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The first time William blocks Bangkok traffic for him, Est doesn’t realize what’s happening. He’s too busy trying not to have a panic attack behind the wheel.
The early evening rush has turned Sukhumvit into a glittering, honking river of metal. Headlights smear into white lines, motorbikes slip into gaps that don’t exist, and Est’s small black coupe feels like it’s shrinking around him. The AC hums cool against his face, but his palms are slick against the leather steering wheel.
“Breathe,” he mutters to himself, throat tight. “It’s just driving. People do it every day. You’re not special, Est.”
His phone buzzes in the cupholder. The name flashing on the screen makes his stomach flip for a whole different reason.
William.
He taps his Bluetooth.
“Yeah?” His voice sounds breathless even to his own ears.
“Where are you?” William’s tone is flat, businesslike. It always is, when other people can hear.
“In hell, apparently,” Est says, trying to joke. “Sukhumvit. Everyone decided to be on the road at once. I hate this, Will.”
There’s a small pause.
“You’re driving yourself?” William asks.
Est stares at the endless stream of cars, a tuk-tuk wedging itself too close to his side.
“My driver’s sick. I didn’t want to bother you.” He aims for casual, fails. “It’s fine. I’m… handling it.”
Another quiet beat. Est can almost see William’s eyes narrowing.
“Stay in your lane,” William says softly. “Don’t change lanes, don’t speed up. I’m coming.”
“What – ”
The call cuts. Est stares at the dashboard. “What do you mean, you’re coming? From where?”
He’s halfway through rehearsing a follow-up text when the city shifts around him.
It starts with the cars ahead. A big, dark SUV glides out from a side street, smooth and confident, cutting into the line of traffic like it owns the road. It slows, blocking a truck that was about to edge into Est’s path. The SUV doesn’t honk; it just exists, and the other vehicles fall back like they’ve recognized someone important.
The plate number flashes in his headlights. Of course he recognizes it. William’s SUV.
His heart stutters.
The SUV moves forward a few meters, then its brake lights glow again, forcing the surrounding chaos to adjust. Motorbikes peel around and away. A sedan that was trying to nudge in gives up. There’s a clear line now. Directly in front of Est.
His phone buzzes again.
“Follow me,” William says. “That’s all you have to do.”
Est swallows, the panic in his chest loosening just enough to let something else in – annoyance, relief, that stupid soft warmth William always infects him with when he does things like this.
“You’re seriously blocking traffic for me?” Est asks, half incredulous, half secretly melting.
“Yes.” William’s answer is simple, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You hate driving. You’re anxious. So you don’t need to think. Just keep your eyes on my car.”
“Other people are going to get mad,” Est mutters, watching the SUV glide forward again, perfectly timed with the green light, creating a pocket of safe space for his little coupe.
“They can be mad,” William says. Est can hear the shrug. “They don’t matter.”
Est huffs out a laugh, the edge of his panic dissolving.
“You’re impossible.”
“Mm,” William says, and there’s the faintest hint of a smile softening the word. “Follow me, baby.”
He hates that the single word can send a flush up his neck. “Don’t call me that while you’re crashing Bangkok traffic for me. I’m going to get used to it.”
“That’s the idea,” William replies.
The SUV leads.
Whenever a car tries to shove its way in front of Est, the SUV shifts, blocking, commanding. It’s not reckless; it’s precise. Protective. It feels like William’s hand on his lower back, the way he sometimes guides Est through crowds, firm and steady.
Est’s breathing steadies. He still hates the mess of lights and noise, but now there’s a big dark shape to follow, reliable and familiar.
By the time they reach the turn onto the quiet street leading to William’s condominium, the panic has faded enough that Est can notice how absurd this is.
He parks in the designated guest spot; the SUV rolls into its private space. When Est steps out of the coupe, his knees feel a little wobbly. He locks the car, then looks up.
William is already waiting by the elevator.
Black mask, cap pulled low, oversized ZZAVEN hoodie over tailored sweatpants. Even dressed down, he looks like money. Like the city bends around him the same way the traffic did.
Est walks over, keys still in hand. “You’re insane.”
“I told you to call me if you had to drive,” William says. Up close, his eyes are sharp and cool, the way the industry knows them. “You hate it.”
“I don’t want to be a burden,” Est mutters. The words slip out before he can catch them.
