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Thame’s phone buzzed against the wood floor.
He ignored it.
“Again from the top,” he said, breath already rough from the last run. “Chorus, bridge, last hook. No one dies today.”
Jun groaned loud enough to echo in the cavernous rehearsal room on the 29th floor. Pepper wiped sweat off his brow with the bottom of his shirt. Dylan lay spread-eagled on the floor for a dramatic two seconds before their manager, Koko’s voice snapped from the doorway.
“Move or I’ll drag you by the ankle, Dylan.”
Dylan rolled to his feet with a whine and flipped their manager off half-heartedly. Nano just laughed, stretching his neck, headphones still half-on like he could hide inside the temp mix playing in his ears.
The LED clock on the far wall blinked 12:37 in aggressive red. Thame took a breath, rolled his shoulders, and the leader persona snapped fully into place.
“From the pre-chorus,” he said, switching to English out of habit when he was in producer mode. “Count of eight. Don’t cheat the angles. Jun, I’m watching your lazy leg.”
“I hate this job,” Jun muttered, but he moved back to his mark.
Pepper laughed. “Liar, you love the attention.”
Thame hit play on the remote. The room exploded into motion; bass rattled the floor, mirrors reflecting five bodies moving in brutal sync.
Left turn. Drop. Hit. Spin. Chorus.
He should have been thinking about the upcoming comeback stage, about the lighting cues, about the camera blocking they’d have to rehearse next week. About the tour that was already selling out cities he’d never dreamed of seeing when they were rookies.
Instead, in the back of his mind, like a quiet, stubborn hum, sat the last LINE message he’d read that morning.
My Po: I have class till noon. After that I’ll see if I can swing by. Don’t die before I get there. 😘
He’d stared at the kiss emoji for a stupidly long time before going into rehearsal. Hold. The track cut. For a heartbeat, all he heard was their breathing.
“Better,” Thame said. Four men sagged in visible relief. “Jun, your leg on the last kick is still lazy.”
Jun made a mortally offended sound.
“Dylan,” Thame continued, “you’re half a beat late on the second pre-chorus. Pepper, you’re perfect. If you say it out loud, I’ll kick you. Nano, fix your shoulders on the bridge.”
“Why is it always me and Dylan that get bullied?” Jun complained, clutching his chest.
“Because you two deserve it,” Pepper muttered, then grinned when Jun shoved him.
Nano pulled one side of his headphones down. “Phi Thame, you haven’t drunk any water in thirty minutes.”
Before Thame could argue, Koko was already crossing the room, thrusting a cold bottle into his hand.
“Hydrate,” Koko ordered. “And breathe. Also, WINGS wants to come by to greet you guys.”
Nano’s eyes lit up. “WINGS? Tell them to bring sugar. I need sugar to survive this dictatorship.”
“They’re not children,” Dylan said, rolling his wrists. “They’re rookies. And two of them are taller than you.”
“Everyone is taller than him,” Pepper said. “Even the mic stands.”
Koko ignored them and looked at Thame. “They’re rehearsing on 11. Their manager asked if they can come up after your next run and watch a bit. They’re doing their first music show with you; they’re nervous.”
Thame nodded automatically. WINGS, SYNCC’s four-member girl group, had debuted four months ago and were already blowing up online. Producing their debut song had been one of the few things that dragged him out of burnout last year. They adored Mars, and Thame tried to show up for them as much as he could.
As a co-owner and major stakeholder, Thame still finds himself startled by the speed of SYNCC’s rise. In just over a year, the agency has expanded into three active groups including MARS – TALN a seven-member boy group and WINGS, a couple of solo artists under their name, a growing list of charting Thai OSTs, and even a couple of international collaborations. What began as a careful gamble has turned into something sprawling and alive, almost too fast to fully grasp.
SYNCC moved into the high-rise only a few months ago. Parts of their part of the building were still mid-design and finishing, which left the schedules slightly uneven. MARS continued rehearsing in one of their own dedicated rooms, while WINGS worked out of a rented space on the eleventh floor, waiting for the remaining rehearsal rooms to be completed.
“Fine,” he said. “We’ll run it once more, then break. Let them in after that.”
Koko hesitated, then added casually, “Also, there’s a delivery coming in soon. Special one.”
Thame lifted an eyebrow. “Food?”
Koko’s mouth twitched. “You’ll see.”
Warmth bloomed in Thame’s chest, immediate and bright. His hand tightened reflexively around the water bottle. P’Po.
He didn’t say the name out loud. He just turned back to the mirror, pretended his heart hadn’t just kicked into a completely different rhythm, and clicked the remote again.
“Music.”
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
Po balanced two large food carriers and a drink tray as the elevator doors shut, the soft chime cutting off the lobby noise.
He jabbed the button for 29 with his elbow and did an awkward shuffle to keep the drink tray level. Condensation from the plastic cups was already sliding down his fingers. His camera bag strap dug into his shoulder. His graphic tee stuck to his back under his denim jacket.
Great. You look like a boiled dumpling, he thought.
The mirrored walls reflected three versions of himself: dark hair mussed from his scooter helmet, glasses sliding down his nose, ink stain on his thumb from a rushed sketch between classes. A thin gold ring glinted on the chain around his neck – the one Thame had given him last year, hanging under his shirt where no camera ever caught it.
