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The rain poured down in relentless sheets, turning Bangkok’s alleys into a slick, neon-lit maze.
Kim Theerapanyakun staggered through the narrow passage, one hand pressed against the bullet wound in his chest, the other gripping a blood-soaked gun. His breaths came in sharp, painful gasps. The warehouse meeting had been a disaster. Korn had sent him to handle a prospective client because Kinn was away at a “mafia conference” on a private island—Tankhun’s mocking term for it. Kim, the main family’s enforcer, wasn’t built for these negotiations; that was Kinn’s territory. But the meeting couldn’t be canceled, so Kim went, his usual cold efficiency masking his unease.
TThe client had seemed legitimate, but it was a trap.
Kim stepped out of the warehouse and slid into the waiting black SUV. The engine roared as the driver pulled away. As they turned onto the street, Kim tapped out a quick message to Korn: Client secured.
The words had barely left the screen when gunfire shattered the night, bullets pinging off the SUV’s frame like a hailstorm.
“Khun Kim, get down!” Lek, his loyal bodyguard, shouted, shoving him low.
Kim’s pulse surged. He barked at the driver, “Punch it!”
The SUV swerved, tires screaming, but an explosion lit up the night. The concussive blast—an RPG—detonated nearby, flipping the vehicle with a deafening roar. Metal shrieked, glass exploded, and the world spun violently. The impact slammed Kim against the door, pain blooming in his skull and chest as the breath was ripped from his lungs.
Half-stunned, he clawed his way out through shattered glass, blood dripping from a cut on his temple. His vision swam, but his instincts were unshakable. He snatched his gun and knife from the wreck, the metallic taste of blood sharp in his mouth.
They were already on him.
Kim fought back, cold precision cutting through the chaos. Shots cracked through the night as he moved, dropping enemies with unerring aim, his blade flashing when the distance closed. For every body that fell, two more appeared. He was relentless, but they were endless.
A searing pain ripped through him as a bullet tore into his chest. His breath hitched, the world tilting violently. He stumbled, boots slipping in blood pooling on the pavement. Around him, his men screamed and fell, one after another, until the last thing he saw of Lek was his body collapsing lifeless beside the wreck.
Rage burned hotter than the pain. Kim gritted his teeth, firing until the gun clicked empty. He slammed a fresh clip in, firing again, carving his way through sheer force of will. But even he couldn’t outgun an army.
Outnumbered, blood soaking his shirt, he turned and ran. His boots pounded against cracked asphalt as shouts echoed behind him, his pursuers closing in. He wove through backstreets, every breath a knife, every step a fight against the darkness threatening to swallow him.
Finally, he stumbled into a narrow alley, his shoulder slamming into a brick wall. His chest heaved, vision tunneling. He pressed himself into the shadows, hand clamped over the wound as warm blood spilled through his fingers. The gun in his other hand shook, slick with red.
The footsteps grew louder, then fainter, then disappeared into the night. He had lost them—for now.
Kim sagged against the wall beneath a flickering neon sign, its faded letters reading: Hum Bar.
Rain started, cold and merciless, soaking his clothes and stinging his wound. Kim let out a bitter chuckle. “Great,” he muttered sarcastically, “what could happen now?”
The door creaked open, and Kim’s hand twitched toward his gun, instincts sharp despite his fading strength. A boy walked out.
Chay slipped out the back door of the bar, his lips pursed in a pout as he muttered under his breath, “I’m eighteen, Hia needs to stop treating me like a baby.”
Earlier that evening, he’d been at home when Porsche called with urgent news: a bartender for a week-long luxurious party on an island had fallen ill, and Yok had recommended Porsche for the job. Porsche had to leave that night, so he’d asked Chay to pack his clothes and toiletries.
When Chay arrived at the bar, the first person to spot him was Yok. She swooped down on him immediately, pulling him into a hug that smelled of jasmine perfume and spilled beer.
“Oh, my baby Chay is so cute!” she cooed, pinching his cheek before ruffling his hair.
Chay’s face turned crimson in an instant, and he ducked his head, mumbling, “P'Yok, not here…” He tried to push her hands away, but Yok only laughed and kissed his cheek loudly, making him blush even harder.