William’s gaze flicks to the keys in Est’s hand. In one smooth motion, he plucks them away.
“Too late,” he says mildly. “You already are.”
Est bristles. “Excuse me?”
“You’re my burden.” William tucks the keys into his own pocket, as if they’ve always belonged there. “Come upstairs.”
He turns toward the elevator, clearly expecting Est to follow. Est glowers at his back for exactly three seconds before doing just that.
Because the problem is, he likes it.
He likes the way William orders the world around, the way he shields Est from the parts of it that gnaw on his nerves. He likes that under all that cold ruthlessness the industry whispers about, William will block a whole intersection just so one boy with driving anxiety doesn’t have to white-knuckle the wheel alone.
He hates how much he likes it.
In the elevator, it’s quiet. The soft hum of machinery, the faint scent of William’s cologne – clean and dark, something expensive Est can’t pronounce. Their reflections stand side by side in the mirrored wall: William taller, broader, expression neutral; Est smaller next to him, hair a little messy from running his hands through it in the car.
“Don’t look like that,” William says suddenly.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re waiting for me to scold you,” William says, not looking at him. “You did fine.”
Est snorts. “You had to escort me through traffic.”
“I wanted to,” William corrects. “There’s a difference.”
“You’re spoiling me,” Est grumbles, because admitting how much the words soothe him would be too much.
“Yes,” William says calmly. “And?”
Est has no comeback for that.
The elevator dings. The doors slide open to the private foyer of William’s penthouse. Light spills from beneath the main door, warm against the marble.
Inside, the apartment looks like it always does: expansive windows framing the night skyline, the city sprawled out like a sea of stars; minimalist furniture in shades of charcoal and cream; touches of William everywhere – ZZAVEN samples draped over a chair, a script open on the coffee table, a single mug in the sink.
It’s pristine, controlled. Except for the places Est has touched. A hoodie of his abandoned on the back of the sofa, a pair of fluffy slippers in his size by the balcony door.
Est toes off his shoes by the entrance and bends automatically to pick them up, intending to move them to the side.
A hand closes around his wrist.
“Leave it,” William says.
“I can – ”
“I said, leave it.” William’s tone doesn’t rise. It doesn’t have to. It’s the kind of voice that made directors obey even before he became a brand.
Est’s bratty streak flares on instinct. “What, you’re too rich to bend down now?”
William fixes him with a flat look. “You don’t pick things up. That’s my rule.”
“It’s your apartment,” Est points out. “I’m the one making a mess.”
“My mess,” William says simply. “I’ll deal with it.”
Est flushes, throat tightening at the possessiveness threaded into those two words. It’s stupid, how a man can say “my mess” and make it sound like “my treasure.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Est mutters, trying not to look as affected as he feels.
“So I’ve been told,” William says dryly. His hand remains around Est’s wrist for a beat longer than necessary, thumb brushing his pulse, before he lets go. “You ate?”
“On set? Barely.” Est pulls a face. “They had that crappy fried rice again. You know, the one that tastes like regret and oil.”
William’s mouth twitches. “Sit down. I’ll order something decent.”
“You don’t have to – ”
William is already pulling his phone out. “Spicy basil chicken, extra holy basil, no bell peppers, sunny-side egg, jasmine rice. And mango sticky rice. And that iced lemon tea you like.”
Est opens his mouth, closes it.
“You have my order memorized.”
“I have you memorized,” William answers without thinking.
Silence blooms between them. Est feels it physically, like air getting sucked out of the room. His chest goes warm, tight.
William clears his throat, as if realizing what he’s said. “For efficiency,” he adds flatly.
“Sure,” Est says, voice a little too high. “Efficiency.”
He flops onto the sofa, grabbing a cushion to hug just so he has something to do with his hands. William finishes ordering, then disappears briefly, returning with a soft gray ZZAVEN hoodie.
He tosses it at Est. “Change. You’re still in costume.”
Est looks down at himself. Tight jeans, a fitted white shirt, the remnants of styled hair, and stage makeup. The schedule had run late; he’d gone straight from set to his car, then straight here.
“You just want me in your brand,” Est accuses, but he’s already tugging the hoodie on. It’s oversized, drowning him in fabric that smells like William and expensive detergent.
“I want you comfortable,” William says.
