Archive of Our Own

"Anddddd post," Ohm announced, his voice carrying the weight of someone who had just done something both monumentally stupid and deeply satisfying. His index finger descended upon the big blue POST button with the gravity of a king signing a declaration of war. Or, you know, a twenty-something actor posting a breakup announcement that was, in fact, not a breakup announcement at all, but rather an elaborate prank that had taken three weeks of planning, two bottles of wine, and one very heated argument about whether they should tell their mothers first (Ohm had lost that argument so no more on that)

The post went live.

Ohm imagined he could hear the collective gasp of millions of fans around the world, like a wave of heartbreak crashing against every shoreline simultaneously. In reality, all he heard was the soft ding of his phone confirming the upload, followed by the distant sound of a car horn somewhere on the streets of Bangkok, which was considerably less dramatic but infinitely more authentic.

The caption read, in its entirety:

"After much thought and consideration, Jimmy and I have decided to end our partnership as on-screen couple. We will always cherish the memories and love we've received from all of you. Thank you for everything. 💔"

Ohm had typed it himself, and he'd felt like a monster with every single keystroke. The broken heart emoji had been particularly painful—like stabbing himself with a tiny knife.

"Don't you think it's a bit cruel to do this?" A voice rang out over Ohm's shoulder, warm and low and tinged with the kind of fond exasperation that comes from loving someone so much it makes your heart phycially ache.

The voice belonged to one Jimmy Karn Kritsanaphan. He was standing close enough that Ohm could feel the heat radiating off his chest like it was specifically designed for the purpose of making Ohm want to lean backwards into him and never move again.

Ohm considered the question with the appropriate amount of gravity. Which is to say, he considered it for approximately half a second before his mouth curved into a smile so wide and so bright that it could have powered a whole city . "It is," he admitted, his voice dancing with barely contained mischief, "only a bit, though."

Jimmy made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh—one that suggested he was simultaneously proud of and deeply concerned for the cutie he had fallen in love with. "Only a bit," he repeated, deadpan. "Ohm. We just tricked millions of people into thinking we're breaking up. That's not 'a bit cruel.'"

But even as he said it, Jimmy's own lips were betraying him, twitching upwards at the corners like they couldn't help themselves. Because here was the thing about Ohm Krit: his smile was infectious in the way that laughter at funerals was infectious—inappropriate, slightly dangerous, and absolutely impossible to resist. It was the kind of smile that had single-handedly launched a thousand fan edits, inspired approximately fourteen million tweets, and caused at least three separate incidents of people walking into lampposts because they were too busy staring at him on their phone screens.

And Jimmy, poor (un)fortunate soul that he was, had a front-row seat to that smile every single day. He'd built an entire private collection of Ohm's smiles in the museum of his memory: the sleepy morning smile, the mischievous "I'm about to do something stupid" smile, the soft and vulnerable smile that Ohm only ever let Jimmy see, usually at three in the morning when they were tangled together under the covers and when the rest of the world didn't exist.

"No one can resist not smiling back to me," Ohm said, which was an absurdly confident thing to say and also completely true, which somehow made it worse.

Jimmy, who had long since given up any pretense of resistance, let his face break into a full grin. "You're insufferable," he informed Ohm, but his voice had gone soft around the edges, like butter left out in the sun.

"You smiled."

"I smiled because I'm concerned about your mental wellbeing."

"You smiled because I'm adorable."

"I smiled because I'm having a stroke."

"You're not having a stroke."

"How would you know? You're not a doctor."

"I've pretended to be one on TV at least four times. That basically makes me qualified."

Jimmy opened his mouth to retort—probably something devastatingly witty about the difference between playing a doctor on screen and actually having medical training—but the words died in his throat as he watched Ohm's face shift from triumphant mischief to something softer. Something that made Jimmy's heart perform an acrobatic maneuver that definitely wasn't in any medical textbook.

Because Ohm was looking at him. Not just looking, but seeing. The way he always did, like Jimmy was the only person in a room of eight billion, like the sun rose and set in the space between Jimmy's collarbones, like every breath Jimmy took was a miracle worth cataloging.

It was, frankly, devastating.

Jimmy did the only thing that made sense in that moment: he stepped closer, close enough that the front of his shirt brushed against Ohm's back, close enough that he could smell the faint scent of Ohm's shampoo (something coconut and vanilla) that made Jimmy want to bury his face in Ohm's hair and never come up for air. He rested his chin on Ohm's shoulder, his stubble scratching gently against Ohm's neck, and let his arms wrap around Ohm's waist from behind .