“Look at you, all grown up but still my Nong Chay,” she teased, tugging playfully at the hem of his hoodie. “You’re going to break hearts one day, I swear.”
Porsche, lugging his duffel bag behind him, rolled his eyes at the sight. “Don’t spoil him, Yok. He’s already got a big head.”
Chay shot his brother a glare, cheeks still warm, but before he could retort, Porsche pulled him into a tight embrace. The strength in Porsche’s arms startled him for a moment—it wasn’t the casual hug of an older brother; it was a hold, a promise.
“Take care of yourself, Nong,” Porsche said firmly, his voice low against Chay’s ear. “I won’t have signal out there, but I’ll be back in a week. Be good, okay?”
Chay stiffened slightly, his pout returning. “Hia, you act like I can’t survive a week without you. I’m not a kid anymore.”
“You’ll always be my kid,” Porsche replied, ruffling his hair just like Yok had, though his tone was heavier, weighted with genuine worry.
Chay groaned, batting his brother’s hand away, but the warmth lingered in his chest despite the embarrassment.
When it was finally time for Porsche to leave, he cupped Chay’s shoulders and gave him one last look—the kind that said he didn’t trust the world outside with his little brother.
“Go home the back way. Don’t dawdle, don’t talk to strangers. Straight home. Shortcut, Nong. Promise me.”
“I promise,” Chay muttered, though the firmness in his brother’s voice left no room for argument.
Chay sighed, kicking a pebble as he started down the quiet alley, the weight of his brother’s overprotectiveness lingering.
He froze when he saw Kim, eyes wide. He looked young—twenty one, maybe—with dark hair plastered to his face by the rain and a soft, stubborn expression.
“Are you okay?” the boy asked, voice thick with worry as he stepped closer.
Kim’s lip curled, his usual defenses snapping into place. “I’m fine,” he snarled, but his voice cracked, weak. He tried to move, to walk away, but his legs gave out, and he nearly collapsed, black spots clouding his vision.
“You’re not fine,” the boy said, stubborn as he rushed over. “You’re bleeding everywhere!”
“I don’t need your help,” Kim snapped, but the words were slurred, his strength ebbing. He swayed, and the boy caught him, looping Kim’s arm over his shoulder with surprising resolve for someone so slight.
“Stop being stupid,” the boy muttered, grunting as he took Kim’s weight. Kim groaned, the movement jarring his wound, pain lancing through him. Up close, the boy’s face was inches away, and Kim noticed his flushed cheeks, oval face with big, expressive brown eyes. He was… striking, in a way that pierced through Kim’s haze of pain.
“I’m Chay,” the boy said, unprompted. “My Hia works here.”
Kim barely processed the words, his head spinning.
“You’ve been shot,” Chay said, voice wavering but determined. “I can patch you up. I’ve done it for Hia when he gets into fights.”
Kim wanted to argue, to shove this kid away, but his body wouldn’t cooperate.
Chay struggled under Kim’s weight, the rain-soaked enforcer swaying with exhaustion as they trudged through Bangkok’s quiet streets. Kim’s steps faltered, his strength sapped from blood loss, but Chay held firm, jaw set with stubborn determination.
They reached the modest Kittisawat house, and Chay half-dragged Kim up the creaking stairs, his arms burning from the effort. He guided Kim to Porsche’s bedroom, easing him onto the bed. Kim, ever stubborn, tried to push himself up, growling, “I don’t need this.”
“Please, stay put,” Chay pleaded, his voice soft but firm, hands gently pressing Kim back down. His touch was warm despite Kim’s skin running cold. “What’s your name?”
Kim glared, his instincts screaming to stay guarded. “Kim,” he muttered begrudgingly. “My name is Kim.”
Chay’s face lit up with a kind smile. “Nice to meet you, P’Kim. Please stay still so I can help you.” His sincerity disarmed Kim, who gave a reluctant nod, sinking back against the pillow.
Chay grabbed scissors and carefully cut away Kim’s bloodied shirt, revealing the bullet wound in his chest—a deep graze, bloody but not fatal. The sight made Chay’s throat tighten, but he forced his hands steady. He worked quickly, cleaning the wound with antiseptic. Kim gritted his teeth, pain flashing across his face.