He bumped the carriers lightly with his hip. This is fine. Not weird. Just lunch. You’re not doing anything weird.
Except it did feel a little weird – showing up unannounced at SYNCC with enough food to feed an idol group and their manager. But Thame had been rehearsing like a man possessed between comeback preparation, producing for Dylan’s solo, and polishing demo tracks for WINGS. Po hadn’t seen him properly in four days. FaceTime kisses didn’t count.
The elevator slowed, chimed. The doors slid open on the 8th floor - where the building cafeteria and coffee shop were located.
Four girls in training clothes, two holding bubble teas, white sneakers, and ponytails stood waiting, with a woman in a neat blazer and jeans beside them. WINGS’ manager. The girls’ cheeks were flushed like they’d just finished dancing; one fanned herself with her hand.
They blinked at the mountain of food, then at Po behind it.
“Ah, sorry,” Po said, automatically polite. “Please come in, there’s space.”
The manager smiled as they stepped in. Her gaze sharpened in recognition. “Khun Po, right? Sawadee khap”
Po’s brain did a tiny panic flail. He was still getting used to people at SYNCC recognizing him on sight. “Uh, yes,” he said, dipping his head. “Sawasdee krub, Phi Pim.” He’d met her a few times on set. She was one of the few managers he trusted to actually let rookies rest.
One of the WINGS girls – Miya, main vocal, sharp eyes – leaned closer to her friend and whispered, not nearly quietly enough, “New staff? Catering?”
Po bit the inside of his cheek to stop a laugh. Another girl, Hana, the youngest, craned her neck to peer at the containers. “It smells so good. Who’s it for, Khun…?”
Po hesitated. Outsiders didn’t need to know his name. Then he figured there was no harm. Staff gossip moved faster than any official memo anyway.
“Po, krub,” he said. “Just Po is fine. And this is for Mars.”
He nodded down at the carriers. “They’ll die if they only live on vending machine snacks.”
Miya’s eyebrows lifted a little. “Ah… you’re food delivery?” she guessed, not unkindly – just assuming, the way people assumed if you weren’t holding a mic, you belonged to support staff.
Phi Pim shot her a quick look. Miya flushed, but didn’t take it back.
Po shook his head, biting back a defensive response. “Not exactly,” he said lightly. “I freelance sometimes for SYNCC. Camera work. Editing. Today is just…” He shrugged. “Lunch.”
WINGS exchanged glances. Po could see the wheels turning: freelancer staff, probably low-level. A convenient person to flirt with for information, maybe, if they needed it. Or invisible enough to forget a minute later.
“We are going to the 29th floor as well,” Hana said, smiling. “We’re going to greet Mars.”
Po’s stomach did a small twist. “Ah. Nice.”
“You work with them a lot?” Miya asked, curiosity edging into her tone. “Mars?”
“Sometimes,” Po said. “Not as much lately. I’ve been buried in school.”
He didn’t add – and in Thame’s thoughts. In their tiny slivers of time together. In late-night ramen and half-asleep cuddles on the studio couch, when Thame finally staggered in after a fourteen-hour day.
The elevator chimed as it passed each floor.
12… 13… 14…
The girls chattered about rehearsal, about a sync issue in their bridge, about which Mars member they were most nervous to meet. Phi Pim gently reminded them not to overdo the formalities.
“He’s your CEO,” she said, “but he’s also your producer. Just be respectful. Don’t cling.”
Miya sighed dramatically. “How can we not cling? It’s Phi Thame. He breathed in our recording, and the air felt expensive.”
The others giggled.
Po stared at his reflection’s eyes in the elevator mirror and tried not to imagine Thame in the studio with them. Tried not to picture Thame leaning over Hana to adjust her headphones, or tapping rhythm on Miya’s wrist.
Ridiculous. This is ridiculous. You are a grown-ass man, not a jealous cat.
29. The elevator chimed again, doors sliding open onto the rehearsal floor. The familiar smell of sweat, air freshener, and reheated coffee hit Po’s nose.
The corridor was lined with framed posters of Mars’ eras – pre-debut grunge, first world tour, the last album that had finally blown them into global consciousness. Some of the photos were his; he could recognize his own composition even without the credit line.
“Okay let's go,” Phi Pim said to the girls. “Remember to bow properly.”
Po stepped out carefully with the carriers, adjusting his grip. Phi Pim automatically held one door open for him as they approached the Mars practice room.
Through the narrow clear strip of glass, he caught a glimpse of them finishing a formation – Thame dead center, sweat-dark shirt clinging to his back, hair damp and wild.
His chest squeezed. Koko spotted them first and hit pause on the remote. The music cut off. Mars sagged, panting. Thame’s eyes flicked toward the door, and the moment he saw Po behind the food, his entire face changed.
The exhaustion didn’t disappear, exactly. But his shoulders dropped half an inch, his eyes went from sharp to soft, like someone had turned the dimmer knob to warm.
“Phi Po,” he said, even before the door was fully open. Not “hey”, not “you’re here?”, not “food”. Just Phi Po. Like the fact of him in the doorway rearranged Thame’s entire world.
