Kong. It’s bad. It’s really, really bad.”

Kongpob’s stomach dropped. The dread that had been his constant companion for days solidified into a cold, heavy stone.

He pulled the phone away from his ear and opened his LINE messages. There was a link from Namping, sent two minutes ago.

[News Update: The Ice Prince Melts? Secret Son Revealed?]

Kongpob’s breath hitched. His fingers trembled as he tapped the link.

It opened a page on a popular Thai gossip site. The headline screamed in bold, red font.

THOMAS CHUNGMANIRAT’S SECRET FAMILY? SHOCKING PHOTO REVEALS HIDDEN SON!

And there, below the headline, was the photo.

The selfie. The one Thomas had taken at the party. Thomas, looking soft and handsome, and Leo, grinning with corn soup on his face.

But it wasn't just the photo. It was the article.

“Netizens are in a frenzy after a photo was briefly posted to Thomas Chungmanirat’s official Instagram account late last night. The photo, which was deleted hours later but not before being screenshotted by thousands of fans, shows the superstar with a young boy who bears a striking, undeniable resemblance to the actor.”

“Sources at the exclusive ‘Villa de Bua’ engagement party confirm that Thomas arrived with the child and was seen caring for him throughout the night. Who is the mother? Why has the ‘Ice Prince’ kept this a secret for four years? Is this the reason for his famous coldness? Fans are feeling betrayed by the deception…”

Kongpob scrolled down. The comments. He shouldn't read them. He knew he shouldn't. But he couldn't stop.

• User88: He lied to us! He said he was single!

• User99: That kid looks EXACTLY like him. There’s no denying it.

• User123: So he has a secret wife? While selling us this ‘lonely bachelor’ image? Fake.

• User777: Disappointed. I thought he was honest.

• User666: Who is the mother? Some gold digger?

The world went grey.

The buzzing in Kongpob’s ears roared to a crescendo.

It had happened. The nightmare. The exact scenario he had destroyed his own happiness to prevent. The scandal. The exposure.

Thomas was being called a liar. A fake. His privacy was being violated. His career, built on his image, was under attack.

And it was all Kongpob’s fault.

He had brought Leo back. He had gone to the party. He had let his guard down. He had let Thomas into their lives.

“Kong? Kong, are you there?” Namping’s voice tinny from the phone still clutched in his hand.

“I’m here,” Kongpob whispered, his voice sounding like it was coming from underwater.

“Listen, it’s not all bad,” Namping tried to soothe him, though he sounded terrified himself. “Some people are supporting him! They’re saying his private life is his own! But… the press… they’re going to be hunting, Kong. They’re going to try to find out who the kid is. Who YOU are.”

Kongpob stood up. The room tilted violently. He grabbed the bedside table to steady himself.

“I have to go, Ping,” he said.

“Kong, wait! What are you going to do? Don’t do anything stupid!”

Kongpob hung up.

He stood in the middle of the room, shivering violently. The heat inside him was no longer a fever; it was a firestorm. But his mind was ice cold.

He had to fix this. He had to save Thomas.

He had to disappear. Again.

But first, he had to cut the cord. He had to make sure Thomas didn't come looking. He had to make Thomas hate him again. Truly hate him.

He opened his messages with Thomas. There were dozens of unread texts from the last few hours.

“Leo is funny.” “Are you okay?” “Why aren't you answering?” “I miss you.”

Kongpob’s heart shattered. He typed, his fingers flying, his vision blurred with tears.

[Kongpob]: I saw the news.
[Kongpob]: This is exactly why I left. This chaos. This attention. I don't want this for my son. I don't want this for me.
[Kongpob]: You were right. I wanted a different life. A quiet life. And you have destroyed it in two days.
[Kongpob]: Do not contact me again. Do not come here. We are leaving.
[Kongpob]: Goodbye, Thomas.

He hit send.

Then, before he could regret it, before he could read Thomas’s inevitable, desperate reply, he tapped the three dots in the corner.

Block Contact.

Confirm.

It was done.

He dropped the phone on the bed as if it were a venomous snake.

A wave of nausea hit him, so strong he gagged. He stumbled toward the bathroom. He needed water. He needed to cool down. He felt like he was burning from the inside out.

He turned on the tap of the large soaking tub, not bothering to check the temperature. He stripped off his shorts and underwear, leaving them in a pile on the floor.