Ohm's body melted into the embrace like ice cream on a summer. He let out a small, contented sigh that vibrated through Jimmy's chest and settled somewhere in the vicinity of his soul. His hand came up to rest on Jimmy's forearm, thumb tracing absent patterns on Jimmy's skin, and for a moment, the world went quiet.

The Instagram post with its fake breakup announcement sat on Ohm's phone, already accumulating likes and comments and heartbreak at an alarming rate. The notifications were probably exploding right now, full of devastated fans and confused friends and at least one very angry friend who was definitely going to call them within the next fifteen minutes and scream loud enough to shatter glass.

But in this moment, with Jimmy's arms around him and Jimmy's breath warm against his neck and Jimmy's heartbeat thumping steadily against his back, Ohm found that he couldn't quite bring himself to care.

"At least we're cruel together," Ohm murmured, tilting his head back to rest against Jimmy's shoulder.

"That's not comforting," Jimmy replied, but he was smiling again, and he pressed a kiss to the curve of Ohm's ear, soft as a secret.

The thing about being in love with Jimmy —and Ohm had given this considerable thought, because he was nothing if not thorough in his analysis of his own feelings—was that it felt like coming home to a house you didn't know you'd built.

Jimmy was good. Not just in the conventional sense—though he was certainly that, with his soft brown eyes and his gentle smile and the way he moved through the world like he was trying to take up as little space as possible, despite being six feet of solid muscle. Jimmy was good in the way that truly mattered like when he was kind when no one was watching, patient when he had every right to be frustrated, steady when everything around him was falling apart.

Ohm ruffled Jimmy's hair—something that had started as a joke and had since become as natural as breathing—and felt Jimmy's arms tighten around his waist in response. "I'm curious to see what kind of conspiracies they'll make," Jimmy murmured against Ohm's shoulder, his words muffled by fabric and skin and the sheer impossibility of speaking when your face was pressed against someone else's body.

Ohm laughed, the sound bright and warm in the afternoon light. "Oh, you know how it goes. 'Actually, if you look at the timestamp of the post and compare it to Ohm's horoscope and consider that Mercury is in retrograde, it's obvious that this is secretly a marriage announcement.'"

Jimmy snorted. "You've spent too much time on Twitter."

"I've spent exactly the right amount of time on Twitter. It's important to know your audience."

"Your audience thinks you're breaking up with me."

"Temporarily."

"Temporarily," Jimmy agreed, but his voice had gone thoughtful now. "I don't think you'll be able to enjoy it that much, though."

Ohm felt the shift in Jimmy's posture before he understood what it meant. Jimmy's head lifted from his shoulder, his chin now resting against Ohm's temple instead, and Ohm could feel the question forming in the air between them like a storm cloud gathering on the horizon.

He shot his head up inquisitively—or rather, he tried to. The movement was somewhat hampered by the fact that he was currently being held hostage by a human koala who showed no signs of releasing him anytime soon. Jimmy's arms remained firmly locked around Ohm's waist, and when Ohm attempted to twist around to look at him, Jimmy just pulled him closer, as if to mockingly say ‘nice try, but you're not escaping that easily’.

"Most conspiracies start after a while," Ohm explained, his voice taking on the tone of someone who had spent a considerable amount of time analyzing fandom behavior. "Right now, the fans are in denial. Then they'll move to acceptance. Then they'll grieve. And only then will they start making conspiracy theories to cope."

He paused, considering his next words carefully. "It's the five stages of fandom grief. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and 'actually, if you look at this photo from 2019, you can see that they're wearing matching socks, which clearly means they're secretly married and living in a cottage in Scotland.'"

Jimmy blinked. "That's... alarmingly specific."

"I've done my research."

"I'm genuinely concerned about the amount of time you spend on the internet."

"It's called cultural anthropology, honey. It's very academic."

Jimmy made a sound that was probably supposed to be skeptical but came out more like a laugh that got stuck in his throat. And Ohm, because he was nothing if not easily distracted by the proximity of Jimmy's face to his own, found himself reaching up to pinch Jimmy's cheeks before he could stop himself.