Po’s breath stuttered. He stepped inside, bowing a quick greeting to Koko, then to the girls as Phi Pim ushered them in behind him. He barely had time to straighten before it happened.
“PHI POOOO!” Nano shrieked, launching himself across the room like an overexcited golden retriever.
“Careful!” Jun snapped, but he was already moving too, long legs eating the distance as if he was worried Nano would get to Po first and erase him somehow.
Pepper didn’t yell, but he walked quickly toward them, hand automatically reaching to take one of the carriers. Dylan appeared at Po’s elbow almost instantly, relieving him of the drink tray with a quiet “Let me, Phi Po,” before Po could even protest.
The room exploded into overlapping voices.
“You’re insane,” Jun said, already peering into the top container. “Is that the basil place from soi 11? I love you.”
“Move, I’m checking for my portion,” Dylan said, trying to elbow him aside.
“Thank you,” Pepper said simply, but his smile was bright and sincere.
Nano nudged Po’s arm. “You carried all this alone? Next time call me when you’re downstairs.”
Through all of it, Thame just walked straight up to him and took the carriers out of his hands like it was the most natural thing in the world, like Po was a fragile thing who shouldn’t be weighed down by plastic handles.
“You shouldn’t have carried all this by yourself,” he said quietly, for Po’s ears only. His eyes were dark and fond, a private universe in front of everyone. “I told you to text me when you come.”
“I wanted to surprise you,” Po said, suddenly very aware of WINGS standing at the back. “And your rehearsal looked intense. I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“You can interrupt anything,” Thame replied. He shifted the carriers to one hand and used the other to touch Po’s waist, just for a second. A light press, reassuring and possessive all at once.
Dylan whistled dramatically. “Wow, look at this bias. You see that, Phi Ko? You see it?”
“Shut up and lay out the food,” Koko said, but he was smiling.
Po could still feel the intensity of the eyes on him – WINGS, Phi Pim, maybe even some staff peeking in from the hall. Surprise, curiosity, a quick recalculation. This is the freelancer? their faces seemed to say. The one Mars drops everything for?
Something hot and stupidly smug stirred under Po’s ribs, tangled with the nerves.
He tried not to meet the girls’ eyes as he knelt to help Pepper organize the containers on the floor. Still, he caught the flash of Miya’s expression – bemused, a little thrown off. Hana’s mouth was a soft ‘o’ of surprise.
“WINGS are here,” Koko reminded them, clapping once. “Say hello before you inhale everything.”
“Sawadee Nong,” Mars chorused, bowing in various states of sweatiness.
“Sawadee Kha,” the girls replied in unison, bowing back. “We’re WINGS. Thank you for letting us watch the rehearsals, Phi.”
“Of course,” Thame said, shifting seamlessly back into CEO mode. He still stayed close to Po, their knees brushing even as he addressed the rookies. “You guys working hard?”
“Yes,” Hana said. “We’re trying, Phi Thame.”
Po watched his profile as he listened to them, asking about their stamina, their vocal condition, and whether the practice rooms were too cold. That was one of the things that had made him fall in love with Thame in the first place – how he took responsibility for people like he was built for it. Like every trainee, under SYNCC was his kid.
Which was why the way two of the girls looked at him now twisted something low in Po’s stomach. Hana, bright-eyed, clearly starstruck. Miya, assessing, gaze flicking between the containers, rest of MARS, Thame, and Po.
“The food smells amazing,” Hana said turning to look at Po. “You always take good care of Mars, Phi Pim said.”
Po opened his mouth to say it was nothing, but Dylan cut in with a loud, “Phi Po always takes care of us. He spoils Thame the most, though.”
Jun snorted. “That’s because Thame would forget to eat otherwise.”
“He’d probably exist on coffee and stubbornness,” Pepper added.
Nano just nodded, factual.
Thame made a face. “Stop telling the children lies.”
“It’s not a lie,” Po said automatically. “You did try to skip breakfast three days in a row last month.”
“And you climbed into bed, straddled me with a sleepy grin and a sandwich and forced me to eat it like a kid,” Thame said, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth.
Po’s face went hot. “That was supposed to be a private story.”
“Too late,” Nano sing-songed. “We are there now.”
WINGS tittered quietly, watching the easy chaos. Phi Pim gave Po a small, knowing nod, like she had just slotted several puzzle pieces into place.
They settled into a loose circle on the floor. Po ended up on the edge, between Thame and Nano, close enough to be included, far enough that he wasn’t obvious.
He tried to focus on the food, on making sure everyone got their portion, on fielding questions from TALN’s youngest who wandered in midway through to ask if there were leftovers.
But he couldn’t ignore the way Miya and Hana, seated near the mirrors, kept glancing at Thame. Not just like they admired him as their producer. Like they were studying him – the way his throat moved when he drank water, the way his hair fell into his eyes and he pushed it back, the way his hand rested, unconsciously, on Po’s knee when he laughed.
If Po hadn’t already seen their pre-debut interviews where they’d named him as their “ideal type,” he would have figured it out now.
Maybe it was the way Miya leaned a little into Thame’s space when she talked. Maybe it was the tiny pout Hana did when he looked away. Maybe it was just Po’s own stupid brain, wired to detect any possible threat and set itself on fire.