He climbed into the tub. The water was lukewarm, but to his burning skin, it felt freezing. He shivered, wrapping his arms around himself, sinking down until the water lapped at his chin.

It’s over, he thought, closing his eyes. I saved him. He’ll hate me now. He’ll blame me. And the press will move on.

But the heat didn't stop.

It intensified.

It wasn't heatstroke. It wasn't stress.

It was a biological tidal wave.

Deep inside him, his dormant Omega organs, awakened by the relentless, potent exposure to his bonded Alpha’s pheromones over the last forty-eight hours, were screaming. They had been starved for five years. And now, having tasted the Alpha, having been touched and held and scented, they were revolting against the suppression.

The suppressants he had taken were useless against a Bonded Heat.

Pain, sharp and cramping, twisted in his lower belly. A slick, hot fluid began to leak from him, mixing with the bathwater. His scent, the jasmine and rain, exploded, filling the small, tiled bathroom with a thick, cloying, distress signal that was potent enough to bring an Alpha to his knees from a mile away.

Kongpob groaned, his head lolling back against the porcelain rim. “Leo…” he whispered. “Mae…”

The room spun. The edges of his vision turned black. The sound of the running water became a roar.

He slipped lower. The water covered his chest. His chin.

He fainted.

Time became a fractured, disjointed concept.

There was darkness.

Then, there was a sound. A pounding. A rhythmic, terrified booming that vibrated through the floor and into the tub.

“KONG! KONGPOB!”

A voice. Deep. Frantic. Familiar.

Then, a different sound. A high, thin wail.

“Pà-pá! Pà-pá open door! Pà-pá!”

Leo. Leo was crying.

Kongpob tried to move. He tried to lift his head. But his limbs were lead. His body was not his own. He was burning. He was freezing. He was drowning in a sea of fire and water.

CRACK.

A deafening noise. Wood splintering.

Light flooded the room.

Kongpob blinked his blurry eyes. A figure stood in the doorway. A giant. A dark, looming silhouette against the light of the bedroom.

The figure rushed toward him.

The scent hit him first. It wasn't the smell of the garden. It wasn't the smell of soap.

It was ozone. Storms. Woodsmoke. Alpha.

“Thomas…” Kongpob’s lips moved, but no sound came out.

“Holy shit. Kongpob!”

Hands were on him. Strong, large, shaking hands. They plunged into the water, grabbing his shoulders, his waist.

He was being lifted. Water cascaded off his body, splashing onto the floor.

He was pulled against a chest. A hard, solid wall of muscle covered in soft cotton. It was warm. It was the only solid thing in the universe.

“He’s burning up,” Thomas’s voice was a growl, rough with panic. “Mae Ornan! Call the doctor! Now! Tell him it’s a heat. An emergency heat!”

“A heat?” His mother’s voice, shocked and frightened, came from the doorway. “But he’s… he hasn’t…”

“Just call him!” Thomas roared. “And take Leo! Get him out of here! Don’t let him see this!”

“Pà-pá!” Leo screamed, his voice receding as he was pulled away. “Uncle! Help Papa!”

“I’ve got him, Leo,” Thomas shouted back, his voice breaking. “I’ve got him. Go with Grandma. Lock the door, Mae!”

The bedroom door slammed shut. The lock clicked.

They were alone.

Thomas didn't put him down immediately. He held Kongpob against his chest, ignoring the water soaking his shirt, ignoring the slickness of Kongpob’s skin. He buried his face in Kongpob’s wet hair, inhaling deeply.

The scent was overwhelming. It was distress. It was pain. But underneath, it was the sweetest, most potent invitation Thomas had ever smelled. It was pure, concentrated Omega in peak estrus.

It was a scent that triggered every primal, protective, possessive instinct in his Alpha brain.

Mine. Mate. Hurt. Need.

He carried Kongpob to the bed. He grabbed the thick duvet, ripping it back, and laid Kongpob down on the sheets. He grabbed a towel from the bathroom, quickly, roughly drying Kongpob’s shivering body, then pulled the duvet over him, tucking it tight around his shoulders.

“You idiot,” Thomas whispered, his hand brushing the wet hair from Kongpob’s forehead. “You stupid, stubborn idiot. Why didn't you tell me? Why did you run?”