It was a reflex at this point, like blinking or breathing or checking his phone first thing in the morning. Jimmy's cheeks were soft and warm and squishy in a way that seemed almost unfair for someone who was otherwise built like a professional athlete. Ohm had once spent an entire fifteen-minute break between filming sessions just squishing Jimmy's face between his hands like a stress ball, and Jimmy had let him, because Jimmy was apparently physically incapable of saying no to anything Ohm wanted to do.

"Well," Jimmy said, his voice slightly distorted by the fact that his cheeks were being pinched like he was someone's elderly grandmother, "that means there are still conspiracies."

He let himself be manhandled for another moment before gently—always gently, because Jimmy had never done anything roughly in his entire life except maybe open pickle jars—removing Ohm's hands from his face and resettling his head on Ohm's shoulder. His arms, which had loosened slightly during the cheek-pinching incident, tightened again around Ohm's waist, and Ohm could feel Jimmy's eyelashes fluttering against his neck as he closed his eyes.

"They'll figure it out eventually," Ohm said, tilting his head to rest against Jimmy's. "They always do. Fans are basically detectives with better emotional investment and no pay."

"Mmm." Jimmy's voice was sleepy now, the way it got when he was particularly content. He nuzzled against Ohm's neck, and Ohm felt his heart do something complicated in his chest—a sort of flip-flop-stutter combination that probably wasn't medically advisable but felt too good to question.

"Well," Ohm said, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand instead of the way Jimmy's breath was warm against his pulse point, "we do have to reveal it before they even reach stage two."

Jimmy's face scrunched up against Ohm's neck. "Do we have to?" he mumbled, the words coming out muffled and petulant and absolutely adorable in a way that made Ohm want to simultaneously shake him and kiss him senseless.

"We do!" Ohm's voice rose with the fervor of someone who had spent far too long thinking about this exact situation. "It's painful to even think that the fans are in so much pain. We even both individually posted about it. That's triple kill, Jimmy. Triple kill. Do you understand what that means?"

Jimmy's silence suggested that he did not, in fact, understand what that meant, or perhaps that he understood perfectly and was choosing not to engage with Ohm's terminology.

"It means," Ohm continued, undeterred, "that we have hurt them three times. Three times, Jimmy. That's two times too many. That's—"

"A triple kill is three kills," Jimmy pointed out, his voice still muffled against Ohm's skin. "So technically, three times is the exact right number for a triple kill."

"That's not—that's not the point!"

"What is the point?"

"The point is that we need to fix this before the fans start writing angsty fanfiction about us."

Jimmy's arms tightened around Ohm's waist, pulling him even closer until there wasn't a single millimeter of space between them. "What if I want them to write angsty fanfiction about us?"

"What?"

"I'm just saying," Jimmy said, and Ohm could hear the smile in his voice, could feel the curve of it pressed against his neck, "that it might be good for their creative development."

"You're impossible."

"You love me."

"That's not—I do, but that's not—you're still impossible."

Jimmy laughed, soft and warm, and Ohm felt something in his chest crack open just a little bit wider, making room for more of this, more of them, more of the impossible, ridiculous, wonderful fact that Jimmy loved him back.

The phone rang.

It wasn't a gentle ring, the kind that suggested someone was calling to wish you a nice day . It was an aggressive ring, a I know what you did last summer ring, a ring that made Ohm think of alarm clocks and his mother's voice when she said his full name.

Ohm playfully slapped at the hands wrapped around his waist—a gesture that was about as effective as trying to move a mountain with a feather duster. Jimmy's arms didn't so much as twitch.

"Jimmy," Ohm said, turning his head to look at the stubborn expression on Jimmy's face. It was a familiar expression, one that Ohm had come to know intimately over the years: the set of Jimmy's jaw, the slight furrow between his brows, the way his eyes went soft and hard at the same time, like he was preparing for battle and a hug, somehow simultaneously.

Jimmy's eyes met Ohm's. And then, very deliberately, they trailed down to Ohm's lips.

Ohm knew what was coming. He could see it in the way Jimmy's gaze lingered, in the slight parting of Jimmy's own lips, in the subtle shift of his body as he leaned in. He could have stopped it. He could have pulled away, could have reached for the phone, could have reminded Jimmy that they had approximately seven million things to do before the reveal event tomorrow.

He didn't.

The kiss started softly—a brush of lips against lips, gentle as a question. It was the kind of kiss that asked is this okay? and do you want this? and can I stay here forever? all at once. Ohm answered by tilting his head, by parting his lips, by pressing closer until the question became an answer and the answer became a promise.