“I’m sorry, but I need to take it out,” Chay murmured, wincing as he extracted the bullet fragments. His hands were gentle, but the sting of alcohol burned deep. Kim’s breathing turned ragged, his muscles trembling as he fought the urge to curse aloud. He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood, pride demanding silence even as agony washed over him.
“Almost done, P’Kim,” Chay whispered, his voice soothing like a lullaby he didn’t even realize he was offering. For a moment, Kim wondered why the softness in the boy’s tone felt like an anchor in a storm.
Kim’s vision blurred, the edges darkening, and at last, the pain overwhelmed him. He slumped back against the pillow, unconscious.
Chay finished, wrapping gauze around the wound with careful precision. He cleaned Kim’s other scrapes and bruises, brushing over battered skin with featherlight touches, as if afraid to cause more harm.
It was only then, as he wiped away the grime of the fight, that Chay truly looked at him. Even pale and bloodied, Kim was… striking. His jawline sharp beneath the mess of damp hair, lashes long and dark against his cheek, lips parted in shallow breaths.
Heat crept up Chay’s neck, and he quickly ducked his head, focusing on dabbing antiseptic onto a cut along Kim’s arm. Why am I blushing? he scolded himself, pressing harder than necessary just to chase the thought away.
Kim groaned faintly at the sting, his head turning on the pillow, and Chay froze, heart hammering. “Sorry,” he whispered, biting his lip. He dared another glance at Kim’s face—handsome, yes, but also vulnerable in a way that made Chay’s chest tighten.
Shaking himself, he forced his hands steady, finishing his work with exaggerated care. When he fetched a warm towel to wipe Kim’s sweat, the blush returned. His fingertips grazed along Kim’s temple, brushing strands of damp hair aside, and he couldn’t help noticing how the boyish softness of Kim’s lips contrasted with the hardened exterior he had shown earlier.
Chay’s cheeks burned. He leaned back quickly, pressing the cloth to Kim’s collarbone instead.
Satisfied the worst was handled, Chay tucked a thin blanket over Kim, smoothing it across his shoulders with an unconscious tenderness. He lingered for a moment, watching the steady rise and fall of Kim’s chest, relief loosening the knot of fear in his stomach.
Exhaustion finally tugged at him. He cleaned the bloody towels and tools, scrubbing his hands raw in the sink until they trembled. After eating a quick bowl of rice downstairs, he returned to the room.
Kim was still out cold, his face pale but peaceful in sleep. Chay stood at the doorway, chewing his lip. He thought about retreating to his own room, but worry gnawed at him—what if Kim woke in pain? What if his fever spiked?
He couldn’t leave.
In the middle of the night, Kim jolted awake, heart racing. The unfamiliar room felt like a trap, his mafia instincts screaming danger. Every shadow seemed to hold a threat, every creak in the old floorboards a warning. But then his eyes landed on the neatly applied gauze on his chest, the soothing antiseptic on his cuts. Relief flooded him briefly, sharp and unexpected.
His gaze drifted to the floor, where Porchay slept, blanket tangled around him, face peaceful and untroubled. Kim didn’t know why, but the sight calmed him, a rare sense of safety washing over his taut nerves. The boy was so small, so unguarded, yet there was an unexpected strength in the way he had carried Kim to safety. For the first time in weeks, Kim allowed himself to breathe, to feel the absence of danger, and he closed his eyes, drifting back to a hesitant, dream-filled sleep.
The next morning, soft strains of classical music—violins intertwined with gentle piano—drifted through the apartment. Kim stirred, every movement reminding him of the ache in his chest, the dull throb of bruised muscles. The medicine and bandages had dulled the pain, but he was far from healed.
Chay entered the room, tray in hand, steam rising from congee and fresh-cut fruit glinting in the morning sun. His dark eyes brightened at the sight of Kim stirring, and he placed the tray on the bedside table with a careful hand.
“Morning, P’Kim,” he said, his voice cheerful but soft. “You need to eat.”
“I need to leave,” Kim rasped, attempting to sit up, but a wave of dizziness forced him back against the pillows.
Chay frowned, stepping closer. “You can’t. That bullet wound needs rest, and the other injuries, too. Just… stay a little longer.”
