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They’d been friends since their first year of university. Four years. Two dozen relationships between them. Zero attempts to cross the line.
Namtan had always remembered Film’s scent. The one that made her alpha instincts coil into a tight knot somewhere beneath her ribs. Vanilla and something warm, like fresh milk. But Film dated guys—betas, omegas, didn’t matter, still idiots—and Namtan was proud. Proud and patient.
She waited.
Tonight, they were finally alone. Both single at the same time for the first time. And Namtan dragged Film to a club.
“We’re going to drink, dance, and pretend we’re still twenty,” Film shouted over the music, her eyes shining brighter than the neon lights.
They drank. Whiskey with Coke, then more. Namtan felt the alcohol loosening the knots of control, but Film was right there—her scent, her laugh, her hand on Namtan’s shoulder.
And then HE showed up.
Some guy. Tall. Also an alpha, judging by his arrogant confidence. He slid up to Film while Namtan was at the bar getting water.
“Hey, you here all alone?” Namtan heard him say when she got back.
Film smiled politely—she was always polite, even when she was telling someone off—and shook her head.
“I’m not alone. I’m here with my friend.”
“With your friend?” The alpha snorted and looked down at Namtan. “Seriously? Run along, little girl. The adults are talking here.”
Little girl.
Something snapped inside Namtan’s head. A red haze. Her alpha roared.
“Take your hand off her,” she said quietly. Too quietly.
“What?”
He didn’t move it. And he never even saw it coming. One second—and Namtan had him by the scruff, slamming him back against the bar counter. Glasses clinked. Security tensed, but Film was already grabbing Namtan’s arm.
“Namtan! Stop! He’s not worth it!”
Namtan was breathing hard, her pupils blown wide, alpha pheromones flooding the entire space. She stared at the idiot and saw only one thing: he had dared to touch HER omega.
“Come near her again and I’ll personally castrate you,” she breathed into his face, then shoved him away.
Security escorted them both outside. Fast and polite, but firm.
“Please don’t come back tonight,” the manager said, avoiding their eyes.
They stood on the sidewalk. Film was shaking. From cold? From anger?
“Have you lost your mind?!” Film hissed as soon as the club door closed behind them. “You could’ve gotten hurt! Over some jerk! What the hell got into you?!”
Namtan said nothing. She leaned back against the club wall and stared into the darkness. Inside, she was still seething.
“Namtan! Answer me!” Film shoved her shoulder. “Are you drunk? Do you even hear me?”
A taxi pulled up. Namtan silently opened the door, pushed Film inside, and sat down next to her.
The car started moving. Film wasn’t letting it go.
“That was just some random guy! You’re acting insane! We’re friends, Namtan, you don’t have to protect me like I’m your—”
“Shut up,” Namtan’s voice was low and rough.
“No, I won’t shut up! Are you jealous? Who do you think you are, being jealous of me, we’re just—”
Namtan turned sharply.
There was no time to think. None at all.
She grabbed the back of Film’s neck, threading her fingers into her soft hair, and pulled her close.
The kiss was hard. Hungry. Namtan bit her lower lip, pushing her tongue inside, mixing their breath, knocking all the air and all the words out of Film at once.
She was kissing her the way she’d wanted to kiss her for four fucking years.
Film froze. Her hands pressed against Namtan’s chest—but didn’t push. They gripped the fabric of her shirt. Gripped like her life depended on it.
The car smelled like alpha. Sharp, dominant, drunk. And through it, the omega’s scent broke through—sweet, flowing, responding.
Namtan only pulled away from her lips when the driver coughed, hinting that they weren’t exactly alone.
She looked at Film. At her swollen, kiss-bruised lips, at her dilated pupils, at the way her chest heaved.
“You said shut up,” Namtan breathed, pressing her forehead to Film’s. “So I shut you up.”
Film blinked. Once. Twice.
And then she let out a small sob and grabbed Namtan’s lips with her own.
The morning after that night came too fast. And too bright.
The sun was glaring right into her eyes, even through Namtan’s dark sunglasses as she sat at a table on the summer terrace, looking like someone who’d been through a war. And lost.
“How are you doing, anyway?” Milk asked, sipping her americano and studying her friend with interest. “Head hurt?”
“No,” Namtan lied.
Her head hurt. And not just her head. Her entire alpha being ached from last night’s tension, from the unresolved pressure, from that damn kiss in the taxi that she could still feel with every millimeter of her lips.
Film sat across from her.
She’d deliberately sat across from her, even though there were plenty of chairs. Sat there and pretended to read the menu. The top button of her shirt was undone. On her neck—nothing. Not a mark. Namtan had specifically checked while Film was looking away.
No hickey, no scratch. Like nothing had happened at all.
“You two seem weird today,” Love observed, sitting next to Milk. She glanced from one to the other. “Did you fight?”
“No,” Namtan and Film answered in unison.
Milk snorted into her cup.
Namtan pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Slowly, lazily, she took one out, placed it between her lips, and flicked her lighter.
