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Episode 347 of The Heart’s Despair was dubbed poorly, the voice actors sounding bored as they recited lines about fate. Khun Thee had scoffed, swirling an expensive glass of wine. “The soul remembers what the mind cannot” the lead actor had cried.
"False" Thee had muttered to his empty penthouse. To Thee, love was a series of checkboxes he learned from television: flowers, slow-motion walks, and dramatic shouting. It was a performance.
But his body was a liar.
Every morning, the mirror showed him the truth. There was a jagged, starburst scar on his back—a bullet’s exit wound. His doctors called it a medical miracle; his father called it a reminder of the price of power. But when the hot water of the shower hit that specific patch of skin, Thee didn’t feel like a mafia heir. He felt like a boy on a pier, smelling salt water and gunpowder, with a singular, crushing thought: Is he safe?
He didn’t know who "he" was. He only knew that the phantom pain in his back felt like a badge of honor he’d gladly earn again.
Then came Peacharayat.
Peach was "boring." That’s what the world said. He was quiet, a photographer who blended into the background, a man who had been told he was "too plain" to be loved.
When Thee met him, the world didn’t just tilt; it snapped into place.
Khun Thee didn’t understand the fluttering of a heart, so he translated his soul's ancient desperation into the only language he knew: Devotion. If Peach mentioned he liked a specific bakery, Thee didn't just buy a croissant—he bought the bakery, the block it sat on, and the flour supply chain to ensure Peach never tasted a stale crumb. When a rival photographer made a snide comment about Peach’s "simplistic" style that photographer found his career erased by noon.
“You’re doing too much” Peach said one evening, his voice small as they sat in Thee’s armored SUV. “I’m not… I’m not worth a city-wide blackout just because I said the streetlights were too bright for my photos.”
Thee’s left hand tightened. The scar on his left arm—seventeen stitches from a "childhood accident" he couldn't quite remember—turned white. A roar of static filled his brain. I have spent lifetimes looking for you. I have died in the dirt for you. You are the only thing that has ever been worth anything.
“You are under my protection” Thee said, his voice dropping an octave low. It sounded like a vow. “The world can burn around you, Peach. I’ll make sure you don’t even feel the heat.”
At night, the dreams were always the same.
Thee wasn't wearing silk robes or Italian suits. He was wearing a sweat-stained shirt, standing in the humidity of a southern sea. He saw a boy with sharp, lonely eyes—eyes that belonged to Peach, but felt younger. Richer.
In the dreams, Thee didn't have an empire. He only had a gun and a promise. He felt the impact of lead in his back, the wet heat of blood soaking his shirt, and the terrifying, beautiful relief of falling so that the other boy could keep standing.
He would wake up gasping, reaching for a hand that wasn't there. He would whisper a name that started with an N, a name that felt like home, but it would dissolve before it reached his lips.
One night, in the quiet of the penthouse, Peach finally reached out. His fingers, calloused from his camera, traced the long ridge of the scar on Thee’s back.
Peach stared, his heart breaking for a wound he didn't understand.
Thee closed his eyes, leaning into the touch. For the first time in his life, he didn't feel like he was acting out a scene from a drama.
The auction gala was supposed to be another "theatrical" night for Khun Thee. He had worn a suit that cost more than a small villa, and he had spent the evening glaring at anyone who dared to breathe the same oxygen as Peach.
But then the lights shattered.
The sound was a sharp, crystalline crack—the exact sound of a sniper’s bullet hitting a chandelier. In a split second, the comedy of Khun Thee’s life evaporated. The "Love Coach" antics, the soap-opera poses, the arrogance—it all stripped away, leaving behind the raw, lethal instinct of a man who had been trained to survive since he could walk.
"Peach! GET DOWN!"
Thee didn't run; he lunged. He tackled Peach behind a heavy mahogany table just as a second round whistled through the space where Peach’s head had been a heartbeat before.
"Thee? Khun Thee?!" Peach was gasping, his camera clutched to his chest, his eyes wide with a terror that Thee couldn't stand to see.
"Stay behind me" Thee commanded. His voice wasn't dramatic anymore. It was cold. It was the voice of the Mafia heir, but deeper still, it was the voice of a bodyguard from a life he couldn't remember.