Kim’s eyes narrowed, suspicion flaring. What did this kid want? Care was dangerous; attachment was dangerous. And yet, something in Chay’s gaze—open, earnest, unwavering—made it difficult to argue.
As the week unfolded, Chay’s actions spoke louder than words. He was a quiet constant, an angel in ordinary clothes, patient and selfless. He brought Kim meals daily, simple but hearty, arranging the tray carefully so Kim didn’t have to reach or strain. He changed dressings with delicate precision, brushing over bruises with a gentleness that made Kim flush in ways he didn’t understand. The boy’s hands lingered slightly longer than necessary at times, lingering over his shoulders or forearms, and Kim noticed—the blush creeping into his cheeks was involuntary, unfamiliar.
Kim hated being cared for, hated the vulnerability that pressed on his chest like an unwanted weight. Yet, Chay’s quiet persistence, the way he never demanded gratitude, slowly chipped at the walls Kim had built over years of blood and loyalty.
As Kim’s strength returned, he couldn’t simply sit idle. In small ways, he repaid the care: fixing a wobbly chair, tightening loose handles. Occasionally, their hands would brush as Chay carried a tray or adjusted a blanket, sending a jolt through Kim he didn’t care to analyze.
Conversations bloomed naturally, soft and unguarded. Chay spoke of Porsche, his protective Hia, his school life, friends, and dreams. His eyes sparkled when he talked about music, and Kim found himself lingering on every word, nostalgia tugging at the edges of his heart. He’d once been musical, too; his guitar now gathered dust in a corner, forgotten under years of mafia duties.
Kim opened up sparingly, offering fragments: a favorite song, a memory of performing for friends, a fleeting note of joy from his past life. Chay seemed to sense the weight behind his words, the hints of a life unspoken, but never pressed. He simply listened, eyes wide with interest and admiration.
One evening, Kim found Chay asleep on the sofa, books scattered across the cushions, the soft rise and fall of his chest serene. Kim draped a blanket over him, fingers lingering on the small curve of his shoulder longer than necessary, catching himself before he drew back. Another day, he crept downstairs to find Chay dancing in the kitchen, singing softly while stirring a pot, utterly lost in his own world. The boy’s laugh, bright and unrestrained, made Kim’s lips twitch into a rare, almost shy smile.
For once, life felt untethered: no mafia, no expectations, no danger looming at every corner—just warmth, laughter, and the quiet intimacy of shared moments. And even though Kim fought it, he found himself drawn closer to the boy with every glance, every smile, every small, stubborn act of care.
As the week ended, Kim stood in the living room, his body finally healed enough to move without assistance. The quiet hum of the Kittisawat household filled his ears, a stark contrast to the chaos of the past days. He didn’t want to leave—this home had become his fragile haven, a place where he could breathe without the constant weight of danger and guilt pressing down on him. Here, the sunlight spilling through the windows felt safe, and the faint scent of jasmine from the garden reminded him, painfully, of moments he could have shared with Chay under normal circumstances.
But he had to leave. The world outside awaited, and responsibilities, obligations, and dangers he could no longer ignore pressed him forward. With a sigh that felt heavier than it should, he picked up Chay’s phone—his own device lost in the wreckage of the ambush—and dialed Khun’s number.
“Kimmy! Why didn’t you call? Where are you? I was so worried, but Pa said you where probably fine !” Khun’s voice cracked with desperation, each word laced with the drama only a his big brother could muster. Yet beneath it, Kim sensed the genuine worry, the fear that had kept Khun awake nights.
“I’m fine, Khun,” Kim said curtly, masking the lingering tremor in his voice. “Tell the driver to pick me up at the corner shop.” He avoided mentioning Chay’s address, unwilling to risk anyone intruding on the sanctuary he had found these past days.
There was a pause on the other end, Khun’s worry palpable even through the phone. “Are you… really okay? You sound… different.”
Kim clenched his jaw, looking out the window at the quiet street below. The thought of being anywhere near Chay’s world, outside this temporary refuge, made his chest tighten. He knew he couldn’t linger, couldn’t give in to the pull of comfort and safety. He had promises to keep, burdens to bear, and a life that could not pause—even for him.