You trust him, he reminded himself. He’s yours. He makes it very clear. Don’t be that guy. He was trying very hard not to be That Guy.
Until the towel.
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
“Phi Thame,” Hana said at one point, eyes sparkling. “You’re still sweating. Here.”
She scooted closer and reached up on tiptoe, pressing a folded towel gently to his forehead, giggling. “We should take turns fanning you.”
Jun choked on his drink. Dylan made an obscene face behind his cup. Thame froze. For half a second, Po expected him to lean back, to politely take the towel and do it himself. That’s what he normally did with overenthusiastic juniors.
But maybe he was tired. Maybe his reflexes were slower. He let her dab at his forehead a couple of times before his hand came up to catch hers, fingers lightly closing around her wrist.
“Thank you Nong,” he said calmly, taking the towel from her. “I’ve got it.”
Hana’s cheeks went pink. “We just want to help, Phi.”
Miya smiled, sliding a little closer on the other side, chopsticks dangling in her fingers. “We owe you so much. Our debut, our songs. We were talking earlier about how we want to thank you properly.”
Po’s fingers tightened around his rice bowl.
He told himself it was nothing. Juniors flirted harmlessly with seniors all the time in this industry, playing up fan expectations for the cameras. WINGS didn’t know. They weren’t doing it to be malicious.
But watching Hana’s hand so close to Thame’s face, seeing Thame momentarily frozen, it hit something raw in Po he didn’t like to admit was there.
He was suddenly very aware of his own body – broad shoulders, almost as tall as Thame, in a T-shirt with a stupid cartoon frog on it and jeans with paint flecks near the knee. Hana’s legs looked like they’d been sculpted for fancams. Miya’s eyeliner was on point even after practice.
And you? You’re a nobody just delivering lunch, a voice in his head whispered. Not even on staff officially. Easy to replace, easy to forget.
He stabbed a piece of chicken a little too violently.
“I was telling the girls,” Miya said, continuing like she hadn’t noticed his inner crisis, “that you should date seriously, Phi Thame. You’re at that age, right? A stable relationship. Our vocal coach said it’s good for an artist – to have someone proper by their side.”
Po’s heart lurched. His appetite evaporated.
Jun looked between them, eyes widening in slow horror. “Ohhh shit,” he muttered under his breath. “Here we go.”
Dylan perked up like someone had just served him premium gossip. Pepper went very still. Nano’s gaze flicked once to Po, then back to Thame, quietly assessing.
“Proper?” Thame repeated evenly. “What does that mean?”
Hana swung her legs, oblivious. “Like… someone who matches you. Pretty, famous. Someone fans will approve of. Not like – ” She waved a vague hand. “You know, staff flings are fun, but then staff can quit. Fans get angry. It’s messy. It’s better if you date someone your own level.”
Her eyes flicked, briefly, to Po.
The rice in Po’s mouth turned to ash. Every insecurity he’d carefully folded away and tucked in a mental drawer was suddenly out in the open, exposed. Staff. Flings. Level. The words landed like tiny knives.
He knew they didn’t know about him. They had no idea he existed in that way. In their minds, they were probably just giving naive, excited advice. In any other room, with any other person, he might have laughed it off.
Here, now, with Thame’s warmth at his side and the ring on his chain resting heavy against his collarbone, it felt like being told he was temporary. Disposable. Not proper.
Something bitter rose in his throat. For a second, he considered getting up, mumbling something about editing work and leaving, saving Thame from the awkwardness of having to choose who to defend.
Then a hand squeezed his knee under the low table. Not hard. Not even visible above the edge. But firm, grounding.
Thame.
Po blinked. Thame still hadn’t looked at him. His gaze remained on the girls, expression unreadable. But his fingers stayed on Po’s knee, thumb rubbing one steady circle against denim.
“Phi Thame,” Miya continued, oblivious to the storm brewing, “we were saying on the way up that if you ever want, we can – ”
“Enough,” Thame said.
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. The word landed like a dropped weight, flattening conversation in an instant.
The room went very quiet.
Miya’s chopsticks halted halfway to her mouth. Hana’s hand, still hovering near her water cup, trembled just a little. Phi Pim sat up straighter, senses clearly screaming that something had gone sideways.
Po’s heart pounded against his ribs, a painful staccato.
“Phi Thame, we were just – ” Hana started.
“I heard you,” Thame cut in, still calm. “That’s the problem.”
Jun set his bowl down slowly, like he didn’t want to make any sudden moves. Dylan’s eyes were wide and bright, the human equivalent of a popcorn GIF. Pepper’s jaw flexed once; Nano’s shoulders tensed.
Thame took a breath. When he spoke again, his Thai shifted into that clipped, formal cadence that meant he was deadly serious.
“First,” he said, “you don’t talk about staff like they’re disposable toys. Not in this building. Not anywhere, but especially not here. The people who work behind the camera, in the office, in the studio – without them, you don’t have a debut. You don’t have pretty photos. You don’t have songs. You will treat them with respect.”
Hana’s cheeks flushed. Miya’s eyes dropped.
“Second,” Thame continued, “you don’t step into someone else’s practice room and comment on their personal life. You’re our juniors. Artists under SYNCC. I’m your CEO, your producer, and your phi. That means I’ll look after you. It does not mean my personal life is up for discussion.”