“You also want a walking advertisement,” Est says, thumb rubbing absently at the embroidered logo on the sleeve. “ZZAVEN’s shameless, huh?”
“Only with the people I own stock in,” William replies.
Est blinks. “You don’t own stock in me.”
William settles into the armchair across from him, one leg crossed, expression cool.
“Don’t I?”
The words hit Est low in his stomach.
He scowls to cover the shiver that runs through him. “You can’t just say things like that.”
“Yes, I can,” William says. “Because you like it.”
Est kicks the cushion at him. William catches it with insulting ease.
The food arrives twenty minutes later, delivered straight to William’s private floor. Est tries to get up when the doorbell chimes.
“I’ll get it,” he says, reaching for his wallet.
William’s hand lands on his shoulder, pushing him gently back down. “Sit.”
“I can carry my own food, you know,” Est snaps, swatting half-heartedly at his hand.
“I know,” William says. “You don’t have to.”
“You’re going to make me soft,” Est complains.
William looks down at him, eyes dark. “Good.”
Est’s breath stutters.
When William returns with the food, Est reaches out automatically to help with the bags. William shifts them out of reach with an almost lazy movement.
“What did I say?” William asks.
Est scowls. “That I’m not allowed to pick things up. Which is stupid.”
“Yes,” William says. “It’s stupid. Humor me.”
“You’re a control freak.”
“I know.” William begins opening containers, placing them on the coffee table with precise movements. “And you like that too.”
Est’s cheeks burn. “Stop saying I like things.”
“You do,” William says quietly. “You like it when I take care of you. When I decide. When I tell you no.”
Est looks down at the glistening basil chicken, the fried egg, the perfect mound of jasmine rice. His stomach growls loudly, betraying him.
“Shut up,” he mumbles.
William’s lips tilt, almost a smile. “Eat.”
They eat side by side on the sofa, the skyline glittering beyond the glass. Est’s shoulders slowly drop, the knot in his chest unwinding with each bite. William doesn’t talk much, but he watches Est’s plate, nudging more chicken onto it when it starts to empty, swapping out the iced tea for a fresh glass when the ice melts.
It’s infuriating. It’s suffocating. It’s addictive.
Halfway through the mango sticky rice, Est’s phone buzzes. A notification banner slides down the top of the screen.
He catches a glimpse of it before it disappears – a Twitter mention. His name. William’s. A blurry photo thumbnail of two cars on Sukhumvit.
He taps it open. The tweet is from some eagle-eyed fan who must have been stuck in traffic with them.
“William Jakrapatr’s SUV literally blocking traffic so this tiny black coupe behind him can pass LMAOOOO who’s the princess in that car 💀 #William #mysteryguy”
The attached photo is grainy and distant, but you can clearly see it – William’s imposing SUV slicing through traffic, creating a safe gap, with Est’s small coupe tucked just behind like it’s being shepherded.
Est chokes on a grain of rice.
William looks over. “What?”
He shoves the phone at him. “We’re on Twitter.”
William scans the tweet, face unreadable. “Of course. There are eyes everywhere.”
“They’re calling me a princess,” Est exclaims, somewhere between offended and delighted. “Wait until they find out it really was me.”
“They won’t,” William says calmly, handing the phone back. “Your windows are tinted enough. They’ll assume it’s a manager.”
“Yeah, a manager you block traffic for.” Est narrows his eyes. “…Do you do that for everyone?”
“No.”
“So just me?”
“Yes.”
Est’s heart does that annoying lurch again.
Online, rumors have been swirling around them for months now. Ever since their drama together aired – a slow-burn enemies-to-lovers that ended in a rooftop confession and a kiss that left even the staff in stunned silence – fans have been feral.
Some call it chemistry. Some call it acting. Some, the ones with too much time and too sharp eyes, call it something else.
“#ZZAaddy,” Est says suddenly, scrolling through the QRTs. “Oh my god. They’re calling you that again.”
William raises an eyebrow. “Again?”
“‘William is literally sugar-daddy escorting his rich baby home.’ Look.” Est shoves the screen in his face again, cackling. “‘First he buys him those limited edition sneakers, now he’s out here traffic-tanking for his boytoy.’”
William’s gaze flicks over the words. For a moment, something tightens in his jaw.
“Close it,” he says.
Est blinks. “You don’t like it?”