“Yes, Khun. I’ll be fine. Just… send the driver.” His voice was firm now, but inside, a storm of unease churned. Leaving the Kittisawat home meant leaving a piece of himself behind, the piece that had allowed him to rest, even for a short while.
Chay overheard, his face falling, knowing Porsche would return tomorrow. At the door, Kim paused, turning to him. “Thank you, Chay. For everything. I’ll never be able to repay you.”
Chay smiled, sad but warm. “It was nothing, P’Kim. I’m just glad you’re okay.”
Kim walked away, the weight of Chay’s gaze heavy on his back. Something special lingered, unspoken, as he disappeared into the night.
Weeks had passed since Kim left the Kittisawat home, but the memory of Porchay’s gentle hands and stubborn kindness lingered like a song stuck in his head. Back at the Theerapanyakun compound, Kim faced the grim aftermath of the ambush. His father, Korn, and Tankhun had pressed him for details, their voices sharp with concern and suspicion.
“What happened, Kimmy?” Tankhun had demanded, his usual flamboyance dimmed by worry.
But Kim shut them down, his voice cold and final. “Nothing. I needed to lay low.” He offered no more, walking away from the discussion, his jaw set. The news of his bodyguards’ deaths hit harder—especially Lek, his most trusted guard. The loss carved a quiet ache in Kim’s chest, one he buried beneath his usual stoic mask.
The day after his return, Kim sat in his office, the compound’s sterile walls closing in. He requested every scrap of information on Porchay Kittisawasd: his university, his schedule, his brother’s friends, the routes he took home. “Just for information,” he told himself, but deep down, it was more. An overprotective need to know Chay was okay, unharmed in a world Kim knew too well was cruel. He had Chay’s number, scrawled from that first night, but calling felt like crossing a line he wasn’t ready for.
Instead, he orchestrated a “chance” encounter at Chay’s favorite coffeehouse, a cozy spot with mismatched chairs, cakes and the scent of roasted beans.
Chay’s face lit up when he spotted him. “P’Kim!” he called, waving enthusiastically, his smile brighter than the morning sun. They talked over coffee, Chay’s chatter filling the silence Kim usually preferred.
Before they parted, Chay scribbled his number on a napkin, pushing it into Kim’s hand.
“Call me sometime, okay?” he said, eyes hopeful. Kim nodded, pocketing the number he already had, his heart doing something unfamiliar.
Over the next three weeks, they met as friends—tentative at first, then with growing ease. They went to concerts, Chay’s eyes sparkling under the stage lights as he swayed to the music. They had “friend dates” at street markets or quiet parks, Chay’s laughter cutting through Kim’s guarded walls.
One evening, as they shared street food under a string of fairy lights, Chay mentioned Porsche. “Since Hia came back from that island job, he’s been… different. Smiling all the time, talking on the phone, sneaking out.” Chay grinned, teasing. “I think he’s got a secret.”
Kim raised an eyebrow, filing the information away, but said nothing. When Porsche was out, Kim visited the Kittisawat home. They’d sprawl on the couch, watching old movies, Chay’s commentary making Kim chuckle despite himself.
In those moments, the mafia world faded, and Kim felt lighter, like he could breathe. I just wanna live in this moment forever, he thought, watching Chay laugh at a cheesy rom-com scene, his face glowing in the TV’s light.
Chay was changing him, pulling him out of the cold, calculated mafia persona he’d worn for years. Kim saw it in the small things.
One afternoon, he watched Chay stop to give his lunch to a group of street kids, his smile warm as they thanked him. Another day, Chay spotted an elderly woman struggling with heavy bags and ran to help, dragging Kim along. “Come on, P’Kim, don’t just stand there!” he teased, and Kim, grumbling, carried the bags, feeling oddly proud when the woman patted his arm.
Then there was the time Chay found a scrawny kitten shivering in an alley. He scooped it up, wrapping it in his jacket, and brought it home, naming it “Noodle” before Kim could protest. Chay’s generosity, his kindness, his pure heart—it was overwhelming, undeniable.
Kim was falling, hard. Every moment with Chay showed him a side of life he’d forgotten: soft, unguarded, good. Chay was an angel, not just in name but in everything he did, and Kim couldn’t help but believe it.