He pulled a customized handgun from his waistband—an elegant weapon for a man of his status—and began to return fire with terrifying precision. He didn't miss. He moved with a fluidity that shouldn't belong to a CEO of a perfume. He was a shadow, a wall of iron between the shooters and peach.
But then, a flash of red light—a laser sight—danced across Peach’s white shirt.
Thee saw it. And for a second, the world glitched.
The gold-leafed ballroom flickered into a dark, rainy hotel hallway. The smell of expensive cologne was replaced by the metallic tang of blood and sea salt. He wasn't Khun Thee in a designer suit; he felt the weight of a cheap jacket and the crushing responsibility of a boy who had nothing but his body to offer.
“Neung!” a voice screamed in his head.
Thee didn't think. He threw himself over Peach, shielding him completely. He waited for the impact. He waited for the heat in his back, the one that matched the scar he carried every day. His eyes were squeezed shut, his teeth bared, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
He was terrified. Not of the shooters. Not of the pain. He was terrified of the failure. He was terrified that, despite all his billions, despite all his power, he was still just that boy who couldn't stop the world from hurting the only person who mattered.
The silence that followed was heavy. His security team had neutralized the threat, the sirens were wailing in the distance, but Thee wouldn't move. He stayed hunched over Peach, his hands shaking so violently he had to clench them into fists.
"Thee? Khun Thee, it's okay. They're gone, Mok is here” Peach whispered, reaching up to touch Thee’s face.
Thee looked down at him, and for a moment, he didn't see Peach the photographer. He saw a boy in a school uniform, a boy who was his master, his friend, his everything.
"I can't lose you" Thee rasped, his voice breaking. "I’ve... I've felt you die before. I’ve felt the world end because I wasn't fast enough. I can't lose you again— I can’t"
He held Thee’s shaking hands and looked at him straight in his eyes.
"You didn't fail" Peach said firmly. "Look at me. I'm right here. I’m safe."
Thee leaned his forehead against Peach’s, closing his eyes. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind the cold, hard realization: He had an empire now. He had armies. But the fear of losing Peach was a wound that no amount of money or reincarnation or whatever this feeling he can’t quite understand yet—could ever truly heal.
The interior of the armored SUV was silent, save for the muffled hum of tires on asphalt and the occasional crackle of the radio. Mok was driving, his eyes constantly darting to the rearview mirror. He had seen Khun Thee in many states—arrogant, drunk on his own drama, obsessed with perfume notes—but he had never seen him like this.
Thee was slumped in the back seat, his expensive blazer discarded on the floor. He looked smaller, the sharp lines of his confidence softened by a primal, trembling exhaustion.
But his hand? His hand was a vice.
He was clutching Peach’s right hand so tightly that his knuckles were white. His thumb kept obsessively tracing the pulse point in Peach's wrist, over and over, as if he needed the steady thump-thump of Peach's heart to convince himself that his world is right beside him.
"Thee" Peach whispered, his voice soft in the dim light of the cabin. "You're shaking. And you're squeezing a bit too hard."
Thee didn't let go. If anything, his grip tightened. He was staring out the window, but his eyes weren't seeing the Bangkok skyline. He was seeing ghosts.
"Thee?" Peach tried again, moving closer until their shoulders touched. He used his free hand to cover Thee’s scarred palm. "I'm safe. Mok is driving. No one is following us. We’re going home."
"Home" Thee repeated, the word tasting like ash. He finally turned his head. His eyes were bloodshot, and the typical spark of "Khun Thee" mischief was replaced by a hollow, ancient grief. "I've taken you home before. In the rain. In the dark. And every time, I'm terrified that when I turn around, you won't be there."
"I'm not going anywhere" Peach promised, leaning his head on Thee’s shoulder.
"You don't understand" Thee rasped, his voice dropping to a jagged whisper so Mok wouldn't hear. "When that light hit your chest... I felt a hole open up in my back. I felt the breath leave my lungs. It wasn't just fear, Peach. It was... like a memory."
"Look at me" Peach commanded gently, forcing Thee to meet his gaze.
Thee looked. He saw the thick brows, the curve of his nose, the plump lips, the eyes that holds the galaxy in it—the features he had memorized in a thousand different lives.
