Chapter Text
There were many things Dylan Zhou believed himself immune to: sugar-coated optimism, office gossip, and, most importantly, romance. This was deeply inconvenient for a man whose entire profession revolved around the fallout of it.
It had been another thrilling morning at Suwan & Co., where Dylan had just closed a divorce case so messy it could have been televised. The client, a lifestyle influencer married to a Thai K-pop idol, had cried precisely thirteen times, which his paralegal Nano counted from the back of the courtroom like a morbid game of bingo. Nano’s efficiency in handling discovery was matched only by his profound and unsolicited commentary on Dylan’s social life, or lack thereof.
Dylan’s victory was decisive and, in his opinion, deservedly tragic. He had secured the influencer a truly exorbitant settlement, dismantling the pop idol’s carefully crafted financial fortress piece by piece. The case was a perfect microcosm of why Dylan distrusted the whole institution: a partnership built on joint endorsements and aesthetic harmony had dissolved the instant the profit margins diverged. Just a quiet, familiar reaffirmation of his core thesis. “Love”, he remarked to his paralegal as they exited the courtroom, his briefcase held exactly parallel to the ground, “is a short-term investment that consistently overestimates its own yield. The market always corrects itself.”
Nano groaned, stretching theatrically as they walked through the sterile, marble lobby. “You really know how to kill the mood, Dylan. You just won a settlement large enough to fund a small nation. Ever tried being nice after winning a case, just for variety?”
“I find it keeps expectations low, both mine and my clients’,” Dylan replied, straightening his tie. It was a subtle, almost imperceptible adjustment of an already perfect silk knot, a physical manifestation of his internal order.
“You’re thirty, not seventy-three, and your tie is already straight. Stop trying to fix things that don’t need fixing. Live a little.”
“Perfection is the key to success; the sooner you learn that, the better,” Dylan said.
The next morning, the gossip sites did what they did best — declared him both brilliant and soulless, which was, in Dylan’s estimation, fair.
DYLAN ZHOU, THE ICE LAWYER OF BANGKOK, CRUSHES ROMANCE (AND A POP IDOL’S RETIREMENT FUND), one headline screamed, complete with a grainy photo of him looking entirely unamused beside his sobbing client. The narrative was set: Dylan was the legal hitman, the mercenary dedicated to proving that "for richer or poorer" always led to "to court we go".
Somewhere across the city, Junn Tangsakultham, the nation’s reigning romantic lead and self-declared connoisseur of all things romantic, scrolled past that same article between spoonfuls of oat cereal. He saw the photo, the lawyer’s immaculate suit, and the cold, distant look and scoffed, a purely performative sound, the kind he used in takes that were later edited for dramatic effect to convey light-hearted contempt. Junn was currently on a mandated break after wrapping a 16-episode series where his character spent most of the final two acts staring soulfully into the rain. He was exhausted by being charming.
“Who is this guy?” Junn asked, pushing his perfect, artfully messy hair back. The question was less curiosity and more genuine distaste for the man's aesthetic lack of emotional vulnerability.
His manager, Pepper, didn’t look up from his laptop. Pepper, the CEO of Junn's agency, had the sharp, watchful gaze of a peregrine falcon guarding a precious jewel. “The one who made your director’s ex cry on live TV. The one whose job is making sure love stories don't end in ‘happily ever after’ but in ‘equitable distribution of assets’. The exact opposite of our business, Junn.”
“Ugh, he sounds like the villain in one of my movies,” Junn muttered, folding dramatically onto the cream velvet sofa. He even managed to look good while complaining.
“You’ve been the villain in several of your movies, Junn, including the one where you tried to steal your own twin’s fiancée,” Pepper pointed out dryly.
“Yes, but I had reasons,” Junn protested, throwing a pillow. “A misunderstood past, a tragic inability to commit until the third act, a deep and complex sadness. This man has philosophy. He’s doing it on purpose, and he’s clearly winning.”
“And winning big,” Pepper agreed, finally looking up with a look of severe caution. “Perhaps you’ll meet him one day and correct it,” Pepper murmured, which, as fate often enjoys doing, would prove to be an unintended prophecy.
---
When Thame Teema announced a house-warming with his new husband, Po Pawat, the group chat nearly imploded with heart emojis. They were that kind of couple — disgustingly sweet, accidentally aesthetic, and somehow still grounded. Thame, the singer-songwriter, wore joy like perfume and treated life like a melody; Po, an M&A lawyer at Dylan's own firm, was every inch his calmer, perfectly tailored half, the dependable chord in the background. They were the kind of pair who made cynics slightly nauseous — or, in Dylan’s case, professionally alert. He regarded them as a valuable, complex anomaly, The One Exception, whose continued success validated his belief in the precision of contracts, even those called marriage.