“Seriously?” Film looked up. Irritation flared in her eyes. “We’re at a table, Namtan. People eat here.”
“I’m outside.”
“It’s a terrace, it’s still a café!”
Namtan blew a stream of smoke to the side and didn’t even turn her head. Her sunglasses hid her eyes, but the line of her jaw was tense enough to grind teeth.
“Don’t like it? You can move.”
Love and Milk exchanged glances. The air between those two had heated to the breaking point, and it wasn’t just the sun.
Film gripped her coffee cup so hard her knuckles went white. She hated when Namtan smoked. No, not smoking in general—but when she did it like this. Defiantly. Like she was deliberately trying to get under her skin.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” Film clipped out, standing up so abruptly she nearly knocked over her chair.
She almost ran across the terrace and disappeared through the café door.
Namtan watched her go. Another drag. Slow. Deep.
“Go after her,” Milk said.
“What?”
“Don’t be dense. Love and I will stay here. Go.”
Love nodded, pulling the plate of croissants toward herself: “We’ve got your back. If anyone asks, we’ll say you went to discuss a script.”
Namtan snorted but stubbed out her cigarette. She stood, adjusted her sunglasses, and headed into the café.
The women’s bathroom here was the only one. And big enough to fit two very angry girls.
Film stood at the sink, gripping the edges, staring at herself in the mirror. Her cheeks burned. Her eyes glistened. She hated herself for still tasting Namtan’s lips on her own.
The door opened.
And closed again. The lock clicked.
“Occupied,” Film said without turning around.
“I can see that.”
Namtan’s voice. Low. Rough. Morning-rough.
Film spun around. Namtan stood by the door, her back against it, sunglasses off, staring straight at her. Dark circles under her eyes. A hungry look in them.
“Are you following me?”
“Yes.”
“Have you lost your mind? Get out of here.”
“No.”
Film stepped toward her, fists clenched: “What do you want, Namtan? For me to pretend nothing happened last night? Fine, I am! I’m keeping quiet! But you’re following me around, smoking in my face, looking at me like I’m—”
“Like you’re what?”
“Like I’m yours!” Film burst out. “And I’m not yours, got it? We’re friends! Four years! And you don’t have the right to barge into bathrooms and stare at me like I’m a piece of meat!”
“Friend,” Namtan repeated, and that dangerous rasp crept into her voice. “Right. Is that why you kissed me back last night?”
Film opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“I was in shock!”
“And today?”
“Today what?”
“Right now,” Namtan stepped forward, closing the distance. “You’re not mad because I’m smoking. You’re mad because I kissed you. And because you liked it.”
“Shut up!”
“And if I don’t?”
Film hit her in the chest with her fist. Not hard—more like helplessness.
“You don’t have the right to come at me! You’re just some drunk alpha who—”
“Who last night, for the first time in four years, kissed the girl he thinks about every single night.”
Silence.
Somewhere beyond the door, water was running, people were laughing. But here, in this tiny bathroom, time had stopped.
Film looked at Namtan. At her heavy breathing, at her tense shoulders, at that mouth that yesterday—
“Screw it,” Film breathed.
And she stepped forward herself.
She grabbed Namtan by the collar of her shirt, pulled her close, and kissed her.
Hard. Desperate. Tasting of anger and four years of waiting.
Namtan exhaled against her lips—something between a moan and a growl—and pressed Film against the wall, her body flush against hers, taking control, deepening the kiss past the point of no return.
Her hands slid under Film’s shirt, hot palms on her waist, fingers gripping skin, leaving marks. Film moaned—low, throaty—and the sound hit Namtan straight in the gut.
She pulled back for a second to look into her eyes. There it was. What she’d been waiting to see.
“Film,” Namtan breathed. “If you say ‘stop’ right now, I will. But if you don’t—”
“Don’t talk,” Film cut her off, digging her nails into Namtan’s shoulders. “Don’t you dare talk.”
And she kissed her again.
Somewhere far away, on the terrace, Milk looked at her watch and sighed:
“Love, order us more coffee. This is gonna take a while.”
The kiss deepened. A lot deeper.
Namtan pressed Film against the cold tile wall, and the contrast was maddening—ice-cold ceramic at her back and the hot, yielding body under her hands.
“Namtan…” Film breathed into her neck, right into that hollow where an alpha’s pulse pounded. “Someone might… come in…”
“They won’t,” Namtan was already fumbling with the button on Film’s jeans, her fingers trembling with impatience. “I locked it.”
“When?”
“When you were yelling at me.”
Film let out a sound—half laugh, half moan—as the cool air hit her heated skin. Namtan’s jeans dropped to the floor with the soft clink of her belt.
“Have you thought about this?” Namtan asked, tracing her nose along Film’s cheekbone, breathing in her scent—thicker now, sweeter, more inviting. “Thought about what it would be like?”
“Don’t tease me.”
“Or what?”