He wanted to protect that light, to keep it safe from the darkness of his world. But for now, he let himself linger in these moments, afraid to name the feeling growing in his chest, yet unable to look away from the boy who was changing everything.
Porchay sat alone in the Kittisawat garden, strumming his guitar softly, the echoes of a melody filling the quiet space. Porsche was out again—probably with that mysterious someone who kept him smiling and sneaking off lately. Chay didn’t mind; he was happy for his Hia.
But the peace shattered when a harsh pull rattled the gate. Chay froze, heart racing.
“Open up, kid!” a rough voice barked. “Your Uncle Arthee owes us, and we’re here to collect!”
Chay’s stomach dropped. He bolted inside, slamming the front door, but the loan sharks didn’t wait. With a crash, they broke through the gate and front door, wood splintering.
Two burly men stormed in, smashing lamps and overturning furniture in the living room. Chay backed against the wall, trembling.
“Wait! Uncle Thee doesn’t live with us anymore!” His voice cracked, but he tried to sound firm. “He’s not here, and we don’t have any money!”
The men exchanged glances, scowls deepening. “We don’t care,” the first man barked, his grip tightening on Chay’s arm. “Your uncle still listed your brother as collateral. You’re gonna pay! One way or another.”
“We… we don’t have anything!” Chay stammered, stepping back, trying to keep them from seeing the fear in his eyes. “Please, you can’t—there’s nothing to take!”
“Nothing?” the man growled, face twisting with fury.
Chay’s heart pounded in his chest, his knees weakening.
“You’re coming with us,” the man sneered, finally dragging his threat to its cruel conclusion. “Let’s see if your brother pays up now.” Chay’s fear spiked—he knew Porsche would do anything to save him, and that terrified him more.
An hour later, Porsche and Kinn pulled up to the house, laughing from their latest “date.” They’d met on that island job, where Porsche bartended and Kinn, the mafia heir, couldn’t keep his eyes off him. What started as playful flirting had deepened into something real, though both were too stubborn to call it love. Kinn took Porsche to dinners, slipped into Hum Bar to steal moments with him, each date pulling them closer. But as they approached the house, Porsche’s smile vanished.
The gate was slightly ajar, its lock hanging loosely, swinging with the faintest breeze. A chill ran down his spine.
“Something’s wrong,” he muttered, sprinting inside. instincts screaming. The moment he stepped inside, his worst fears crystallized before his eyes—the living room was a mess. Furniture overturned, cushions torn, a vase shattered on the floor, its flowers wilted and crushed.
Porsche’s heart sank, and a cold fury ignited. He didn’t need to see further to know who was behind this. The distinct, brutal signature of the loan sharks was clear in the chaos around him.
He dashed up the stairs, calling out, voice hoarse. “Chay! Porchay!” The rooms were empty, the silence deafening. His chest tightened, panic clawing its way up his throat. The last room—the one Chay always kept meticulously tidy—was deserted.
“They… they’ve taken my brother,” Porsche whispered, broken, the words barely audible even to himself.
Kinn, who had arrived moments later, stepped close, his presence steadying but urgent.
“We will find him,” he said firmly, gripping Porsche’s hand. Porsche was too shaken to speak, too consumed by fear to even breathe properly. Kinn’s touch anchored him, the silent reassurance that he was not alone.
The drive to the compound had been silent, each of them lost in their own thoughts, the tension thick and unspoken. But the moment Porsche set foot at the compound, he didn’t walk, he sprinted toward the main door, heart hammering in his chest, every step fueled by fear and fury.
Kinn was right behind him, grabbing his arm. “Porsche, wait! Stop!”
“No! Kinn! I don’t need help! I will rescue my baby brother alone!” Porsche yelled, twisting in Kinn’s grip, trying to break free as he surged forward.
Kinn’s jaw tightened. “Your brother was just kidnapped! I’m not going to let anything happen to you too!”
Bodyguards rushed forward instinctively, ready to intervene, but Kinn spun toward them, eyes sharp and commanding. One look, and they froze. That look said it all: Don’t touch him. He’s mine.