Kongpob whimpered. The duvet was heavy, but it wasn't enough. He was cold. He felt empty. The absence of the Alpha’s touch was a physical pain.

“Thomas…” he moaned, his eyes fluttering open. They were glazed, unfocused, swimming with a delirious, desperate need.

He smelled him. He was right there. The source of the heat. The cure for the cold.

Kongpob struggled, pushing his arms out of the duvet. He reached up, his hands clawing at the air, seeking.

“Thomas… P’Thomas…”

Thomas caught his hands. “I’m here. I’m here, Kong. The doctor is coming. Just hold on.”

“No doctor,” Kongpob gasped, his hips bucking involuntarily under the covers. “No doctor. You. Want you.”

The plea was a hook in Thomas’s gut. He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. The air in the room was thick with pheromones. It was getting harder to think. Harder to remember that Kongpob was sick, that this was a medical emergency, not a seduction.

“Kong, stop,” Thomas warned, his voice low and strained. “You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re in heat. It’s… it’s dangerous.”

“Please…” Kongpob sobbed. He kicked the duvet off. He was naked. His skin was flushed a deep, aroused rose. His chest was heaving.

He grabbed Thomas’s shirt, pulling him down.

Thomas’s resolve snapped. He couldn't leave him. He couldn't stand back while his mate suffered.

He climbed onto the bed, straddling Kongpob’s hips but keeping his weight on his knees. He leaned down, bracing his hands on either side of Kongpob’s head.

“Behave,” Thomas growled, his eyes flashing gold. “Stay still.”

But Kongpob couldn't behave. The proximity was intoxicating. The heat of Thomas’s body hovering over him was maddening.

Kongpob wrapped his legs around Thomas’s waist, pulling him down. He pushed himself up, his naked chest pressing against Thomas’s clothed one.

He found Thomas’s lips and kissed him.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a collision. It was messy, desperate, and tasted of salt and hysteria. Kongpob’s tongue invaded Thomas’s mouth, seeking, begging.

“Warm me up,” Kongpob mumbled against Thomas’s lips, his hands scrabbling at the buttons of Thomas’s shirt. “Please, Alpha. Too cold. Need you. Need you inside.”

Thomas shuddered, a low growl rumbling in his chest. He gripped Kongpob’s hips, trying to hold him still, trying to maintain a shred of sanity.

“Kongpob,” he warned, his voice a jagged edge. “If you don’t stop… I won’t be able to stop.”

Kongpob didn't stop. He opened his eyes. His vision cleared for a second, focusing on Thomas’s face. He saw the conflict, the hunger, the love.

He saw a bead of water from his own wet hair drip onto Thomas’s shirt, tracing a dark path down the fabric.

He wanted to lick it.

He felt the hardness of Thomas’s erection against his thigh, even through the layers of clothes.

“Don’t stop,” Kongpob whispered.

He ground his hips upward.

His naked, slick buttocks rubbed against Thomas’s crotch. The friction was electric.

Thomas roared. A sound that was not human. It was pure Alpha.

He sat up, ripping his shirt open, buttons flying across the room. He grabbed Kongpob’s face with both hands, holding him still.

He crashed his mouth onto Kongpob’s, kissing him with a violence that promised ruin.

There was no more thinking. No more doctors. No more secrets.

There was only the heat. And the fire that was finally, inevitably, going to consume them both.

Thai-English Dictionary

• Fai Nai Suang (ไฟในทรวง): Fire in the chest/heart (Metaphor for intense passion or suffering).

• Luk (ลูก): Child.

• Pà-pá (ปะป๊า): Papa / Daddy.

• Jâo nùu (เจ้าหนู): Little mouse / Little one.

• Mae (แม่): Mother.

• Por (พ่อ): Father.

• Mai ao (ไม่เอา): Don't want / No.

• Kai dao (ไข่ดาว): Fried egg.

• Khao tom (ข้าวต้ม): Rice soup.

• Kreng jai (เกรงใจ): Being considerate/reluctant to impose on others.

• Sabai sabai (สบายๆ): Relaxed / Easy-going.

• San phra phum (ศาลพระภูมิ): Spirit house (Shrine for the protective spirit of the land).