“Please tell me you’re coming,” Po begged in the office kitchen, leaning against the industrial stainless steel counter with an uncharacteristic flash of warmth in his eye. “If you bail, I will seriously reconsider our friendship.”
Dylan sighed, pouring himself a cup of black coffee that matched his mood. “You’re blackmailing me, Po.”
“Yes, deservedly. You couldn’t even attend our wedding, but that I understand; your client’s ex trying to abduct their two-year-old after losing a custody battle is not something anyone would have expected,” Po said, rattling off the excuse like it was case law.
“Or maybe the higher power sitting up there and all the power your red strings have just didn’t want a divorce lawyer anywhere near your sacred union,” Dylan offered, his voice laced with mock sincerity.
Po let out a short, lawyerly laugh. “Don't be dramatic. Look, no more excuses. Get your ass to my very posh penthouse and bring a gift. Something high-thread-count or excessively vintage. You have the budget.” Po gave him a look that said, 'I know you like us; don't pretend you don't,' before turning and leaving the cabin.
Nano, who had been strategically shelving files within earshot, perked up. “Wait, a party for you? Should I buy something nice?”
Dylan grimaced. “A party? I consider it penance.”
Nano clasped his hands dramatically. “Penance for what? The unforgivable crime of being successful, guarded, and handsome?”
“For believing he’d tire of romance eventually. I was mistaken.” Dylan took a sip of his scalding coffee.
Nano completely ignored him, already checking his phone. “Great. Wine or dining set? I'll check their registry.”
---
The night arrived, and so did half of Bangkok’s creative class. Po and Thame’s apartment, located on the fifteenth floor, was an architectural masterpiece that perfectly blended Thame’s artistic warmth, lush velvet, and abstract paintings with Po’s corporate precision, clean lines, polished wood, and strategically curated library. The lights were low and warm, scattering across floor-to-ceiling windows that showcased the city lights like scattered gems. It felt secure, grounded, and entirely too happy.
Dylan hovered by the bookshelf, a deliberate choice, offering both a quick escape route and the intellectual shield of literature, holding a drink and regretting every social choice that led him there. Po was already halfway to tipsy, regaling a group of M&A colleagues with a hilarious anecdote about a hostile takeover. Thame was playing host, dancing between guests like a pop song in human form, somehow making sure every glass was full and every conversation was buoyant.
Nano, meanwhile, was thriving, having cornered Thame’s producer friend to debate the ethics of reality TV editing, shedding his professional shell the moment he walked through the door.
Then, just when Thame had clawed his paws into Dylan's neck, as if conjured by the universe’s sense of humour, Junn Tangsakultham walked in.
The room shifted. It always did when he entered one. Junn wasn't loud, but he commanded attention, the kind of presence that made people check their posture, fix their smiles, and instantly feel the need to be slightly better versions of themselves. He was wearing a dark, unstructured jacket that somehow looked both casual and devastatingly expensive, catching the low light perfectly.
Thame lit up, rushing over. “Junn! You made it!”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Junn said, hugging him easily. “This place looks like Pinterest exploded, but, like, the high-end, successful Pinterest.”
“It’s Po’s doing,” Thame laughed. “I wanted you to meet someone. Dylan, this is Junn. Junn, this is Dylan, Po’s work nemesis.”
“Not nemesis,” Dylan said smoothly, stepping out from the shadow of the bookshelf. He allowed his eyes a moment to critically assess the actor, the height, the perfect symmetry, and the practised ease. “Just a colleague.”
“Same thing,” Po called out from the kitchen close by, not missing a beat.
“And Dylan, this is Junn, an old friend. You must have seen his films,” Thame continued, gesturing between the two men.
Junn, radiant and slightly flushed, turned at the mention of his name. He was, Dylan noted with reluctant, professional precision, almost **offensively handsome**, in that effortless way that suggests constant practice and very good genetics.
“I can’t say I have,” Dylan said coolly.
Junn’s bright smile paused for a fraction of a second, a subtle crack in the performance. It was only visible to a man trained to spot perjury. “Then you’re the only one,” Junn replied, recovering quickly and flashing the full-wattage grin of a man who knew precisely how well his smile worked.
