Chapter Text
The notifications flooded in at an unnatural speed—cascading down the screen as if refreshing themselves without the aid of his thumb.
Jun lay sprawled on the sofa, staring blankly at the ceiling. His shirt was unbuttoned to his navel, and a glass of lukewarm water sat heavy in his hand. To an outsider, he might have looked like a top star recovering from a wild night out.
In reality, he just didn’t have the strength to get up.
[Actor Jun—Married Man This Time? An Endless Chain of Scandals] [Top Actor Jun “Destroys” Other's Family?] [Jun’s Glittering List of Men—Has He Finally Crossed the Line?] [Actor Jun Spotted on a Late-Night Date with Married Star—Shocking Details]
Even the headlines made his eyes sting. So Jun did what he always did when he refused to fall apart: he kept scrolling. Refreshing. Scrolling.
Married actor. Late night. Together. Father of two.
Words cut out and glued together into the kind of sentence people loved.
"Are you outside?" His manager’s voice on the phone was sharp.
"No."
"Good. Don’t go anywhere. Go down to the basement. Wear a hat."
Jun answered with a quiet "Okay" and hung up.
Only then did he notice his hand was shaking. He pictured the man’s face—the one who always smiled like kindness was second nature.
A man who touched too easily, a charming voice. A hand that landed on shoulders like it belonged there. Jun had never thought it was dangerous.
He'd even been arrogant enough to think, I know how this works. I’m not stupid.
They'd called it 'a close colleague'.
"Someone I care about," the man had said, patting Jun’s shoulder. In drinking circles, he’d leaned in, light as a joke.
Jun had mistaken all of it for goodwill. He hadn't realized that smile was being repurposed as a shield to hide someone else's affair.
Jun rinsed his face with dry, cold water and stood up. He didn’t even have the energy to come up with excuses.
The conference room felt less like an office and more like an operating theater. The AC was blasting; goosebumps rose on Jun’s arms.
But behind his sunglasses, legs crossed, eyes lowered to the tablet on the table, he looked calm. At least to everyone else.
"…There’s no point in feeling wronged."
The director who’d plucked him off the street—grinning, easy, young—then polished him into a star, wasn’t fooled by appearances. But he knew this much: Jun was trying to endure.
The director clicked the cap of his fountain pen shut—sharp, decisive.
Jun pushed out his lips in a sulk. The expression looked petulant, but it was really a mask over the urge to cry. The director and the CEO exchanged a restrained sigh.
"So... we put out a correction?"
"No." The director shook his head. "That’d be pathetic."
"Even if we say 'It's not true,' the public will just go, 'Smoke doesn't rise without fire.' In situations like this, you don't put the fire out."
His eyes shifted to the closed door.
"You light a bigger one—so people turn their heads."
The door opened. A gray hoodie, a black cap pulled low. Dylan Zhou.
He walked in slowly, as if the room’s heavy air had nothing to do with him, and pulled out the chair opposite Jun. Jun narrowed his eyes behind the sunglasses.
"…Dylan Zhou?"
The genius producer who ate the music scene alive. A personality like sandpaper. A man so private that no one—woman or man—ever seemed to cross his threshold.
Jun thought, I'm so screwed, and rolled his eyes with painful slowness.
Their gazes met for a beat.
Dry. Indifferent. Jun’s shoulder twitched without permission.
It was the first time he’d ever been looked at from this close—with something that felt almost like undisguised contempt.
"So you’re the savior covering my scandal?" Jun smiled like he had all the time in the world.
"What an honor." Under the smile, he swallowed hard.
He reached for the contract on the table and fidgeted with it as if folding a paper plane. A stupid gesture meant to hide the tremor in his fingertips. Cold sweat dampened his palm.
Dylan skimmed the pages, picked up a pen, and tossed out flatly, "Take off the sunglasses. Let me see your face."
"…"
"Didn’t hear me? Take them off."
Dylan looked up. His gaze was sharp enough to pierce through the lenses, as if he could see the anxiety rattling behind Jun’s eyes.
Jun hesitated, then slowly pulled the sunglasses off and dropped them onto the table, almost like he meant to throw them.
Then the director exhaled quietly, watching them both.
"As per the contract," the director announced, "starting today, Jun, you become 'Top Producer Dylan's hidden lover.'" He continued, "There won’t be a tacky press conference. Instead, tonight—paparazzi will catch Jun moving into Dylan's mansion."
Dylan's eyes swept Jun's face like he was cataloguing every micro-expression, then he turned to the director.
"Fine. Let's sign. Decision-making power’s on me anyway." He tapped the contract title with his pen.
"The headline will be: 'Legendary Casanova Jun Finally Hooks Genius Producer Dylan.'" The CEO, who was quiet, added.
"Hooks?" Jun frowned. "Does it have to be that vulgar?"
"People don't believe 'just'." Dylan cut him off.
He leaned in. Close. A sweet, cool scent hit Jun—cool, expensive, and offensive in its perfection. Jun unconsciously leaned back.
Dylan saw that reaction, too. Dylan lowered his mouth to Jun’s ear and murmured:
"Our relationship? You seduced me, Jun."