The phone kept ringing, but neither of them noticed anymore.

Jimmy's hand came up to cup Ohm's face, thumb stroking along his cheekbone in a gesture so tender it made Ohm's eyes sting. His other hand remained firm on Ohm's waist, holding him steady, grounding him in the same way that gravity grounded the earth , invisible but absolute.

The kiss deepened, and Ohm felt himself falling into it the way he always did when Jimmy kissed him: like stepping off a cliff into an ocean he'd been swimming in his whole life. It was familiar and new all at once, every kiss different from the last but every kiss feeling like home.

When they finally pulled apart—and it wasn't quick, it was hell of a kiss, one that left them both breathless and slightly dizzy—Jimmy's eyes were dark and soft and full of something that made Ohm's heart stutter in his chest.

"Hi," Jimmy whispered, his forehead resting against Ohm's.

"Hi yourself," Ohm whispered back, and he was smiling so hard his cheeks hurt, but he couldn't seem to stop.

The phone, apparently having grown tired of being ignored, started ringing again.

Jimmy sighed, his breath warm against Ohm's lips, and finally—finally—released his hold on Ohm's waist. But not before pressing one more kiss to the corner of Ohm's mouth, short and sweet.

"You owe me for that," Jimmy said as Ohm scrambled toward the bedside drawer where his phone was buzzing itself into a frenzy.

"I owe you for what? You kissed me."

"You could have stopped me."

"I could have," Ohm agreed, grabbing the phone and frowning at the unfamiliar number on the screen. "But I didn't, which means you owe me."

"That's not how—"

"Hello?" Ohm said into the phone, his voice carrying a note of suspicion that immediately derailed whatever argument Jimmy had been about to make.

Silence.

Ohm pulled the phone away from his ear, checked the screen, confirmed that the call was still connected, and tried again. "Hello?"

More silence. But not the silence of an empty line—the silence of someone on the other end holding their breath, waiting. Ohm could almost hear them, could almost feel the suppressed energy crackling through the connection like static electricity.

Jimmy, who had been watching Ohm's face with increasing curiosity, abandoned his position on the bed and walked over to sit beside Ohm. The mattress dipped under his weight, and Ohm found himself leaning into Jimmy's side automatically, drawn by some gravitational pull that had nothing to do with physics and everything to do with love.

"Who is it?" Jimmy asked, his voice low and close to Ohm's ear.

Ohm frowned and shook his head, the motion slight but meaningful. ‘I have no idea’, the shake said. ‘And it's kind of freaking me out.’

Jimmy held out his hand. "Give it to me."

Ohm hesitated for exactly half a second—long enough for Jimmy to raise an eyebrow and give him the look, one that seemed to have said ‘I've got this, trust me’—before handing over the phone.

Jimmy brought the device to his ear, his expression shifting into something more serious. "Who is this?" he asked, his voice calm and steady in a way that Ohm had always admired and occasionally envied.

For a moment, nothing. And then—a sound. Small, almost imperceptible. The rustle of fabric? A breath held too long?

Jimmy's thumb found the speakerphone button. "Can you hear us?" Ohm asked, leaning closer to the phone, his agitation bleeding into his voice.

The scream that came through the speaker was so loud and so sudden that Jimmy's hands shot up in surprise—and in flying went the phone, tumbling through the air in a graceful arc before clattering onto the floor with a sound that made Ohm wince.

For a moment, they both stared at the phone, which was now lying face-down on the carpet, still emitting muffled sounds of... laughter?

Jimmy's hand had flown to his chest, right over his heart, and Ohm could see his pulse jumping in his throat. Ohm himself had both hands pressed over his own heart, as if trying to physically calm the organ that was currently attempting to escape his ribcage through sheer force of panic.

"Oh my god," Ohm breathed. "What the hell—"

"Scaredy cats!" came a voice from the phone, still muffled but unmistakably gleeful. "Scaredy cats, scaredy cats, I wish we could have seen your faces!"

Jimmy blinked. Once. Twice. Then, very slowly, he turned to look at Ohm.

Ohm was already scrambling off the bed, dropping to his knees on the carpet and grabbing the phone with the desperate energy of someone rescuing a drowning kitten. He turned it over, checked the screen—still connected, still on speakerphone, still emitting the sound of what appeared to be multiple people laughing their heads off.