They shook hands. Junn’s grip was warm, confident, and annoyingly perfect.
“I’ve heard about you,” Junn said, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Bangkok’s Ice Lawyer”.
“Ah,” Dylan replied, deadpan. “You read tabloids for leisure. A sign of deep self-respect, perhaps a need to find new material for your tragically romantic screenplays.”
“Touché.” Junn laughed, a genuine, throaty sound that surprised Dylan. He leaned in conspiratorially. “You sound exactly like my ex. He thought my movies were ‘commercially viable saccharine trash.’”
“Then I offer my sincere condolences for the ex who was temporarily afflicted by good taste.”
“Don’t bother; he still sends flowers. He can’t quit me,” Junn shrugged, his expression a practised mix of exasperation and self-aware charm.
“How unfortunate. The lack of clean breaks is what keeps my industry thriving. Emotional ambiguity is the enemy of a solid settlement agreement.”
“Wow,” Junn said, genuinely delighted by the barbed exchange. “You really know how to make a guy feel warm and fuzzy. It’s a talent.”
Across the room, Nano watched them from his conversation pit and whispered to Po, “They’re either going to fight or kiss. There is no middle ground for those two.”
Po sighed dramatically, sipping his champagne. “Hopefully both. It’s been a long week. And maybe Dylan will stop using my office as a soapbox for his cynical worldview.”
---
The debate over marriage began after the second round of drinks—sparked by someone’s well-meaning, slightly slurred toast about “eternal love”. The party had split into two camps: the Romantics and the Realists, with Junn and Dylan at the head of their respective factions, naturally drawn back into each other’s orbit.
Junn, now slightly flushed and leaning against the counter, his celebrity aura momentarily softened by the domestic light, declared, “Love is the only thing worth risking everything for. It's the ultimate act of faith, the narrative that makes life beautiful.”
Dylan, nursing his whisky and watching the way the city lights reflected in the glass, the perfect lawyerly observer, said without looking up, “And yet people keep risking everything and losing it. Risking a clean emotional slate for five years of tax advantages and a lifetime of resentment. Faith is an excuse for poor due diligence. Marriage is a financial contract masquerading as a miracle.”
There was a pause, a spark, a collective sense that something deeply entertaining was happening.
Junn tilted his head, his eyes narrowed, but the smile hadn't vanished; it had simply sharpened. “So you’re saying you only see the balance sheet? No capacity for the intangible value?”
“The intangible value”, Dylan retorted, finally meeting Junn’s gaze, “is precisely what gets leveraged against you in court. It’s the emotional coin you lose when the contract is broken. I protect people from their own reckless optimism.”
“You don’t believe in love, do you, Ice Lawyer?”
“I believe in prenups,” Dylan countered instantly. “Acknowledge the risk, mitigate the damage. A perfectly sensible business model. Your job is to make people forget the contract exists. My job is to remind them they signed it.”
Junn laughed, not offended, just charmed by the sheer, unyielding rigidity of the man. “You sound like the villain in one of my movies. The cynical, handsome anti-hero who eventually learns a lesson in the third act.”
“Then maybe your movies are remotely worth watching, but I doubt it. The ending would certainly be predictable.”
The conversation might have continued and grown increasingly inappropriate for polite company had Pepper not appeared to extract his client. Pepper’s expression was polite but firm, conveying a thousand unspoken threats about Junn’s pristine brand image that was currently on the verge of being tarnished.
“Junn, the car’s outside,” he murmured, handing him a stylish, unnecessary coat. “The early call time is non-negotiable.”
“Already? But I was just making a new friend,” Junn protested, looking genuinely disappointed as he glanced at Dylan.
“Then you can write him a love letter later, after we’ve reviewed tomorrow’s script,” Pepper replied dryly, already guiding Junn toward the door with an arm around his shoulder that brooked no argument.
Junn gave Dylan a quick, departing salute that was more of a promise than a goodbye. “We’ll continue this debate, Ice Lawyer. Consider this a temporary adjournment.”
Dylan merely nodded, watching the actor disappear, taking the room’s ambient temperature and all the manufactured romance down with him. For a moment, the apartment seemed slightly dimmer.
And when Dylan looked up again, Nano was standing beside him, watching him like a cat that had seen something scandalous.
“What?” Dylan asked, irritated by the scrutiny.
Nano sipped his drink slowly, tilting his head. “Nothing. Just… I’ve never seen you look like that before.”
“Like what?”
“Like someone just proved you wrong, but you’re desperately trying to find the legal loophole.”