The hotel ballroom is a swirl of pastel lights and curated chaos. Fans pack the space, a sea of phone screens and hopeful eyes, each one trying to catch a glimpse of something that feels real. The NoriLux banner stretches across the stage like a dare, daring Chaiya to smile wider, lean closer, be more. The crowd roars when he steps into view, hand raised in a languid wave, body draped in a crimson designer shirt unbuttoned just enough to suggest, never confirm. It’s not hard to play his part. Chaiya’s been doing it since his face first hit a billboard, since people decided they loved the version of him that could be paused, screenshotted, replayed. His smile lands perfectly; not too sweet, not too cold. Calculated. Controlled. His partner walks out behind him and the screams pitch higher—young women grabbing each other’s arms, mouths open, eyes wide. The air is thick with tension and perfume and the pure, breathless hysteria of fandom. Chaiya doesn’t look at him yet. Not right away. He waits, lets the cameras catch his smirk first, lets the silence between them stretch just long enough to be filled with imagined longing. Then he turns, leans in close—closer than the rules require—and whispers something low enough that no one can hear it, but everyone can see the way his partner’s lips twitch with amusement. The fans erupt. He straightens up and rests a hand casually on his shoulder, fingers trailing down to his elbow, light and possessive. Just a whisper of touch. Just enough to be replayed in slow motion on TikTok later. He says something flirtatious into the mic, something about how Lux always looks good, how he must be dressing up just to impress him. The audience eats it up, shrieking with laughter and glee. And Chaiya laughs, too. But it’s hollow. Mechanical. The event drags on—selfies, Q&As, a reenactment of their most popular on-screen kiss where they get within an inch of each other and then pull away, grinning like it’s all just fun. Harmless. He can see how hard his partner tries to keep up the act, and for a second he wonders if he’s just imagining the heat in those glances. The extra seconds they linger when their shoulders brush. The way they flinch—not away—but closer when fans ask if they’re really just friends. But imagining things is dangerous. Chaiya learned that the hard way. He signs autographs like he’s in a trance, writing his name next to printed photos of his own face, next to Lux’s. Fans cry. One of them says, “You two have to be real. I know it.” Chaiya grins at her, tilts his head. “Baby, if we were, do you think we could ever tell you?” That shuts her up in the best possible way, and she covers her mouth with both hands, shaking with emotion like he’s just handed her a winning lottery ticket instead of a well-rehearsed line. An hour later, the meet-and-greet is finally winding down. He finds himself standing too close to his partner again, this time without cameras on them, just the afterglow of the performance and the residual warmth of being around someone who makes the pretense almost fun. But it’s not enough. He feels that ache again—deep in his chest, right behind the sternum, like someone took a scalpel to him and forgot to sew him up after. And it’s not just about wanting to kiss him or press him up against the side of the van on the way back to the hotel or whisper every filthy thought he’s ever had straight into his ear. It’s about wanting to know him. Outside the noise. Outside the illusion. Chaiya slips away backstage while the crew corrals the stragglers. He doesn’t say anything at first—just waits near the wall, thumbing through messages on his phone he won’t answer. His palms are sweating. His partner walks by a few minutes later, and Chaiya steps forward, casually—like it’s no big deal, like he hasn’t been rehearsing this since yesterday. “Hey,” he says, voice low, private. “You hungry?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. Doesn’t want to hear it if it’s not what he needs it to be. “I was thinking,” he adds, eyes flicking away, “we could skip the room service, skip the cameras. I’ve got a suite upstairs. Real quiet. Just...us.” He keeps his tone light, easy. But there’s a shake in his hand he hides by slipping it into his pocket. His eyes meet his for a split second, and then they’re gone again. Too much. Too soon. Or maybe too late. “We don’t have to do anything taxing like take dumb videos for social media or anything.” Chaiya says quickly, and hates himself for it—how defensive it sounds. “I just... I could use a break from pretending. Thought maybe you could too.” He laughs, bitter and soft, then looks down at his shoes. “Not that this isn’t fun. All of it. The fans, the fake flirting, the ‘are-they-or-aren’t-they’ questions. It’s a dream, right? Everything we ever wanted.” His voice dips, eyes back on his partner again. “But it’s not real. Not when we’re in front of them. and I just need a real friend. Just for a little while.” He shifts his weight, nervous in a way he hasn’t been since he was sixteen and trying to talk his first crush into a kiss behind the gym. It’s stupid, he thinks. He’s famous. Beautiful. People bend over backwards for him. But not his partner. They don’t chase. And Chaiya doesn’t beg. He swallows. Looks away again. “I’ve got leftover pad thai and a minibar that needs raiding. No cameras. No managers. You don’t even have to talk if you don’t want to.” The silence stretches between them, thick and terrifying. And still, Chaiya won’t look back. He shrugs. “It’s just dinner. No big deal. Time to kick back as friends.” He gave his signature smile.