Po’s throat burned.
“And third,” Thame said, eyes narrowing, “Don’t talk like you know anything about my relationship.”
The word relationship hit like a thunder. Po’s breath caught.
Across from him, Dylan’s mouth fell open. Jun made a tiny strangled sound and coughed to cover it. Pepper’s gaze flickered to Po for a fraction of a second and back. Nano didn’t move, but something in his expression softened.
“I don’t have flings,” Thame went on, tone like ice over fire. “I don’t have time or energy for that. I have one person. My first. And my last. I chose him. Every day since, I keep choosing him. I’m not waiting to upgrade to some ‘societally-considered proper’ version later. He is it for me.”
He finally turned his head then, looking at Po. Looking through him, into him, like he was the only one in the room.
Po felt pinned in place, breathless. The jealousy, the hurt, the ugly churn of insecurity – all of it stuttered, then melted under an intense warmth that washed through him so suddenly his eyes prickled.
Thame’s hand slid up from his knee, fingers curling around his wrist. Not hiding. Not subtle anymore.
“He’s not a fling,” Thame said, voice lowering slightly. “He’s not temporary. He’s not practice for something better. If anyone thinks that, they’re wrong. And it’s my fault for not making it clear enough.”
Silence. Thick and ringing.
Miya swallowed. “Phi Thame, we didn’t mean – ”
“It doesn’t matter what you meant or not,” Thame said, less sharp now, but firm. “Words can still cut, even when you’re joking. Especially in this industry. You’re public figures now. You need to think before you speak. About fans. About the people around you. About the staff who make your lives easier. And about the fact that sometimes, the person you’re carelessly talking about might be sitting right in front of you.”
Hana’s eyes flew to Po, horrified.
“Oh my god!” she blurted. “I’m so sorry, Phi.”
Miya bowed deeply, eyes shining. “We are really sorry, Phi Thame. Phi Po. We were rude.”
Po opened his mouth, instinctively wanting to say it was okay. It wasn’t really okay. It had hurt. But watching them fold in on themselves like scolded puppies made another part of him ache.
Thame’s fingers tightened briefly on his wrist, like he knew exactly where Po’s thoughts were going.
“I’m not saying this to crush you,” Thame said, some of the frost melting from his tone. “You’re talented. You work hard. I want you to succeed. But SYNCC is not going to be the kind of company where idols joke about staff like they’re beneath you. Understand?”
They nodded rapidly, murmuring yes, Phi, we understand.
“Good,” Thame said. He glanced at Koko. “Have a meeting with them and Phi Pim later. Go over this again. Make sure it sinks in.”
Koko nodded, expression serious. “Khap, Nong Thame.”
The atmosphere was still tense, fragile. People started eating again in small, careful motions. Voices slowly rose in cautious conversation – Jun whispering something to Dylan that made him choke on a piece of chicken, TALN’s youngest asking Nano about a chord change in their new song.
But Po felt like his entire brain had been rewired. He stared at his bowl without seeing it, Thame’s words replaying on loop. I have one person. My first. My last. I chose him. I keep choosing him.
He didn’t realize his hands were trembling slightly until Thame quietly took his chopsticks and set them aside.
“Phi..,” Thame said softly. “Eat a little.”
“I’m… I’m fine,” Po said, voice coming out hoarse.
“You’re not,” Thame murmured. “You don’t have to be strong every time someone says something stupid, you know.”
Po swallowed. He wanted to argue. To say he’d heard worse, that he could handle it. But under the table, still hidden, he turned his hand palm-up and tangled their fingers together.
Thame squeezed back.
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
They escaped the room as soon as Koko announced the end of the break. “Thirty minutes,” he said, clapping. “Then back to practice. WINGS, we’ll talk after this. Mars, don’t overeat and then complain your stomach hurts. Po, if you stay, they’ll make you film content, so run while you can.”
“That’s a threat,” Jun said.
“That’s a promise,” Koko replied.
Po started to say he could hang around, maybe get some rehearsal footage, but Thame was already standing, tugging gently on his hand.
“Come with me,” he said.
Po blinked. “You have rehear – ”
“Come on Phi….,” Thame said.
“Where?” Po hissed. “In the building?”
Jun, looking at Thame and Po’s closeness, groaned dramatically. “Ahh, my innocent eyes.”
“You’re not innocent,” Dylan scoffed. “You send the dirtiest memes in the group chat.”
“Shut up, both of you,” Pepper said, already dragging them back toward the centre of the room. “Thame, go. We’ll run the intro slow while you’re gone, or something.”
Kao, TALN, leaning in the doorframe, snickered. “He’s right, Phi Thame. Take your boyfriend on a date. We’ll survive thirty minutes.”
Po’s ears burned. “Stop calling me that,” he muttered at Kao.
Kao just grinned wider. “What, boyfriend? Should I try… future husband?”
Po gaped. “Nong Kao – ”
Thame, traitor that he was, just smirked. “Focus on your own life,” he said, but his thumb stroked absent circles against Po’s knuckles.
They slipped out into the corridor under a wave of catcalls and laughter.
“If you make Phi Po come back with hickeys, I’m filing a complaint! ” Dylan yelled after them.
“Dylan!” Koko barked.
The door swung shut behind them.
