Chapter Text
Chay woke up to the smell of something surprisingly homely and warm curling into the room, nudging him out of sleep.
For a moment, he stayed curled up in the unfamiliar sheets, trying to piece together reality — and then he remembered.
Kim’s house.
The sprawling, modern, too-clean-to-be-true mansion that somehow still felt more like a lived-in secret than a showpiece.
He pushed himself upright, hair a mess, blinking toward the bedside table where a folded card rested neatly.
In slanted, effortless handwriting:
"Come downstairs. Breakfast's ready."
Signed off with a tiny, smug smiley face drawn at the corner.
Chay snorted under his breath, a smile pulling at his mouth despite himself.
Pulling on a hoodie and loose jeans, he padded barefoot down the polished hallway, the scent of something toasty growing stronger with each step.
When he turned the corner into the dining room, he nearly tripped over his own feet.
Kim stood at the far end of the table, backlit by the soft gold of the morning sun spilling in through the tall windows. His fair skin almost glowed against the pale blue button-down he wore — the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, the top few buttons undone. A thin silver chain linked a minimalist tie clip to his belt, a small flash of glinting rebellion against the otherwise crisp, neat look.
Chay's mouth went dry.
Oh, no.
The table was half-set — Kim’s butler, Mr. Somchai, carefully arranging plates for the others — but right in the center, there was a simple, imperfect breakfast plate that looked very unlike the polished ones being laid out.
Scrambled eggs. Toast. A little sausage.
Nothing extravagant.
But Chay could see the difference — this one had been made by hand.
A little messy. A little too much butter in the eggs.
Real.
Kim caught him standing there like an idiot and smiled — slow, a little shy around the edges.
“That one’s yours," he said, nodding toward the plate.
Before Chay could even form words, Dylan, Tyson, Sophie, and Mariana trickled in behind him, half-asleep and yawning.
Sophie elbowed him with a grin. "Damn, personal chef service?"
Mariana raised her eyebrows dramatically. "Someone’s a favorite."
Tyson wolf-whistled low under his breath before Dylan jabbed him with an elbow.
Kim, utterly unfazed, reached lazily for a coffee mug — and in doing so, stretched, the hem of his shirt riding up slightly to reveal a dangerous sliver of fair, toned skin above his waistband.
Chay felt heat rush up the back of his neck, stupid and immediate.
And because the universe hated him, Kim turned casually to face the table — leaning one hand against the surface, loose and confident, the delicate chain at his chest swinging gently with the motion.
"I just thought it was time I started looking after him properly," Kim said, voice light but unmistakably pointed.
The whole table froze.
Sophie inhaled sharply.
Tyson’s head snapped around to stare at Chay.
Mariana blinked between them like she was watching a live soap opera.
And Dylan — oh, Dylan — stiffened like someone had shoved a rod down his spine.
"You’re... looking after him," Dylan repeated, voice tight.
Kim only smiled, faint and dangerous, the corner of his mouth curving like he knew exactly what he was doing. His silver tie chain caught the morning sun, gleaming like a dare.
Chay sat down mechanically at the table, trying — and failing — not to let his gaze trace the lines of Kim’s body.
The slim cut of his pants, hugging his hips a little too well.
The casually undone buttons at his throat, exposing a glimpse of collarbone so pale it practically begged to be bitten.
Oh my God, pull yourself together.
He forced himself to focus on the plate in front of him. He shoved a forkful of eggs into his mouth to keep from saying something mortifying.
But his mind betrayed him anyway:
Dragging Kim forward by the chain, closing that tiny distance between them.
Fisting the fabric of Kim’s open shirt, pulling him flush against his chest.
Sliding fingers into the softness of Kim’s hair, tilting his head back just enough to see his flushed, wide-eyed expression before kissing him so deep that neither of them remembered their own names.
Chay swallowed hard, nearly choking on his breakfast.
Across the table, Kim — of course — caught it.
His gaze sharpened, the easy casualness slipping for just a second into something darker, something knowing.
One corner of his mouth lifted, slow and deliberate.
Chay dropped his eyes to his plate, ears burning.
Busted.
Mr. Somchai set down a platter of fruit in front of Mariana, and the conversation awkwardly restarted — Dylan attempting valiantly to steer it away from Whatever That Just Was.
But Chay could feel it.
That heavy, electric pull between him and Kim across the table.
The invisible line drawn taut between them, the chain Kim wore flashing every time he shifted, like a cruel, beautiful reminder.
Every time Chay looked up, Kim was already watching him.
Every. Single. Time.
Later — after breakfast was cleaned up and everyone wandered off to explore the house or crash back into bed — Chay found himself cornered.
Literally.
He was fiddling with the coffee machine in the cavernous kitchen, trying very hard not to think about Kim, when a presence slid in behind him.
"You're a terrible liar," Kim murmured near his ear.
Chay jumped, nearly knocking over the mug.
Kim’s laughter was quiet, wicked.
Chay turned to face him, heart hammering, mouth opening to stammer some kind of excuse.
But Kim —
Kim leaned in closer.
Close enough that Chay could see the fine shimmer of his pale skin, the way his lashes cast delicate shadows across his cheeks.
"You were thinking about it," Kim said, voice low and intimately amused.
Chay swallowed. "Thinking about — what?"
Kim smirked, slow and devastating.
Without breaking eye contact, he reached up — and flicked the delicate silver chain across his chest.
It swung lightly. Tauntingly.
"You," Kim said, voice a velvet purr, "wanted to grab this and pull me right into you."
Chay felt his knees threaten to give out.
Kim stepped closer, crowding into Chay’s space, one hand braced casually against the counter beside his head. His body radiated heat, his scent — clean and warm and infuriatingly addictive — curling around Chay like a net.
"Didn't you?" Kim said, voice low and cruelly soft.
Chay couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t think.
Kim’s mouth tilted up at one corner, half a smile and half a challenge.
"It’s okay," he whispered, mock-innocent. "Next time... maybe I'll let you."
He winked — actually winked — and then slipped away, sauntering down the hallway with a satisfied little sway in his hips, the chain flashing once more before disappearing out of sight.
Leaving Chay wrecked.
And very, very doomed.