“People on the internet don’t know what they’re talking about,” William says thinly.
Est’s smile dims a little. He studies William’s profile. “You look angry.”
“I’m not angry.”
“You’re brooding.”
“I always look like this.”
“True,” Est admits. William’s resting face is the stuff of legends – cold, sharp, intimidating. “But I can tell when you’re annoyed now. The vein by your temple does this little thing.”
William gives him an unimpressed look. “Don’t psychoanalyze me from Twitter memes.”
“Then tell me what’s wrong,” Est says, softer.
William’s fingers drum once against his knee. “I don’t like how they talk about you,” he says eventually. “Like you’re something I bought. A toy. I indulge you because I want to. Not because you’re for sale.”
Est stares at him.
“Wow,” he says blankly. “That’s… weirdly sweet.”
“I’m not sweet,” William snaps automatically.
Est grins. “Sure you’re not, ZZAaddy.”
William’s eyes darken. “Est.”
Est leans back into the sofa, crossing his arms, testing. “What? They’re not wrong, you know. You do spoil me. Fancy food, blocking traffic, driving me around, letting me stay over. Taking my tantrums.” He tilts his head, voice dipping. “Buying me those stupid expensive shoes I sent you at three in the morning.”
“You were drunk,” William says. “You said, and I quote, ‘If you really love me you’ll get these for me before they sell out.’”
“And you did,” Est says smugly.
“Yes.” William holds his gaze. “Because I really love you.”
The world tilts.
Est swallows hard. “You can’t just say that,” he whispers.
“Why?” William’s tone is almost gentle now. “It’s true.”
They’ve never defined this thing. They don’t have labels. The world calls William ruthless, cold, and ambitious. It calls Est bright, bratty, a rising star.
The world doesn’t know about the nights Est curls up in this penthouse, wearing William’s clothes, eating food William ordered, falling asleep with William’s hand in his hair. The world doesn’t know about the way William watches him like he’s the only soft thing in a life built on hard edges.
“What if they’re right?” Est blurts, the fear that’s been quietly gnawing at him for months suddenly spilling out. “What if people think I’m just with you because you’re William Jakrapatr, rich and famous and – and ZZAVEN and everything. What if they think I’m just… using you?”
William’s expression doesn’t change, but something in the air does. He sets his chopsticks down very carefully. “Are you?” he asks.
Est’s chest hurts, but still scoffs as if that's his second nature. “No.”
“Then why does it matter what they think?”
“Because it’s me,” Est says, frustration bleeding into his voice. “Because I already feel… weird, sometimes. You do so much. You pay for everything. You drive me when you could tell me to get my own life together. You never let me carry things, like I’m made of glass. You listen to my nonsense when I’m whining about schedules or diet plans or my stupid hair, and I’m just – I’m just Est. I don’t have a brand. I don’t have ten investments and a clothing line and a million PPL deals. I’m – ”
“Mine,” William cuts in.
The word lands like a quiet thunderclap.
Est’s breath stutters. “Will – You can’t keep saying that,” he says weakly.
“I can and I will,” William replies. His eyes are very dark now, all pretense of cool detachment stripped away. “You’re mine. That’s the only label that matters. You wanted to be spoiled? Then accept it. Stop acting like I accidentally tripped and bought you presents. I chose every single thing. I choose you. Every day.”
Est’s throat closes up around a stupid, embarrassing sound.
“That’s not fair,” he mumbles. “You can’t just… say things that make me want to cry.”
William leans forward, elbows on his knees.
“I don’t want you to cry,” he says softly. “I want you to understand. I’m not your sugar daddy. I’m not some investor you have to pay back in attention. I am your fucking boyfriend.” The swear slips out, rare and rough. “The world can think what it likes. They don’t get a vote.”
Est stares at him, heart banging against his ribs.
“You say ‘boyfriend’ like it’s a threat,” he manages, voice shaking.
“It is,” William says. “To anyone who thinks they can touch what’s mine.”
Est’s bratty streak flares again, desperate to defuse the emotional weight.
“What if I want to touch someone else?” he challenges, lifting his chin.
William’s eyes go flat.
“Do you?” he asks calmly.