Chapter Text

ไฟราคะโหมกระหน่ำมิอาจต้าน ดั่งสายธารเชี่ยวกรากยากขัดขืน กลิ่นหอมหวานมอมเมาทุกค่ำคืน ยอมสยบแทบเท้า...แม้ยืนหยัดมานานปี

[The fire of lust rages, impossible to resist,
Like a torrential river, difficult to oppose.
The sweet scent intoxicates every night,
Surrendering at your feet... though I have stood tall for years.]

The air in the bedroom was no longer breathable atmosphere; it was a heavy, viscous soup of biological imperatives. It was a pressure cooker where the safety valve had been welded shut five years ago and was now exploding with catastrophic, magnificent force. The scent of jasmine and rain—Kongpob’s signature, delicate aroma—had curdled and thickened into something dark, syrupy, and distressingly sweet. It was the scent of a dam breaking, a high-pitched olfactory scream of Need. Mate. Empty. Fill.

And beneath it, rising like a dark tide to meet the shore, was the smell of Thomas. Ozone. Woodsmoke. The terrifying, electrifying scent of a storm about to make landfall. It wasn't just a smell; it was a physical weight that pressed against the walls, saturating the duvet, the curtains, and the sweat-slicked skin of the two men tangled in the sheets.

Kongpob was burning.

He wasn't Kongpob anymore. He wasn't Chef Kong. He wasn't a father. He was a nerve ending, stripped raw and exposed to the elements. The fever that had started in the garden was now a raging inferno, consuming every rational thought, every plan, every instinct of self-preservation he had carefully cultivated in England.

He was straddling Thomas’s hips, his knees digging into the mattress on either side of the Alpha’s waist. He was naked, his clothes discarded in a frantic heap on the floor, but Thomas was still fully dressed in his black silk shirt and trousers. The friction of the expensive fabric against Kongpob’s bare, sensitive skin was maddening—a torture that was both exquisite and insufficient.

“Alpha...” Kongpob whimpered, the word tearing from his throat like a prayer. “Please... Alpha...”

His vision was a blur of tears and heat. He couldn't see the room. He could only see the dark, intense eyes of the man beneath him. He ground his hips down, seeking friction, seeking pressure. His hole, wet and aching with a slick that had been suppressed for half a decade, dragged against the rough texture of Thomas’s zipper. The sensation sent bolts of lightning up his spine, making his toes curl and his back arch.

“Ah... ugh... P’... Alpha... it hurts... it’s so empty...”

He rubbed himself eagerly, shamelessly, against the bulge in Thomas’s trousers. He was a creature of instinct, desperate to spread his scent, to coat his mate in the proof of his submission. The slick flowed freely, a hot, transparent nectar that soaked through Thomas’s trousers, marking him. Kongpob clawed at Thomas’s shoulders, his nails digging into the silk, his head thrown back as he panted, each breath a ragged gasp for air that tasted only of woodsmoke.

Thomas lay still, his hands gripping Kongpob’s waist, anchoring him. He was the eye of the storm.

From Thomas’s perspective, the sight was enough to shatter the world. He looked up at the man he had grieved for, the man he had hated, the man he had loved with a violence that defied logic. Kongpob’s face was flushed a deep, aroused crimson. His lips were swollen, parted, wet with saliva. His eyes, those beautiful, doe-like eyes that usually held such quiet reserve, were now blown wide, the irises swallowed by black pupils, swimming in a pool of unshed tears.

It was the look of total, absolute surrender.

Thomas felt a growl vibrating in his own chest, a deep, tectonic rumble that started in his solar plexus. His own Rut, suppressed and controlled with the iron will of the "Ice Prince," was waking up. It smelled the Omega in distress. It smelled the heat. It wanted to break free, to claim, to knot, to breed.

But Thomas held it back. Just for a moment.

He wanted to watch. He wanted to sear this image into his brain—the image of Kongpob Jirojmontri, the boy who had run away, now begging for him, needing him, unraveling for him. It was a dark, possessive satisfaction that curled in Thomas’s gut, mixing with the sharp spike of his own arousal.

“You want it?” Thomas asked, his voice a gravelly rasp that scraped against the silence. “Tell me what you want, Kong.”

Kongpob sobbed, his hips bucking involuntarily, grinding harder against the hard ridge of Thomas’s cock beneath the layers of cloth. “Fuck... fuck me... Alpha... please... need you inside... need you to fix it...”