Porsche twisted and turned, trying to break free, but Kinn’s grip was unyielding. “I can handle this! I don’t need—”
“You can’t handle this alone!” Kinn snapped, hauling him forward through the compound. The shouting echoed off the walls, blending with the faint hum of security systems and distant engines. Porsche’s struggles weakened as Kinn’s sheer force and determination pulled him forward, unstoppable.
Every step inside the compound was a battle between Porsche’s desperation and Kinn’s insistence. Porsche’s chest heaved, voice raw with panic and frustration. “My brother is my responsibility! I… I have to do this!”
Kinn’s hands were iron around Porsche’s wrists, his eyes blazing with a mix of fury and protectiveness. “And I’m not letting you lose him too!”
Their argument echoed through the compound, reverberating off the high walls and metal gates, drawing attention from everyone inside.
Kim, walking toward the command center, paused mid-step. He caught Chay’s name drifting through the air, sharp and urgent. His pace quickened, eyes narrowing, heart thudding. “What happened to Chay?” he demanded, his voice low but carrying a fierce edge of authority and concern.
Porsche froze mid-gesture, his glare slicing through the space between them. “How the hell do you know my brother?” he spat, every muscle coiled, ready to lunge forward and demand answers. The air between them was taut, charged with suspicion and unspoken history.
Kinn stepped between them, calm but immovable. His presence was like a shield, his voice steady and commanding. “Porsche, stop. Let him explain.”
Porsche’s hands trembled slightly, a mix of adrenaline and fear, but he grudgingly paused, eyes still blazing. Kinn turned to Kim, noting the intensity in his expression as the news sank in.
“Kim… what happened? And… how do you know Porchay?” Kinn asked, his tone measured, but beneath the calm there was a sharp, leader-like authority—demanding honesty while holding the situation under control.
Kim hesitated, a flicker of conflict passing over his features. The truth was heavy, tangled with guilt, gratitude, and fear. He almost didn’t answer, words caught in his throat, but he remembered Chay’s soft insistence not long ago: to communicate better, to let those who cared know the truth. He drew in a deep breath, steadying himself.
“I… I was ambushed a few weeks ago,” he admitted, voice low, tinged with lingering pain. “Chay… he saved me. Hid me, patched me up. Took care of me.” His words softened at the last, betraying the depth of his feelings, the weight of the care Chay had shown—a gesture that only someone truly special could elicit.
Kinn’s gaze sharpened, sharp enough to cut through the room’s tension. His little brother didn’t open up easily. He knew Kim’s reticence was genuine, his restraint hard-earned. Yet here, in this moment, Chay had clearly touched something deep within him—something rare and significant.
Kinn’s voice was quieter now, but no less commanding. “Chay… he’s special to you,” he said softly, as much to himself as to Kim, observing the way Kim’s jaw tightened, the way his hands fidgeted slightly—a man unused to admitting his vulnerabilities.
Kim looked away for a brief moment, jaw tight, swallowing hard. Then, almost reluctantly, he nodded,
They dove into action immediately. Kinn’s resources traced the loan sharks to a grimy, derelict warehouse on the city’s edge, a place that reeked of menace and decay. The team began plotting a tactical strike—every angle covered, every exit accounted for—but Kim couldn’t wait. Chay was in danger, and every second he delayed felt like a lifetime of torment. His jaw tightened, and without another word, he grabbed his guns and slipped into the night, ignoring Kinn’s shouted protests.
The warehouse loomed ahead, its rusted walls and broken windows exuding menace. Kim moved like a shadow through the dimly lit streets, lethal, precise, every step calculated. When he reached the main door, he didn’t hesitate—he kicked it in, guns raised, fury and focus burning in his eyes.
Inside, chaos erupted. The loan sharks were no match for the Theerapanyakun enforcer. Bullets tore through the air, shouts and cries echoing off the metal walls. Bodies fell, scattering across the concrete floor, as Kim pushed forward with single-minded determination.
Then he saw him—Chay, tied to a chair, wide-eyed and trembling, but miraculously unharmed. Relief slammed into Kim like a tidal wave, his heart aching and soaring all at once. Without hesitation, he closed the distance, cutting the ropes that bound Chay’s wrists, pulling him close in a protective, almost desperate embrace.
“Shh… it’s okay,” Kim murmured, voice low, steady, but brimming with unspoken emotion. Chay clung to him instinctively, his small body shaking against Kim’s chest.