"Kong?" Ohm said, the name escaping him before he could stop it, because he would recognize that laugh anywhere. He'd heard it at three in the morning during filming breaks, heard it echoing through restaurant booths at cast dinners, heard it ringing in his ears long after he'd gone home. It was the laugh of someone who had seen Ohm at his worst and his best and everything in between and had somehow decided to stick around anyway.

"Who is Kong?" the voice said, now attempting (and failing spectacularly) to sound like a deep-voiced stranger. "I know no Kong."

Ohm's thumb found the button to switch the audio call to video. The screen flickered, and then—

Kong's face filled the frame, grinning so wide it looked like his cheeks might split open. Behind him, crowding into the frame like puppies fighting for attention, were the others: Namping waving enthusiastically, JJ trying to look innocent and failing miserably, and a whole gaggle of faces that Ohm had come to know and love over the years, all of them beaming at the camera with the kind of chaotic energy that could only come from a group of actors who had spent too much time together and had learned exactly how to push each other's buttons.

"Wait till I meet you guys," Ohm said, and even though his voice was half-joking, there was an undercurrent of genuine threat that made Kong's grin widen even further.

"You're so cute that even when you're serious or angry, we can't take you seriously," Namping said from somewhere over Kong's shoulder, hia voice warm with affection. The others laughed in agreement, a chorus of teasing that echoed through the phone's tiny speaker.

An arm circled itself around Ohm's neck—Jimmy, who had apparently decided that the best way to participate in this video call was to attach himself to Ohm like a very large, very warm barnacle. "I know, right?" Jimmy said, pulling himself closer until his face was in the frame, his cheek pressed against Ohm's temple.

The chorus of teasing 'oohhhh's that came through the phone was so loud and so synchronized that Ohm suspected they'd practiced it. Which, knowing this group, they probably had.

"We should—we have to go," Ohm said, fumbling for the end call button. "We have things. Important things. Things that are important and that we need to do."

"He's shyyyyyyy!" came a voice that Ohm was pretty sure belonged to Wave, the youngest and most enthusiastic member of their chaos squad, and then Ohm's thumb found the button and the screen went dark.

He flopped backwards onto the bed, landing with a soft oof against the pillows. Jimmy, who had apparently decided that Ohm's personal space was now his own property, flopped down right next to him, close enough that their shoulders touched and their hips brushed and Ohm could feel the warmth of Jimmy's body seeping into his own like sunlight through a window.

"I can't believe they haven't gotten the news," Ohm said, staring up at the ceiling. The ceiling fan spun slowly above them, stirring the warm afternoon air into gentle currents that smelled like Jimmy's cologne and the faint sweetness of the candles Ohm had lit that morning.

"They already have," Jimmy replied, and Ohm could hear the smile in his voice even without looking at him.

Ohm turned his head, frowning. "Huh?"

"Net sent me a message earlier." Jimmy's hand found Ohm's on the bedsheet, fingers intertwining like they were made to fit together. Which, Ohm thought somewhat nonsensically, they probably were. "He said, and I quote, 'no one is buying it except for the fans. The fans are a total wreck, though.'"

Ohm groaned, covering his face with his free hand. "I feel awful."

"You should."

"Jimmy!"

"I'm joking. Mostly." Jimmy squeezed his hand, a gentle pressure. "We knew this would happen. It was your idea, remember?"

"My brilliant idea, yes."

"Your we're-going-to-get-canceled idea."

Ohm pulled his hand away from his face to glare at Jimmy, but the glare lasted approximately half a second before it dissolved into helpless laughter. "We're not going to get canceled."

Ohm sighed, letting his head fall back against the pillow. The ceiling fan continued its lazy rotation, and somewhere in the distance, he could hear the sounds of Bangkok going about its business—traffic and chatter and the general hum of a city that never quite stopped moving. But here, in this room, with Jimmy's hand in his and Jimmy's shoulder pressed against his own, the world felt small and safe.

"Can't we just reveal that it's a prank already?" Ohm asked, and he hated how small his voice sounded, how vulnerable. "I don't want the fans to hurt anymore."

Jimmy was quiet for a moment. Then, slowly, he turned onto his side and pulled Ohm into his embrace, wrapping around him like a shield against the world. Ohm went willingly—he always went willingly, had been going willingly since the first time Jimmy had held him and he'd realized that this was what safety felt like.

"I love how empathetic you are," Jimmy said against Ohm's hair, the words soft as a secret. His breath was warm, and Ohm felt it travel through his scalp and down his spine and settle somewhere in the vicinity of his heart.