The desperation in his voice, the cuteness of the beg, snapped the last thread of Thomas’s restraint.

“Good boy,” Thomas growled.

He sat up abruptly, the movement powerful and sudden. He grabbed Kongpob’s hips, lifting him effortlessly, and repositioned him so that Kongpob slid down his chest. Thomas’s hands were a flurry of motion, unbuckling his belt, the sound of the metal clinking loud in the room. He shoved his trousers and boxer briefs down his thighs, kicking them off with an impatience that betrayed his calm facade.

The scent of the Omega hit him full force now that they were skin to skin. It was intoxicating. Thomas looked down. Kongpob was draped over him, his chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat. And there, right in front of Thomas’s face, was Kongpob’s cock.

It was beautiful. Pale, pink, and weeping clear fluid, twitching with every heartbeat.

Thomas didn't wait. He didn't ask. He reached out, his large hands cupping Kongpob’s buttocks, kneading the soft flesh, spreading them slightly. He pulled Kongpob forward.

Kongpob gasped as he felt the hot, wet warmth of Thomas’s breath against his pubic hair. “Alpha?”

Thomas opened his mouth and took him in.

“Ah! Oh god! P’Thomas!”

Kongpob’s knees buckled. He lost his balance, his hands scrambling for purchase, finding the wooden headboard and gripping it until his knuckles turned white. The sensation was overwhelming. Thomas’s tongue was hot, broad, and skilled. He swirled it around the sensitive head of Kongpob’s cock, tasting the salty, sweet precum that was leaking from the slit.

Thomas hummed against the flesh, a vibration that traveled straight through Kongpob’s groin and into his melting brain. He bobbed his head, taking more of the shaft into his mouth, his cheeks hollowing as he sucked.

“hhnggg... too good... P’... don’t... I’m gonna...”

Thomas ignored the weak protest. He could feel the slick dripping from Kongpob’s hole, running down his perineum, coating Thomas’s chest. It was a waste.

Thomas freed one hand from Kongpob’s hip. He dragged his fingers through the puddle of slick on his own chest, gathering the hot, viscous fluid. Then, he reached down, reaching between Kongpob’s legs.

He found the entrance. It was swollen, hot, and pulsing.

Thomas pressed his thumb against the rim, circling it, testing the resistance. Kongpob whined high in his throat, his hips twitching.

“Open for me,” Thomas murmured against Kongpob’s wet cock, before sliding one long finger inside.

“AAAAH!”

Kongpob arched his back violently, a bow strung tight. The sudden invasion, even with the slick, was a shock to a body that hadn't been touched in years. But it wasn't pain. It was a blinding, white-hot fullness. His inner walls clamped down instantly around Thomas’s finger, sucking it in, desperate to be filled.

The movement drove his cock deeper into Thomas’s throat. Thomas didn't gag. He used the opportunity to tighten his throat muscles, suctioning hard while simultaneously curling his finger inside Kongpob, hitting the prostate with a ruthless precision.

“P’Thomas! No! It’s too much! Ah! Ah! Alpha!”

Kongpob was drowning. The sensation of the mouth on his dick and the finger inside his hole was a sensory overload that short-circuited his brain. He was being devoured from both ends. Thomas established a rhythm—suck, swirl, thrust finger, curl. Suck, swirl, thrust finger, curl.

He added a second finger, stretching the tight ring of muscle. The wet, squelching sound of the slick and the finger fucking him filled the room, mixing with the sloppy, wet sounds of Thomas’s blowjob.

“I’m cumming! Alpha! I’m cumming!”

Kongpob’s thighs trembled uncontrollably. His abdominal muscles seized. With a high, keening cry that echoed off the ceiling, he released.

Thomas didn't pull back. He swallowed. He drank every drop of the spurting release, his throat working as Kongpob shuddered and jerked above him, emptying himself completely into his Alpha’s mouth.

Kongpob collapsed forward, his energy spent, his chest heaving against Thomas’s forehead. Thomas slowly released him, pulling back with a wet pop.

Kongpob’s eyes were blown wide, hazy and unfocused. He looked down, dazed. A thick string of saliva mixed with white semen connected the tip of his softening cock to Thomas’s lips.