Est’s mouth goes dry. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. “I – no, but – ”
“Then don’t start a scenario you don’t want to play out,” William says, voice low. “You can throw tantrums. You can whine. You can call me names and steal my hoodies and kick me under the table. I’ll take all of it.” He leans in closer, the air between them charged. “But you don’t threaten to leave. You don’t talk about giving what’s mine to someone else. Not even as a joke. Understood?”
The dominance in his tone slides over Est’s skin like warm oil. He should be offended. He should push back.
Instead, he shivers.
“You’re so bossy,” he mutters, trying to sound annoyed rather than turned on.
William’s eyes drop briefly to Est’s mouth.
“And you like that too,” he says.
Est’s heart flips.
He moves before he can overthink it, crawling across the small gap between sofa and armchair, swinging a leg over to straddle William’s lap. William’s hands come up automatically, one bracing Est’s back, the other settling on his thigh.
“You’re lucky I’m crazy about you,” Est says, staring down at him.
William’s gaze roams over his face, slow and hungry. “I know.”
Est rolls his eyes. “Cocky.”
“Accurate.”
“Annoying.”
“Beautiful,” William counterattacks calmly.
Est’s breath hitches.
He fists his hands in William’s hoodie, heat coiling low in his belly.
“Shut up,” he says, and crashes their mouths together.
The kiss is sharp at first, messy, all teeth and frustration. William takes it, lets him set the pace, fingers flexing on Est’s thigh. When Est gasps for breath, William angles his head and deepens the kiss, slow and deliberate, tongue sliding into Est’s mouth with a possessive ease that makes his toes curl.
Est melts against him, irritation dissolving into something molten. William tastes like citrus and spice, like the iced tea, like home. His hips move without his permission, grinding down. William inhales sharply through his mouth.
“Brat,” he murmurs.
Est nips at his lower lip. “Your brat.”
William’s grip tightens, pressing him closer. “Always.”
They lose track of time like that, kissing until Est’s lips are swollen and his hoodie is rucked up, exposing slivers of skin to the cool air. William’s hands are everywhere – spanning his back, tracing the curve of his waist, skimming down his thighs. Every touch is firm but careful, like Est is something expensive and breakable.
It makes him want to break himself apart on William’s lap just to see that control slip.
William pulls back eventually, chest rising and falling a little faster than normal. His eyes are dark, pupils blown, a rare crack in the polished facade.
“Bedroom,” he says roughly.
Est smirks, breathless. “Bossy.”
William’s mouth curves. “Say no and I’ll stop.”
Est opens his mouth.
He could, right now. He knows William means it. That’s one of the infuriating things about him. For all his control, he would never push past a real boundary.
Instead, Est leans in, lips brushing William’s ear.
“I won’t,” he whispers. “But you can try and make me behave.”
William’s breath shudders out against his neck.
“Aren’t you tired from set?” he asks, voice low.
“I’m never too tired to be annoying,” Est says primly. “And you promised to take all my tantrums, remember?”
William laughs quietly, a rare, genuine sound that Est feels more than hears.
“God help me,” he murmurs, and stands, lifting Est in one smooth motion. Est squeaks, arms flying around his shoulders.
“Put me down,” he protests automatically.
“No,” William says, as if it’s the most ridiculous suggestion he’s ever heard.
“I hate being carried,” Est insists, clinging tighter.
“Liar.”
William carries him through the apartment as if he weighs nothing, pausing only to kick open the bedroom door. The lights are low, the city a soft glow beyond the floor-to-ceiling window. The bed is huge, the sheets a cool, dark gray.
He sets Est down gently on the duvet.
Est pushes himself up on his elbows, hair mussed, hoodie slipping off one shoulder.
“You’re so dramatic,” he says.
“You like that too,” William says for what feels like the hundredth time, fingers already at the hem of Est’s hoodie.
“Stop saying that,” Est says, but his arms go up obediently when William tugs the fabric over his head.
Clothes become a blur – hoodies, shirts, jeans peeled away and discarded with less grace than William usually applies to everything. There’s nothing clinical about the way he undresses Est; it’s hungry and reverent in equal measure. He kisses the new skin he reveals, slow trails that make Est arch and gasp.
Every time Est tries to rush, William reins him back in with a steady hand, a quiet command, a firm press of fingers on his hip. It’s infuriating. It’s maddening. It’s exactly what Est needs.
“Slow down,” William murmurs against his throat. “Let me look at you.”