Kim’s eyes snapped to the loan shark boss, who cowered in a corner, pale and sweating. His voice was ice-cold, sharp as a blade. “The debt is paid,” he snarled, every syllable a promise of death if broken. “Get near them again, and you’re death.” The man nodded frantically, tears streaking his face, as Kinn’s men swept in to secure the warehouse.
With Chay safely in his arms, Kim led him toward the exit, every movement protective, every step measured to ensure nothing could harm him. Chay’s fingers curled around Kim’s sleeve, his voice barely above a whisper. “P’Kim…”
Kim didn’t reply, but he tightened his hold, pressing a gentle, almost possessive kiss to the top of Chay’s head. His heart swelled with a vow that needed no words: he would keep this angel safe, no matter the cost, no matter the danger, even if it meant putting himself in the fire a thousand times over.
As they stepped into the night, the warehouse fading behind them, Kim’s gaze never left Chay.
The compound gates closed behind them with a heavy thud, but Kim barely noticed. His focus was entirely on the small weight in his arms—Chay, finally asleep, exhaustion claiming him after the chaos of the rescue. Even on the short drive to the compound, Chay had rested against Kim’s chest, trusting him completely, and now he was utterly peaceful, his breathing soft and steady.
As Kim carried him through the compound doors, Porsche appeared, eyes wide with relief and lingering panic. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around his little brother, holding him close, fingers trembling. “He needs to be checked,” Porsche murmured, voice thick with concern.
Kinn nodded, already moving. “This way,” he said, leading them to the compound’s clinic, his hand brushing Porsche’s back.
The clinic smelled faintly of antiseptic and warmth, a calm contrast to the storm that had raged just hours ago. Nurses hurried to assess Chay, taking vitals and checking for injuries. He murmured softly in his sleep, a tiny hand brushing against Kim’s chest, and Kim’s chest tightened.
But even in the quiet of the clinic, tensions bubbled outside the door. Kinn and Porsche had stepped into the hallway, voices low but heated.
Outside the clinic, voices rose. Kinn’s tone was firm. “You and Chay need to move to the compound. It’s secure. You’ll be safe here with me and Kim.”
“I can protect my brother myself!” Porsche snapped back, his stubborn pride flaring. “We don’t need your fancy fortress, Kinn!”As
As the doctor finishing a final check on his vitals. Kim lingered nearby, his usual cold mask fractured. He’d stormed that warehouse without hesitation, guns blazing to save Chay, revealing the ruthless mafia prince he tried to hide. Now, fear gnawed at him—Chay had seen his true colors, the blood on his hands, the violence he wielded so easily. Would his angel turn away?
When the checking was complete, Chay stirred, eyes fluttering open, and a faint, grateful smile tugged at his lips.
“P’Kim,” he said softly, “thank you for saving me.”
Kim’s breath caught, his fear crumbling under Chay’s warmth. “Angel,” he said, voice raw, “you saved me first, in all ways possible.” The words spilled out, carrying the weight of their shared moments.You pulled me out of the dark when I was bleeding out. You’re… everything.”
Chay blushed, cheeks pink, but he reached for Kim’s hand, his grip firm. “I love you, Kim,” he said, eyes unwavering. “Every part, even the dark ones.”
The confession shattered Kim’s walls. He surged forward, cupping Chay’s face, and kissed him fervently, pouring every ounce of fear, gratitude, and love into it. Chay kissed back with equal passion, hands clutching Kim’s jacket, the world narrowing to just them.
“Be my angel forever,” Kim whispered against his lips, breathless.
“Forever,” Chay vowed, pulling Kim closer, their kisses deepening, fierce and unrestrained.
The door swung open with a creak, and they broke apart, breathless. Kinn stood there, a knowing smirk on his face, while Porsche’s eyes widened, his overprotective instincts flaring.
“Porchay Pichaya!” Porsche barked, stepping forward. “What’s going on?”
Chay held Kim’s hand tighter, unashamed, his blush deepening. Kim met Porsche’s glare with a steady look, a silent promise to protect Chay always.
In that moment, amidst the tension and teasing, Kim knew
Chay was his forever, his angel in a world of shadows.
You’re my angel, baby, angel