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
The corridor felt somehow quieter, the fluorescent lights less harsh, now that the rehearsal room door was between them and the chaos.
Po exhaled. “You’re unbelievable,” he muttered, though he didn’t pull his hand away. “CEO using company time for romance.”
“I’ll invoice myself,” Thame said, lips quirking.
“That’s not how invoices work,” Po said weakly. “Where are we going?”
Instead of heading down the hallway to the lounge or break room, Thame turned toward the emergency stairwell.
“Roof,” he said.
“We’re not allowed up there,” Po protested automatically, eyeing the red-letter warning about alarms and authorized personnel.
Thame pushed the bar open. No alarm shrieked. “We got permission a few months back when we did the rooftop shoot, remember? Koko signed the paper. I still have a copy.”
“That was for work,” Po pointed out. “Not to – ” he didn’t want to finish that sentence with “make out,” but his brain supplied it anyway.
“Work-life balance,” Thame said lightly. “Come on.”
The stairwell was cool and faintly echoey. Their footsteps bounced off the concrete as they climbed one flight. Thame’s hand never left Po’s, grip firm, like he was afraid if he let go Po would drift away.
He pushed open the heavy door at the top. Sunlight spilled around them, bright and hot.
The roof wasn’t glamorous. A few ventilation units hummed, a metal railing lined the edge, and someone had optimistically left a potted plant near a vent that looked half-dead. But beyond that, the city stretched in every direction – layers of glass and concrete and green, heat shimmering in the midday air. The sky was blinding blue.
“Wow,” Po said softly. “I forgot what the city looks like from up above.”
“Yeah,” Thame said, guiding him toward a strip of shade cast by the building’s giant logo. “I come sometimes when Koko can’t find me.”
“Is that why he complains about you disappearing?” Po asked.
“That, and the other places he hasn’t found yet,” Thame said.
Po rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.
Thame slid down the wall into a seated position and tugged Po gently to sit between his legs. Po went with the pull, settling with his back against Thame’s chest, feeling solid warmth surround him. Strong arms wrapped around his waist, palms splaying over his stomach like they belonged there.
“This is abuse of power,” Po said, but the protest lacked any real heat.
“You love being abused,” Thame murmured into his ear.
Po choked. “Excuse me?”
“With affection. And nibbles,” Thame corrected, laughing quietly. “Obviously.”
He pressed his cheek to Po’s shoulder. For a while, they just sat there, letting the wind tug at their hair, letting the noise of the city wash up from below – a distant, steady thrum. Po felt his heart rate finally start to settle, the adrenaline of the confrontation downstairs ebbing, leaving behind a humming ache.
“You okay?” Thame asked softly, as if he could feel the shift.
Po stared at the sky for a moment. “You didn’t have to do that,” he said. “Downstairs, I mean. Scold them like that. You’re going to terrify them.”
“They’ll live,” Thame said. “Better a little scared now than growing up thinking that kind of talk is normal.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Po said. “I meant… you didn’t have to say all that about…us. In front of everyone. It might cause problems later.”
Thame’s arms tightened fractionally. “Do you regret it?” he asked, voice low.
“No,” Po said quickly. Too quickly. “That’s not – I just know how much you hate dealing with gossip and stupid rumours. And I know you like…keeping us private. Safe.”
“I like keeping you safe,” Thame corrected. His breath was warm against the side of Po’s neck. “Privacy is part of that. But privacy is not the same as pretending you don’t exist.”
Po’s throat worked.
“I know that,” he said. “Most of the time. And I do know you love me. I’m not… confused about that. I just – ”
He exhaled, the words scraping their way free.
“When Hana said ‘staff flings,’” he said quietly, “it hit something that was already there. That I try not to listen to.”
He could feel Thame’s whole body go very still behind him.
“What do you hear?” Thame asked, almost too calm.
Po huffed a weak laugh. “My own stupid brain. ‘You’re not on his level. You’re not famous. You don’t look like an idol. You don’t… belong in those frames on the wall downstairs.’” He swallowed. “I like being behind the camera. I chose that. But sometimes, when people talk like that, it feels like they’re saying I’m… practice. Until you find someone who does belong.”
It was the most he’d ever said about it. Usually he disguised his spirals as jokes or sarcastic comments. It felt raw, like peeling back skin.
Thame didn’t say anything at first. His arms just tightened further, like he was trying to hold Po together by force.
“Look at me,” he said finally.
Po turned his head awkwardly. Thame shifted, letting Po twist enough so they were almost face to face, knees tangled, Thame’s back still against the wall. Up this close, Po could see the faint lines of fatigue around his eyes, the freckles across his nose, the way his hair stuck up in the back where he’d run his hand through it.
He looked exhausted. And he looked at Po like Po was the only thing in his universe.
“Listen carefully,” Thame said. “Because I’m only going to say this a hundred times.”
A startled laugh bubbled out of Po despite himself.
“Before this,” Thame began, slipping into his alpha mode like he always did when he got serious, “Before any of this. Before SYNCC. Before Mars was famous. I was just a trainee with bad knees and a worse temper. Sharing a tiny dorm room, wondering if I’d ever debut.”
“I remember watching the pre-debut videos,” Po said softly. “You were very dramatic.”