"Then you shouldn't have made me go through this," Ohm said, but it came out as a whine, petulant and affectionate all at once.

Jimmy chuckled, the sound vibrating through Ohm's body like a second heartbeat. "You're so cute," he said, and then he said it again, softer: "You're so cute, you're so cute, you're so cute," like a mantra, like a prayer, like the only words that mattered in any language.

"I'm not—"

"You are. You're the cutest person in the entire world, and I'm going to tell you that every day until you believe it."

"That's going to take a very long time."

"I've got time."

Ohm felt his eyes sting, felt the telltale prickle of tears that he refused to let fall. Not because he was sad—he wasn't, not even a little bit—but because Jimmy said things like that, casual and easy and sincere, and Ohm still hadn't figured out how to handle it without wanting to cry or laugh or kiss him senseless.

Ohm laughed, wet and wobbly, and turned in Jimmy's arms until he could bury his face in Jimmy's chest. Jimmy's arms tightened around him, and Ohm felt himself relax in a way he only ever could when he was here, in this space, in this warmth, in this love.

"I love you," Ohm whispered into the fabric of Jimmy's shirt.

"I know," Jimmy whispered back, and Ohm could hear the smile in his voice, could feel it in the way Jimmy's arms pulled him closer, could taste it in the kiss Jimmy pressed to the top of his head.

They fell asleep like that, tangled together like vines growing toward the same sun, and drifted off to a deep slumber that wrapped around them like a blanket made of dreams.

The morning of the reveal arrived like a held breath finally being released.

Ohm woke to sunlight streaming through the windows and Jimmy's arm draped across his chest like a particularly possessive seatbelt. For a moment—just a moment—he lay there, cataloging the details of the morning: the soft sound of Jimmy's breathing, the warmth of his body pressed against Ohm's side, the way his eyelashes fanned across his cheeks like tiny feathers.

He looked peaceful when he slept. Younger, somehow. The careful walls he built during the day , crumbled away in sleep, leaving behind something raw and vulnerable and achingly beautiful.

Ohm could have stayed there forever. He could have watched Jimmy sleep until the sun burned out and the stars grew cold and the universe folded in on itself. But the clock on the bedside table was flashing 8:47 AM, and they had approximately three hours to get dressed and get to the venue and prepare themselves for the emotional rollercoaster that was about to become their afternoon.

He reached over and poked Jimmy's cheek.

No response.

He poked again, harder this time.

Jimmy's nose scrunched up, and he made a sound that was somewhere between a grumble and a sigh. His arm tightened across Ohm's chest, as if trying to physically prevent him from leaving.

"Jimmy," Ohm said. "We have to get up."

"Mmph," Jimmy replied, which was Jimmy-speak for five more minutes.

"We don't have five more minutes."

"Mmph mmph."

"That's not—you can't just say 'mmph mmph' and expect me to understand what that means."

Jimmy cracked one eye open, and Ohm was struck—as he was every single time—by how brown Jimmy's eyes were. Not just brown, but brown: the color of rich earth after rain, of dark chocolate melting on the tongue, of autumn leaves just before they fell. They were the kind of brown that made Ohm want to write bad poetry and worse songs and possibly learn to paint just so he could try (and fail) to capture them on canvas.

"Five more minutes," Jimmy said, his voice rough with sleep.

"We don't have—"

"Five. More. Minutes." Jimmy's eye closed again, and his arm somehow got heavier. "I'm not asking."

"Jimmy , get up."

"Mmph."

"That's not a word, that's a sound."

"You understand it."

"I don't."

Jimmy smiled, slow and sleepy, and Ohm felt his heart crack open a little bit more. "You understand everything about me," Jimmy said, soft as a secret. "That's why I love you."

Ohm opened his mouth to respond—probably something witty, definitely something sarcastic—but the words got stuck in his throat, tangled up with the sudden rush of emotion that flooded through him. Because Jimmy said things like that, casual and easy, like it was nothing to lay your heart bare in the morning light, like love was as simple as breathing.

Maybe it was. Maybe Jimmy had figured something out that Ohm was still struggling to understand.

They lay there for exactly five more minutes—Ohm counted—and then, reluctantly, they untangled themselves from each other and began the process of becoming the people the world expected them to be.