Thomas looked up, his eyes dark with hunger. He lifted a hand and wiped the mess from his lip with his thumb, then slowly licked it clean, maintaining intense eye contact.

Kongpob bit his lower lip, a fresh wave of heat crashing over him despite the orgasm. “P’...”

“You taste sweet,” Thomas said, his voice dropping an octave. “Like you’ve been saving it for me.”

He didn't give Kongpob time to recover. The Rut was pushing at the back of Thomas’s mind, demanding its turn. He sat up, grabbing Kongpob by the waist and maneuvering him.

“Ride me,” Thomas commanded.

He leaned back against the headboard, his legs spread wide. His own cock was fully erect, a massive, angry pillar of flesh that bobbed with his heartbeat, slick with his own precum.

Kongpob looked at it. Even in his delirious state, a flicker of intimidation crossed his face. It had been so long. And Thomas was... big. Bigger than he remembered. Or maybe Kongpob had just forgotten how much space an Alpha took up.

“Come on, teerak,” Thomas coaxed, his hands guiding Kongpob’s hips. “You need this. I know you’re burning. Let me put the fire out.”

Kongpob nodded, his instincts overriding his fear. He straddled Thomas’s lap again, facing him. He reached down, his trembling hand wrapping around the base of Thomas’s cock. It was hot. Hard as iron.

He lifted his hips, positioning himself. The tip of Thomas’s cock brushed against his entrance, and Kongpob hissed.

“Slowly,” Thomas whispered. “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

Kongpob began to lower himself. It was tight. Unbelievably tight. He gasped, his nails digging into Thomas’s shoulders as he pushed down, inch by agonizing inch.

“Ugh... nnnh... it’s... big...”

“Breathe,” Thomas instructed, his hands rubbing soothing circles on Kongpob’s hips. “Relax your hole, Kong. Let me in. That’s it.”

When Thomas was halfway in, stretching the unused muscles to their limit, Kongpob paused, a sob escaping him. It felt like he was splitting open.

Thomas saw the pain in his eyes. He leaned forward, capturing Kongpob’s lips in a soft, tender kiss.

“You’re doing so well,” Thomas whispered against his lips. “So beautiful. My brave boy.”

Distracted by the praise and the kiss, Kongpob relaxed slightly. With a sudden, fluid movement, he sank the rest of the way down.

“AH!”

“Oh, fuck...” Thomas threw his head back, his hips bucking instinctively as the hot, tight velvet of Kongpob’s insides swallowed him whole. It was heaven. It was home.

Kongpob sat fully on Thomas’s lap, Thomas’s cock buried to the hilt inside him. He gasped for air, his forehead resting on Thomas’s shoulder, adjusting to the fullness.

Thomas didn't move yet. He let Kongpob adjust. He peppered kisses along Kongpob’s jawline, down the column of his throat, licking the sweat that beaded there.

“You feel incredible,” Thomas murmured. “So tight. So hot.”

His mouth found the sweet spot where Kongpob’s neck met his shoulder—the scent gland. It was swollen, pulsing with the pheromones of a heat. It was unmarked. Virgin territory.

Thomas’s canines elongated slightly. The urge to bite, to sink his teeth in and claim this Omega as his forever, to bind their souls with a mark that could never be erased, was overpowering. His jaw ached with it.

He opened his mouth, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin.

Kongpob whimpered, tilting his head to bare the gland further. “Mark... mark me... Alpha...”

Thomas froze. The consent of a heat-drunk Omega was not consent. Not truly. Not after five years of lies and separation. If he marked him now, Kongpob might wake up and hate him. He might feel trapped.

Thomas wanted Kongpob. He wanted all of him. But he wanted the Kongpob who chose him, not the Kongpob who was enslaved by biology.

He closed his mouth, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the gland instead. He inhaled the scent, memorizing it, soothing the ache.

“Not yet, teerak,” Thomas whispered into the skin. “Not like this. When you’re sober. When you know it’s me. I want you to say yes to Thomas, not just Alpha.”

Kongpob whined, disappointed, but Thomas gripped his hips firmly.

“Ready?” Thomas asked.

Kongpob nodded against his shoulder.

Thomas began to move. He started slow, lifting his hips to meet Kongpob’s downward pressure. The friction was electric. Every thrust hit a spot deep inside Kongpob that made his vision white out.

“Ah! P’Thomas! P’Thomas!”