“Prettty sure you loved it,” Thame said. “Anyway. At that time, nobody looked at me and thought, ‘Oh, future CEO, future producer, future world tour.’ I was a gamble at best.”
His fingers curled around Po’s, thumb brushing over the ink stain on his skin.
“You,” Thame continued, “looked at me like I’d already done all of that. Like I had a future worth betting on. You stayed when I was frustrating. When I was busy. When I missed calls. You dragged me out of bed to eat when I worked myself into the ground. You sat in the recording booth for hours just to keep me company.”
He took a breath.
“Do you really think,” he said quietly, “that the person who saw me at my lowest doesn’t ‘match’ me now? Do you really think there’s some idol or actress or model who knows me better than you do, just because their face is on a billboard?”
Po’s eyes prickled. “That’s not how… levels work,” he mumbled weakly. “The world doesn’t see it like that.”
“The world,” Thame said, “can go to hell.”
Po snorted, tears spilling over anyway. Thame’s expression softened at the sight. He lifted a hand and wiped Po’s cheek with his thumb, gentle.
“I meant what I said,” he murmured. “You’re not temporary. You’re not practice. I’m not holding out for someone more ‘proper.’ There is no one more proper for me than the one person who actually makes me want to go home at the end of the day.”
Po let out a shaky breath.
“You’re being so cheesy,” he complained, voice thick.
“It’s your fault,” Thame said. “You turned me into this.”
Po sniffed. “I hate being jealous.”
“I don’t,” Thame said.
Po glared weakly. “Don’t be weird.”
“I’m serious,” Thame said. “I mean, I hate that you hurt. But… I like that you’re jealous. It means you still want me.”
Po stared at him. “Of course I still want you. You’re… you.”
Thame’s mouth curved, slow and satisfied. “Good. Then we match.”
It was such stupid logic that Po had to laugh. The sound came out wet and hiccup-y. “You’re so annoying,” he said.
Thame leaned in, brushed their noses together. “And you love me.”
“Unfortunately,” Po said a little sassily, and leaned forward the rest of the way.
Their mouths met softly at first, a gentle press that tasted like salt and breath and all the years they’d held each other up through exhaustion and chaos. Thame exhaled against Po’s lips, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of Po’s head, fingers threading into his hair.
Po sighed into the kiss, letting his eyes flutter closed. The tension in his shoulders finally started to unwind, melted by the familiarity of the way Thame moved – slow at first, careful, then deeper when Po parted his lips, inviting.
The second their tongues touched, something in Thame jolted.
He made a low sound, almost a growl, and tilted Po back just enough that he could kiss him properly, mouth slanting over his with slow, deliberate hunger.
Heat sparked along Po’s spine. He shifted closer, straddling Thame’s lap without even thinking about it, knees on either side of his thighs. Thame’s hands slid down his back to his waist, fingers digging into the thin fabric of his t-shirt like he intended to memorize every line.
Po opened up for him, kissing back just as fiercely, messy and unrestrained now that they were out of sight. Thame’s tongue slid against his, the taste of coffee and bottled water and something purely, undeniably Thame flooding his senses.
He nipped Thame’s bottom lip, gentle but sharp enough to make him gasp.
Thame’s breath hitched. His fingers slipped under the hem of Po’s shirt, skin-on-skin, palms hot against his waist. Thame’s thumbs stroked circles there, grounding and maddening at once.
“Thameee,” Po murmured between kisses, voice wrecked. “We’re on the roof.”
“Door’s closed,” Thamew whispered back, chasing his mouth again. “No one’s coming.”
Po leaned back a little and Thame huffed a laugh, which dissolved into a quiet groan when Po rolled his hips, friction sending sparks through both of them.
“You’re going to kill me.,” Thame muttered.
They kissed like they had all the time in the world, unhurried but intense. Thame took his time, licking into Po’s mouth, sucking lightly on his tongue, swallowing every little sound Po made. Po clung to him, fingers sliding into his hair, tugging just enough to make Thame’s breath stutter.
By the time they finally broke apart, Po’s lips felt swollen, his lungs burning pleasantly. He rested his forehead against Thame’s, panting. Thame’s eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed a soft pink that had nothing to do with rehearsal this time.
“Better?” he asked.
Po let his eyes drift closed for a moment. “Yeah,” he sighed. “Better.”
They stayed like that, breathing each other’s air, for a few seconds. Then Thame shifted, reluctantly easing Po enough that they weren’t about to scandalize any security cameras pointed in their direction.
“Wait,” he said, catching his breath. “Stay still.”
He fumbled for his phone one-handed, unlocked it with a quick swipe, and flipped the camera to selfie mode.
Po squinted. “What are you doing?”
“Evidence,” Thame said.
Before Po could object, he lifted the phone and snapped a quick photo.
Po twisted around to see. The shot was framed over Thame’s shoulder. Po’s face was half-turned away, mostly hidden by Thame’s jaw and the angle of his shoulder. You could see the line of his cheek, the edge of his glasses, his mouth turned up in a tiny, tired smile.
Thame’s face, on the other hand, was fully visible. Hair messy, lips a little swollen, eyes soft in a way the public had never seen. His expression was completely unguarded – quiet, content, utterly in love.
“It’s nice,” Thame murmured.