The venue was a sprawling event space in the heart of Bangkok, all exposed brick and industrial lighting. Fans had been lining up since dawn, their excitement palpable even from several blocks away. Ohm could feel it as the car pulled up to the back entrance: the anticipation, the hope, the desperate, aching love that fans poured into the people they admired.

It was, he thought, both the greatest gift and the heaviest burden.

The event was disguised as their last appearance together as an on-screen couple—a farewell, a final goodbye, a chance for closure before they went their separate ways. The irony wasn't lost on Ohm, nor was the guilt that sat heavy in his stomach like a stone he couldn't quite swallow.

He watched from the wings as the fans filed in, their faces a mixture of emotions that made his chest ache. Some were smiling—brave, determined smiles that said I'm here to support them no matter what. Others weren't smiling at all, their eyes red-rimmed and puffy, as if they'd been crying in the car on the way over. A few held signs with messages like "THANK YOU JIMMYOHM" and "WE'LL ALWAYS LOVE YOU" and "IT'S NOT GOODBYE, IT'S SEE YOU LATER" in glittering letters that caught the light.

Ohm saw a girl in the third row—no older than eighteen, he guessed—wipe her eyes with the back of her hand and then force herself to smile, as if she was afraid of being caught grieving. His heart clenched so hard he almost doubled over.

"They're hurting," he whispered to Jimmy, who was standing beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed. "They're really hurting."

Jimmy's hand found his in the darkness of the wings, squeezing gently. "I know."

"We should just tell them now. We should just—walk out there and say 'surprise, it was a prank, we're not breaking up, we're actually more in love than ever, please stop crying.'"

"And ruin the entire event we spent three weeks planning?"

"Yes."

Jimmy laughed, soft and low. "You're impossible."

"You love me."

"I do," Jimmy said, and his voice was so sincere, so full of warmth, that Ohm felt some of the tension drain from his shoulders. "Which is why I'm going to let you be the one to tell them. At the end. As planned."

"You're no fun."

"I'm practical."

"Same thing."

The event passed in a blur of smiles and waves and carefully worded answers to questions that danced around the elephant in the room. Ohm found himself watching the fans more than he watched the cameras, cataloging their expressions, memorizing their faces. He wanted to remember this—not the performance, but the people. The ones who had shown up, even when it hurt. The ones who were trying so hard to be brave.

As the event slowly came to an end, the sadness in the room became more visible, more tangible. It hung in the air like fog, seeping into every corner, muffling every sound. The fans' smiles became harder to maintain, their laughter more forced. Ohm could see the cracks forming in their carefully constructed masks, could see the grief bleeding through like water through a dam that was about to break.

He felt awful.

Not just awful—devastated. Because these weren't just numbers on a screen or usernames on Twitter. These were real people, with real hearts and souls, and they were hurting because of something he had done. Even if it was temporary. Even if the pain would turn to joy in just a few minutes. The hurt was real now, and Ohm was the cause of it.

But soon—soon—those tears that were falling would become happy tears. The tears that fans rushed to wipe away, afraid of being seen, afraid of making him feel bad—those tears would transform into tears of joy that they wouldn't have to hide. They would flow freely, unchecked and unashamed, born from relief and happiness and the kind of love that only comes from being part of something bigger than yourself.

Ohm imagined it: the moment of revelation, the collective gasp, the slow dawning of understanding. He imagined the laughter that would follow, watery and bright, and the way the fans would probably hit him (metaphorically, he hoped) for putting them through this emotional wringer. He imagined the posts that would flood social media—the memes and the gifs and the tearful video reactions—and he imagined the sense of community that would form around this shared experience.

It would be worth it, he told himself. The temporary pain would be worth the lasting joy.

He hoped.

It was time.

The host was wrapping up, her voice carrying that particular tone that signaled the end of an event— the we've had a wonderful time but now we must say goodbye tone that always made Ohm's heart clench, even when he wasn't faking a breakup.

"We've come to the final moment of our time together," the host said, her smile tinged with genuine sadness. "Jimmy and Ohm, would you like to say a few words to your fans before we end?"

Jimmy stepped forward.

Ohm blinked. That wasn't—Jimmy wasn't supposed to—he was supposed to do this part. That had been the plan. Jimmy was quiet and reserved, the kind of person who let Ohm do the talking in public and saved his words for private moments when they mattered most. Ohm was the one who was supposed to stand up here and say ‘Surprise, it was all a prank, we're sorry we made you cry, please don't unfollow us.’