Jun’s breath caught.
"You need to be that kind of person right now. Someone who doesn’t stop anyone who comes close.
Someone who takes whatever he wants it." Dylan didn’t strip Jun of his manufactured image—he pressed it on harder, like a mask sealed to skin. He eased back, expression unreadable, and added, casually—
"So keep doing it. Act like you do whatever you feel like, I’ll handle the mess."
Jun clenched his fist, then loosened it. A strange kind of relief crept in. This man knew exactly what Jun’s "performance" was. And knowing it—he’d still play along.
Use me, Dylan was saying. I’ll use you back.
Jun lifted his chin and smiled—slow and practiced. "Fine." And the smile he wore was so pretty—Jun almost believed it himself. "Then I’m counting on you, babe."
Dylan watched the flicker of relief, the decision, the smile, then let out a quiet laugh as he stood.
"Looking forward to it," He pulled his cap lower. "Pack your bags. Two hours."
Even after the door shut, the room’s air didn’t return.
Jun glanced once more at the sunglasses on the table.
Lies wear elegance better than truth. That’s why they’re cruel.
That night, in the underground parking lot of Dylan’s luxury mansion—lenses hidden in the dark found their prey, and the flash exploded.
Jun stepped out of the passenger seat.
He didn’t bow his head. If anything, he lifted his chin and let the light hit him full-on.
From the cameras’ angle, he looked unmoved. But on the side they couldn’t see, the fingers on the car door handle were white—gripped hard enough to hurt.
Then Dylan approached.
Jun expected the usual, an arm around the shoulder, a safe, photogenic touch.
He was already building the image in his head: lean into the neck, rest against him, give them something clean.
But Dylan’s hand went lower. To Jun’s waist, skimming the dangerous line of his hip, and then, with deliberate pressure, cinched.
"—!"
Jun jerked and looked up at him.
Dylan’s face stayed blank as he stared ahead, pulling Jun sharply into his body. Then he bent his head, mouth near Jun’s ear.
"Smile," His lips barely moved. "Like you won."
Jun slid his arms around Dylan’s neck in a smooth motion, forced his hand up in a wave, and smiled at the cameras—easy, lazy, arrogant.
As if to say: See? He’s mine.
The shot was perfect. Dylan Zhou looked like the one caught. Jun looked like the victor who owned him.
But in reality, Jun couldn’t move an inch inside Dylan’s grip.
The elevator doors shut.
Jun’s legs nearly gave out; he caught himself against the wall. Dylan’s hand grabbed his shoulder and hauled him upright.
"Nice acting," Dylan said, flat. "Good job."
He looked nothing like someone who'd just held Jun like that.
"The guest room's down the hall on the left. Make yourself comfortable. If you need something, call me."
Jun stared at Dylan's back as he walked away. The warmth from a moment ago evaporated instantly. So he really was—thoroughly business.
Three days later, the world was screaming about 'Dylan Zhou and Junn Tangsakultham'.
The scandal with the married actor had faded into "an unfortunate misunderstanding."
The company’s script was flawless. Dylan's directing was meticulous.
But the "perfect couple" themselves were dry as dust.
Jun was curled in the corner of Dylan's studio sofa, buried in scattered lyric sheets. Five hours already. Dylan sat with his back turned, focused on the monitors. No words.
Jun had thought the plan was simple: sit near Dylan, take a few 'sweet' photos, post them, done.
But once Dylan slipped into work mode, the air changed. Jun found himself shrinking into the sofa, breathing quietly so even his breath wouldn't interrupt.
At some point his eyes drifted shut.
When Dylan finally paused and took off his headset, the silence felt too complete. He turned in his chair. Jun was asleep—lyric sheet hugged to his chest, breathing evenly.
A defenseless face. Lips slightly parted. Long lashes resting like he trusted the room.
Dylan propped his chin on his hand and watched for a long time. Jun had gotten visibly thinner in just a few days. All swagger and chin-up bravado, but in reality—barely eating, tiptoeing around the apartment, trying not to 'take up space.'
Dylan’s brows pinched.
Too soft. That’s why people do this to you.
He clicked his tongue inwardly, but his eyes had already softened.
He picked up his phone. Opened the camera. Focused on Jun asleep on the sofa.
It was only because the company wanted a 'soft launch.' That’s what Dylan told himself as he pressed the shutter.
Click.
Jun looked—annoyingly pretty.
Not in a glamorous way. In a way that was too human.
Dylan posted it to his story.
No caption. No emoji.
But in the corner of the photo, the pen in Jun’s hand was visible—the silver engraving unmistakable: Dylan's.
Within ten minutes, notifications detonated. No one remembered the married actor anymore. All they cared about was the fact that Dylan Zhou—in the most private space he owned—had posted a picture of his defenseless lover.
Watching the reactions pour in, Dylan let out a quiet laugh. He flipped the phone face-down. Lowered the studio volume to the bare minimum.
Jun was still breathing softly on the sofa.
Hearing that breath mixed into the room’s air… wasn’t as bad as Dylan expected. He glanced at his reflection in the monitor’s glow and thought: For business—this was a surprisingly satisfying start.