Film answered with a bite. She sank her teeth into Namtan’s lower lip, pulling, making her growl.
“Or I’ll fuck you myself, got it? My fingers work too—”
Namtan laughed—low, satisfied—and spun Film around to face the wall.
“We’ll see who fucks who.”
She pressed against her from behind, chest to back, hot breath on the nape of her neck. One hand wrapped around Film’s throat—not squeezing, just holding, controlling. The other slid down, between her legs.
Film was wet. So wet.
“Holy shit,” Namtan breathed into her ear. “You want me this bad?”
“Don’t… ah… don’t say stupid things…”
“It’s not stupid. It’s a fact.”
Her fingers slid inside—two at once, no warning. Film gasped and bit down on her knuckles to muffle the sound. Namtan moved rhythmically, deeply, finding that exact pace that made her legs shake.
“I want more,” Namtan whispered, biting her earlobe. “Can I?”
Film nodded. She didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything.
Namtan pulled back just enough to undo her jeans completely, to free what had been aching and throbbing for the past four hours. The past four years.
When she pushed inside—slow, all the way, feeling Film tighten around her, taking her in, gripping her—the world stopped existing.
“Fuck… mmmm…” Film exhaled, pressing her forehead against the cold tile. “Namtan…”
“Shh. I’m here.”
She moved slowly at first. Rocking her hips, brushing against Film's clit with every thrust, listening to those short, breathless moans that made her mind melt.
But they couldn't stay gentle for long.
Film pushed back, taking her deeper, and whimpered:
"Harder... God, that feels so good..."
Namtan didn't need to be told twice.
The pace fell apart. Became rougher, dirtier. The sound of wet skin, heavy breathing, quiet cries that Film tried to muffle but couldn't quite manage. Namtan covered her mouth with her palm and kept thrusting, feeling the edge approaching.
Film came first—silently, her whole body shuddering, clenching around Namtan so tightly it made her see stars. That pushed the alpha over the edge too—one last deep thrust, a growl, a bite into her shoulder to keep from shouting, and a hot wave inside.
They stood like that for a few seconds, tangled together, trying to catch their breath.
“You…” Film started.
“If you say something about friendship, I’ll hit you,” Namtan cut her off, burying her nose in the back of Film’s neck.
Film chuckled. Relaxed. Satisfied.
“I was going to say: can you take your hand off my mouth? I’d like to breathe.”
Namtan removed it. She dropped her forehead onto Film’s shoulder, smiling slightly, and kissed her there. Right over the bite mark.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. I liked it.”
They fixed themselves up in silence. Namtan found wet wipes somewhere in her pocket (Film didn’t even ask why she carried them around), helped Film do up her jeans, tuck her shirt back in.
The mirror reflected two girls with red lips, disheveled hair, and eyes that were absolutely happy—eyes they were both trying to hide.
“You have…” Film traced a finger along Namtan’s neck, where a hickey stood out. “It shows.”
“You too,” Namtan nodded at her shoulder. “And here. And here.”
Film sighed and pulled out concealer.
“Love and Milk are going to kill us.”
“They figured it out an hour ago.”
“It’s only been half an hour.”
“For them—an hour. For us—ten minutes.”
Film snorted and finished covering the marks.
“Ready?”
“Ready.”
Namtan opened the door.
On the terrace, they were met with absolute, dead silence.
Love and Milk sat with completely straight faces, but there were devils dancing in both their eyes.
"Oh, you're back," Milk raised an eyebrow, scanning them both. "That was quite a long time to... discuss your problems."
"Yeah," Namtan sat down, trying hard not to look at Film. "It was a complicated conversation."
"I can see," Love pushed a glass of water toward Film. "Drink this. Your lips look dry."
Film blushed to the roots of her hair.
"We... uh..."
"Relax," Milk leaned back in her chair and grinned wide. "We ordered you more coffee. And dessert. You've apparently burned a lot of calories."
Namtan choked on air and smiled, hiding her eyes behind her sunglasses.
Love burst out laughing: "You should've seen your faces! Milk, I told you, they were making out in there!"
"I said they were doing more than making out," Milk countered.
"Girls!" Film groaned, covering her face with her hands.
Namtan smiled. Wide, open, genuine.
"Okay, fine," she said, and took Film's hand under the table. "Yeah, we... settled our argument. If you can call it that."
Film looked up at her, surprised.
"So?" Love asked curiously. "Are you a couple now?"
Namtan looked at Film. Film looked back—still flustered, but warm now.
"What do you think?" Namtan asked her quietly.
Film squeezed her fingers under the table and smiled—that smile, the one that had made Namtan lose her head for four years. Film tucked her face into Namtan's shoulder to hide it.
"I think... yeah."
Milk raised her cup: "Well, here's to you two. Finally."
"No kidding," Love clinked her cup against Milk's. "Four years we waited. We thought it might never happen."
"You knew?!" Film gasped.
"Honey," Milk looked at her with an expression that said 'are you serious?' "Everyone knew. Except you two."