Est wants to snark, to say something cutting or clever, but the words dissolve when William actually does what he says – pulls back enough to take him in.
His gaze roams, unhurried: over Est’s flushed cheeks, his heaving chest, the curve of his waist, the line of his thigh. There is nothing casual in it. It feels like being worshipped.
Est squirms under the scrutiny. “Don’t stare.”
“I’m rich,” William says, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I get to stare at my investments.”
“That’s not how that works,” Est complains weakly, heat climbing up his neck.
“It is now,” William says, and dips his head again.
The kisses turn messier, hungrier. William’s hands map him out with a thoroughness that would be clinical if it weren’t for the way his fingers tremble occasionally, betraying his own restraint.
He doesn’t rush the rest either. Every step is checked and rechecked, permission asked and granted in stolen breaths, in the arch of Est’s back, in the way his fingers twist in the sheets instead of pushing away.
Est gets his bratiness out in between – whining when William slows down, tugging on his hair, muttering curses under his breath. William takes them all, absorbs them like he promised, responding not with irritation but with a patient, possessive kind of indulgence that makes Est’s chest ache.
He keeps talking, too, in those low, steady tones that always ground Est, even when his body is humming.
“Relax,” he murmurs. “Breathe. I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”
“Don’t say things like that,” Est gasps, even as his body obeys the instructions.
“Why?” William’s lips curve against his skin. “Because they’re true?”
“Because – Because – ” Est’s protests dissolve into a moan.
William swallows the sound with his mouth, kissing him through it, holding him together when he feels like he might come apart.
By the time it’s over, the sheets are a mess, their breaths ragged in the dimly lit room. The city hums on outside, indifferent. Inside, it feels like the world has narrowed to two people and the space between their chests.
Est lies boneless against the pillows, sweat cooling on his skin. Every muscle feels pleasantly heavy, sated, and limp. William lies beside him on his back, one arm tucked under his head, the other draped over Est’s waist.
“You’re staring again,” Est mumbles, eyes closed.
“Get used to it,” William says quietly.
Est cracks one eye open to look at him.
The mask is gone. No coldness, no distance. Just a tired man looking at the boy, he somehow ended up rearranging his world for.
“You okay?” William asks.
Est snorts softly. “After that? I’d be offended if I wasn’t.”
William’s lips twitch. “Good.”
They lie in comfortable silence for a while, the kind that only comes after bodies and hearts have been thoroughly exhausted. Est traces lazy patterns on William’s chest, feeling the slow rise and fall.
“Hey, Will,” he says eventually.
“Hmm?”
“You know that tweet,” Est says. “About the SUV and the little coupe.”
“Yes?”
“It’s kind of fitting, isn’t it?”
William glances down. “How so?”
“You,” Est says, poking his sternum. “Big scary SUV, blocking the world. Me, little anxious coupe, hiding behind you.”
William’s fingers flex on his waist. “You’re not little,” he says, a hint of offense coloring the words. “You’re stronger than you think.”
“Physically?” Est laughs. “No. Emotionally? Debatable.”
“I’ve seen you on set,” William says firmly. “The way you talk to staff. The way you remember everyone’s names. The way you stand up to directors when they’re being unfair. You’re braver than you give yourself credit for.”
“Don’t say sweet things in your scary voice,” Est complains. “It’s confusing.”
William ignores him. “You don’t need me to block traffic for you,” he continues. “You could have made it home on your own today.”
“Yeah, but I’d have been miserable,” Est points out.
“Yes,” William agrees. “And I don’t like you miserable.”
“So you came to rescue me.”
“So I came to protect what’s mine.”
Est rolls his eyes, but the possessive note sends a pleasant shiver down his spine. “You really like that word, huh,” he murmurs. “Mine.”
“Yes.”
“It’s very caveman of you.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“Yes, it was,” William says. “You’re mine, Est Supha. That means I’ll block traffic for you. I’ll carry your things. I’ll put up with your tantrums. I’ll buy you stupid sneakers at three in the morning. I’ll do whatever you want.” He pauses, eyes locking with Est’s. “As long as you’re mine.”
Est should tease him. He should make a comment about contracts or leases, or stock options. Instead, his throat goes tight.
“What if I’m a bad investment?” he asks quietly.
William doesn’t even hesitate. “Impossible.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” William insists. “I did my due diligence.”