“That’s it,” Thomas growled. “Say my name. Know who is inside you.”

He picked up the pace. The angle of the cowgirl position allowed Thomas to go deep, hitting the prostate again and again. Kongpob began to ride him in earnest, bouncing on his lap, his moans turning into broken screams of pleasure.

Thomas decided he needed more control.

“Lie down,” he ordered.

He carefully maneuvered them, flipping Kongpob onto his back without breaking the connection. Now Thomas hovered over him, his broad shoulders blocking out the light.

He grabbed Kongpob’s legs, lifting them high, hooking them over his shoulders. This position opened Kongpob up completely, exposing him to the deepest possible penetration.

Thomas drove into him. Fast. Hard. Relentless.

“Yes! Yes! Fuck me! Harder!” Kongpob screamed, his hands scrabbling at the sheets.

Thomas looked down at him. Kongpob was a mess of pleasure—face flushed, hair damp, body writhing. Thomas reached down between their sweating bodies. He wrapped his hand around Kongpob’s leaking cock, which had hardened again.

He began to stroke Kongpob in time with his thrusts.

Pump. Thrust. Pump. Thrust.

“OH GOD! I’M GONNA— I CAN’T—!” Kongpob thrashed, his eyes rolling back in his head. The dual stimulation was too much. It was sensory overload.

Thomas gritted his teeth, sweat dripping from his forehead onto Kongpob’s chest. He was close. The pressure in his balls was unbearable. He could feel the knot swelling at the base of his penis, threatening to lock them together.

But he remembered the doctor. Dangerous. Overwhelming. He remembered the secret son. He remembered the fragility of the situation.

If he knotted him now, the intensity might hurt him. Or scare him.

With a roar of frustration and pleasure, Thomas pulled out.

At the very last second, he withdrew his cock. He aimed it at Kongpob’s chest.

“Kong!”

Thomas came. It was a violent, powerful release, spurts of thick, white semen erupting from him, painting Kongpob’s heaving chest, his flat stomach, splashing up to his chin.

Kongpob cried out, his own orgasm hitting him a second later, spilling his own seed onto his belly, mixing with Thomas’s.

They lay there for a moment, panting, the only sound in the room the harsh rasp of their breathing.

Kongpob blinked, his eyes slowly focusing. He looked down at himself. He was covered in Thomas. Covered in the proof of their intimacy.

A slow, sleepy, satisfied smile spread across his face. He was still deep in the heat haze.

He reached up, dragging a finger through the warm puddle of semen on his chest. He lifted his finger to his mouth.

Thomas watched, mesmerized, as Kongpob looked him straight in the eye and sucked the fluid off his finger.

“Aróy... (Delicious...)” Kongpob whispered, his voice sultry and wrecked.

He slowly spread his legs wider, the invite unmistakable. His hole was gaping slightly, red and swollen, leaking the mixture of fluids.

“More?” Kongpob asked innocently.

Thomas felt his blood drain from his brain and rush straight back between his legs. His cock, which had just softened, twitched and began to harden instantly.

He let out a short, incredulous laugh.

“You are insatiable,” Thomas growled, crawling back up the bed, looming over his mate like a starving wolf. “You really want to kill me, don’t you?”

Kongpob just smiled, licking his lips like a cat that had found the cream.

Thomas looked at the beautiful, messy, demanding creature beneath him. He thought of the scandals outside, the lies, the past. None of it mattered. Not right now.

I am definitely in for a treat, Thomas thought, dragging Kongpob back into his arms.

“Round two, Tee-rak,” Thomas whispered, and kissed him.

Glossary of Thai Terms:

• Phi / P’ (พี่): An honorific used for an older sibling or someone older/senior. Kongpob calls Thomas "P'Thomas" as a sign of respect and intimacy from their past.

• Teerak (ที่รัก): Darling, beloved, sweetheart.

• Aróy (อร่อย): Delicious. Used here with a double meaning of tasting good and being pleasurable.

• Wai (ไหว้): (Implied gesture) The Thai greeting/sign of respect with palms pressed together.

• Kreng Jai (เกรงใจ): (Concept implied) The feeling of not wanting to impose or cause trouble for others. Kongpob usually has this, but the heat obliterates it.

• Hong Non (ห้องนอน): Bedroom.

Chapter Text