"I'm not a character in your soap operas, Thee" Peach said, trying to bring him back to the present. "I'm Peach. I’m boring, quiet Peach who loves to be a freelance photographer even though his boyfriend can buy the entire country if I asked him to. And I am alive because of you."
Thee let out a shuddering breath, finally relaxing his grip just a fraction. He pulled Peach’s hand up to his lips, pressing a hard, desperate kiss to the back of it.
"I almost failed to protect you once" Thee whispered against his skin, his eyes closing as a single tear escaped. "I don't know when. I don't know how. But I know that the scars on my body are the map of my failures. I won't let another one be added. Not for you."
As the SUV pulled into the sprawling driveway of the mansion, the security gates hissed shut behind them. Only then did Thee’s shoulders finally drop.
He didn't let go of Peach’s hand as they walked inside. He didn't let go as they went up the stairs. He wouldn't let go for a long time.
Because in the back of his mind, the sound of the ocean was still roaring, and the boy with the lonely eyes was still waiting for him to come home.
Peach woke up to the smell of expensive coffee and the sound of... heavy boots?
When he pulled back the curtains of his guest suite, he didn't see the peaceful garden of the mansion. Instead, he saw a literal perimeter. There were men in black suits every five meters. Two armored SUVs were idling in the driveway. A drone hummed overhead, patrolling the fence line like a mechanical hawk.
Peach stumbled into the dining hall, only to find Thee sitting at the head of the table, looking like a king preparing for war. He was dressed in a deep emerald silk robe, but his eyes were glued to sixteen different security monitors laid out on his iPad.
"Thee" Peach said, rubbing his eyes. "There is a man with a tactical headset standing outside my bathroom window. Why is there a man at my window?"
Thee didn't look up immediately. He was swiping through facial recognition data. "His name is 708. He’s an ex-special forces marksman. He’s there to ensure that no one—not even a mosquito with bad intentions—enters your personal space."
"Thee, this is insane" Peach sighed, sitting down. "I’m going to the grocery store today. I need film rolls."
Thee finally looked up. His eyes were dead serious. "I have already purchased the grocery store. It is closed to the public today. And the film rolls? I bought the remaining stock from the manufacturer. They are being delivered via armored courier in ten minutes."
Peach stared at him. "You bought... the store?"
"I couldn't find a soap opera where the lead was a photographer" Thee said, standing up and walking over to Peach. He leaned down, his face inches from Peach’s, regaining that dramatic Khun Thee flair. "But I did find one where the hero builds a fortress for his lover. I thought... minimalist. So, I only hired fifty extra guards."
Peach laughed, a small, breathless sound. "Duffus." He is (trying) getting used to this (he will talk with thee about this matter later probably).
Thee’s hand reached out, his thumb brushing against Peach’s cheek. For a second, the "Thee" persona slipped, and the ancient soul of Palm looked out through his eyes. "I am a man who knows the price of a second's hesitation, Peach. I have the money now. I have the power. I will use every baht, every bullet, and every man I own to make sure you never have to look over your shoulder again."
That evening, the chaos of the "fifty guards" settled into a quiet hum. Peach was in the garden, taking photos of the sunset, while Thee watched him from the terrace.
Thee looked at the scar on his left hand—the seventeen stitches. He thought about the soap opera theory again. The soul remembers.
He finally understood. He wasn't just a rich man with a crush. He was a guardian who had been traveling through time, through different names and different bodies, just to find this specific person.
In one life, he had been a bodyguard bleeding on a pier. In this life, he is a mafia heir and a CEO with a gold-trimmed mansion.
The setting had changed. He had the means to protect the people he love now. Peach turned around and caught Thee staring. He didn't look annoyed by the guards or the drama anymore. He just smiled—the same sharp, beautiful smile that had once lit up a lonely life in a house by the sea.
"Khun Thee!" Peach called out, holding up his camera. "Stop brooding and look at the camera! Smile!"
Thee straightened his robe, flashed a perfectly practiced, dramatic "lakorn" grin, and struck a pose. But as the shutter clicked, he whispered a promise to the wind, a promise that echoed across every universe they had ever shared:
"I've got you now. And I’m never letting go again."