“For you,” Po said. “My face is like a ghost.”
“That’s the point,” Thame said. “You told me you don’t want to be plastered everywhere. But I want you in my feed. Even if it’s just… this.”
He thumbed through filters, settled on one that softened the sunlight without hiding the details, and then, to Po’s horror, opened Instagram.
“Wait,” Po blurted. “You’re not actually posting that.”
“Yes,” Thame said calmly. “I am.”
“Thame – ”
“P’Po,” he said gently. “You can say no. If you’re uncomfortable, I won’t do it. But don’t say no because you’re afraid for me. That’s my choice. Yours is just… whether you’re okay with this much.”
Po’s mouth went dry.
He thought of the comments that would flood in. The speculation. The edits. People zooming in, trying to identify the half-face in the photo. Headlines about Mars’ leader posting “mysterious boyfriend-coded soft launch.”
He thought of the way Miya had said “staff fling.” Of how small he’d felt. He thought of Thame downstairs, fingers wrapped around his wrist, saying I have one person.
“What are you going to write?” Po asked, heart hammering.
Thame’s thumbs hovered above the keyboard. He typed slowly.
my favorite view between rehearsals ☕️🎧📷
Po snorted despite himself. “That’s not subtle.”
“I’m not trying to be subtle,” Thame said. “I’m just not ready to put your entire face on the news. This is enough. For now.”
He looked up, eyes searching Po’s.
“Is this okay?” he asked softly.
Po stared at the screen, at the little square that felt suddenly enormous. Fear curled in his stomach. Then he remembered how it had felt when Thame took that towel from Hana’s hand. When he’d said temporary. When he’d said one person. The way the room had gone silent.
He thought about Mei from his animation class, who had once said, about a couple in a movie, “If they’re real, it doesn’t matter who knows. It matters that they know.”
He took a breath. “Post it,” Po said.
Thame’s grip tightened on the phone. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” Po said. His voice shook a little, but the certainty behind it surprised even him. “If anyone has a problem, they can complain to… Khun CEO.” He wrinkled his nose. “Which is you. So.”
Thame’s mouth curved, that soft, private smile again. “Yes, sir.”
He hit share. The little spinning wheel appeared, then vanished. The photo settled onto his feed, a small bright square among polished concept shots and tour posters.
A quiet, seismic shift.
Thame stared at it for a second, then locked his phone and set it down on the concrete beside them like it was a scratched CD.
Po slid his hands up to Thame’s neck, thumbs resting against his pulse. “Now you have to survive Koko,” he said. “And Dylan. And Jun. They’re going to be unbearable about it.”
“They already are,” Thame said. He dipped his head the last centimetre, stealing another kiss, this one brief and sweet. “But you’re worth it.”
Po rolled his eyes. “Stop saying things like that or I’ll think you’re trying to seduce me.”
“I am trying to seduce you,” Thame said, unbothered. His eyes darkened just a shade. “But unfortunately, I have rehearsal.”
“Unfortunately,” Po echoed. His cheeks warmed at the look in Thame’s eyes – the unspoken promise of later.
The phone buzzed against the concrete, screen lighting up with a flood of notifications. Thame glanced, snorted, then turned it so Po could see.
junmars_official: 🧐 who is this?
dylanofficial: CEO HARD LAUNCHINGGGG!!! 😳🔥🔥🔥
pepper.pm: please focus on choreo
nano.syncc: 👍
Somewhere below, the faint echo of a beat drifted up from a practice room. Time ticked away, thirty minutes shrinking fast.
“We should go back,” Po said reluctantly. “Before Koko starts pinging you like a lost child.”
“Koko will survive five more minutes,” Thame said, but he sighed and shifted, helping Po up first before standing himself.
He brushed dust from Po’s jeans, hands lingering on his thighs a millisecond longer than necessary. Po swatted them away, face hot.
“Later,” he muttered.
“Later,” Thame agreed, voice low with promise.
They picked up the phone and headed back to the stairwell, fingers naturally intertwining again. Just before they pushed the door open, Thame squeezed Po’s hand.
They stepped into the stairwell. The cool air wrapped around them. Somewhere below, Dylan’s voice floated up faintly through the door, already dramatic about something.
Po squeezed back.
“Oh, and Thame?” he said as they descended.
“Mm?”
“You’re not WINGS’ fantasy boyfriend.”
Thame raised an eyebrow. “No?”
Po looked at him, a slow, possessive smile curving his lips. “You’re mine.”
Thame’s answering grin was bright and wicked and entirely his. “Good,” he said. “Stay jealous, P’Po. I am loving it.”
Po rolled his eyes. “Don’t push it.”
But as they slipped back into the corridor, shoulder to shoulder, hands still intertwined, he thought – if being a little jealous meant getting rooftop confessions and hard-launch Instagram posts and the way Thame looked at him like that, maybe he could live with it.
Downstairs, rehearsal and deadlines and public lives waited. Cameras, comments, everything that came with being attached to the sun that was Mars’ leader.
But wrapped around all of that was something the industry couldn’t package or sell or judge on a scale of “proper” or “improper.”
One person. One choice, made over and over.
And as Thame tugged him gently toward the practice room with a last, secret smile, Po decided that whatever came next – they’d face it together.