Est laughs wetly. “You sound like a shareholder briefing in a meeting.”
“Good,” William says. “Maybe I should call one. Agenda: me being obsessed with you. Any objections?”
Est sniffs, blinking away the prickling in his eyes. “You’re such an idiot.”
William brushes his thumb gently under Est’s eye, catching a stray tear. “Yes.”
“And you’re supposed to be this cold, ruthless businessman,” Est continues, words slurring a little with sleepiness. “Everyone’s scared of you. They think you’re always calculating, always five steps ahead, always – ”
“They’re not wrong,” William says. “With them.”
“And with me?”
“With you,” William says, voice soft, “I sit in traffic just to make sure you’re okay.”
Est smiles, small and helpless.
“That’s so cheesy,” he mutters.
“Sleep,” William says. “You’re tired.”
Est hums, nuzzling closer, tucking his face into the crook of William’s neck. He feels William shift, reaching down.
Est frowns, eyes half-open. “What are you doing?”
“Blanket,” William says.
“I can – ”
A finger taps his forehead lightly. “No.”
Est’s lashes flutter. “You really won’t let me pick anything up, huh.”
“No,” William repeats. “Not even the blanket. Not even the pieces of yourself you drop when you’re tired. That’s my job.”
Est’s chest aches, full and soft.
“You’re doing too much,” he mumbles, the words slurred now.
“Good,” William says quietly, pulling the blanket over them, tucking it around Est’s shoulders. “You deserve too much.”
Est’s eyes finally slide shut, the weight of the day catching up with him. The last thing he registers before sleep drags him under is the steady beat of William’s heart under his ear and the light graze of lips against his hair.
Sometime later, the city shifts again.
Rain starts to patter against the glass, a soft percussion. The clock on the wall ticks past midnight. In the distance, traffic still hums – cars and motorbikes and buses threading through Bangkok’s veins.
In the penthouse, Est stirs, brow creasing.
“Will,” he murmurs, half-asleep. “I have a shoot in the morning. I should… go home. Driving. Traffic.”
William’s arm tightens around him.
“I’ll drive you,” he says, voice thick with sleep.
Est frowns, eyes still closed. “You’re busy. You have… meetings. ZZAVEN. Investors.”
“They can wait,” William replies. “You come first.”
“Stop,” Est grumbles weakly. “You’re making it worse.”
“Good,” William says again.
Est sighs, defeated.
“Fine,” he mumbles. “Drive me. Block the whole city if you want. Be crazy.”
“I will,” William says, and Est can hear the smile this time. “Every time.”
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
In the morning, William does exactly that.
He wakes before Est, showers, dresses in casual rich-boy clothes that probably cost more than Est’s entire closet, and makes coffee.
When Est stumbles into the kitchen, hair a mess, drowning in another ZZAVEN hoodie that definitely isn’t his, William pushes a mug into his hands before he can reach for anything.
“I could have – ”
“No,” William says.
Est glares weakly over the rim of the mug. “You’re unbearable.”
“Yes.”
On the drive to set, Est sits in the passenger seat of the big SUV, legs tucked under him, watching the city slide by. The roads are a little calmer in the early hours, but the familiar unease still curls in his stomach.
He glances at William’s profile – calm, focused, one hand on the wheel. Around them, other drivers glance over, double-take, some pull out their phones, but no one dares cut in front of the SUV. It parts traffic by existing.
Est relaxes, inch by inch. As the light turns green. William’s foot presses gently on the pedal. Traffic moves. Est watches the world from his safe cocoon of steel and tinted glass and William’s presence.
He reaches over without looking, fingers finding William’s free hand on the gear shift. William’s fingers curl around his, solid and sure.
“Hey, Will,” Est says softly.
“Yes, Est?”
“I’m yours,” Est says, voice barely above the hum of the engine. “You know that, right?”
William doesn’t look away from the road, but his grip tightens.
“Yes,” he says. “But it’s nice to hear it.”
Est smiles, leaning back into the seat, letting the SUV guide them through the city.
Outside, Bangkok is still its chaotic, relentless self. Inside the car, the world shrinks to two people, one big SUV, and the quiet promise threaded between their fingers.
William blocks the way.
Est follows.
And somehow, in this strange, terrifying, exhilarating life, that’s enough.
THE END :)