But Jimmy was holding the microphone, and Jimmy was turning to face the crowd, and Jimmy's expression was... different. Softer, somehow. More vulnerable. Like he was standing on the edge of something and was about to jump.

Ohm's heart started beating faster, a frantic rhythm that had nothing to do with the cameras or the crowd and everything to do with the way Jimmy was looking at him.

"Everyone here already knows that Ohm and I are no longer on-screen partners," Jimmy began, and his voice was steady, but Ohm could hear the tremor underneath, could feel the weight of what was coming.

The crowd went silent. Even the host, seasoned professional that she was, seemed to hold her breath.

Ohm recited the next line in his head, the line they had practiced, the line that was supposed to come next , "because we are official in real-life partners."

But Jimmy didn't say that.

Instead, he turned to face Ohm fully—not just turn, but turn, his whole body shifting until he was standing directly in front of Ohm, close enough that Ohm could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, could count the eyelashes that fanned across his cheeks, could see the slight tremor in his hands that betrayed his calm exterior.

And then—slowly, deliberately, like time itself had decided to take a nap—Jimmy sank to his knees.

Both knees.

Ohm's world stopped.

He was aware, somewhere in the distant background, of the crowd's reaction. Of the gasps that rippled through the room like waves, of the camera flashes that suddenly exploded like a thousand tiny supernovas, of the screams that started as a low murmur and built into something deafening. He was aware of the host's hand flying to her mouth, of the security guards exchanging confused glances, of the way the lights seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat.

But none of it mattered.

Because Jimmy was kneeling in front of him—Jimmy, who was always so careful, so private, so determined to keep their relationship out of the spotlight—and Jimmy's eyes were locked on his, dark and deep and full of a love so vast that Ohm felt like he was drowning in it.

Jimmy raised the microphone to his lips, and Ohm watched the movement as if in slow motion: the way his fingers curled around the metal, the way his lips parted, the way his tongue darted out to wet them nervously.

"Will you marry me, Ohm?"

The words hung in the air like stars in a night sky—impossible and brilliant and so bright they almost hurt to look at.

Then Jimmy threw the microphone.

He just—threw it. Let it clatter to the floor with a sound that was lost in the cacophony of screams and gasps and the frantic clicking of cameras. His hands, now free, dove into his pocket, rummaging with a desperate energy that was so unlike his usual calm that Ohm felt something crack open in his chest.

And then the box was in Jimmy's hands, a small velvet square that he opened with trembling fingers, revealing two rings nestled inside like sleeping treasures. They caught the light and threw it back in fragments—diamonds and jewels and precious metals that glittered and sparkled and would have taken Ohm's breath away if he'd had any breath left to take.

But Ohm wasn't looking at the rings.

He was looking at Jimmy.

At the way Jimmy's hands were shaking. At the way his eyes were shining with unshed tears. At the way his chest was rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths, like he'd just run a marathon .

At the way he was looking at Ohm like Ohm was the sun and the moon and every star in the sky, like Ohm was the answer to a question Jimmy had been asking his whole life, like Ohm was everything.

The screams from the crowd were deafening now, a wall of sound that should have been overwhelming but somehow faded into background noise. The camera flashes were constant, turning the room into a strobe light of captured moments. The fans were crying—Ohm could see them through his peripheral vision, hands pressed to mouths and tears streaming down cheeks and phones held aloft to capture this impossible, unbelievable moment.

But Ohm felt as if it were only the two of them in the world.

Jimmy started speaking, and because the screams were so loud, because the noise was so overwhelming, because the universe had apparently decided to collapse into this single point of light, only they could hear each other.

"I know I don't have a lot to offer," Jimmy said, and his voice cracked on the words, raw and honest in a way that made Ohm's heart splinter. "I know I'm not—I'm not good at saying the right thing, or being romantic, or—or any of the things you deserve."

Ohm wanted to interrupt, wanted to say you don't have to do this, you don't have to sell yourself short, you are everything—but his voice had abandoned him, lost somewhere in the chaos of his emotions.

"But I promise," Jimmy continued, and his voice grew stronger, steadier, like he was finally believing the words he was saying, "I promise I will work hard every single day to be worthy of you. I promise to be by your side for as long as you'll have me—through the good days and the bad days and the days when we want to kill each other but can't because we love each other too much."

A tear slipped down Jimmy's cheek, and Ohm felt his own eyes burning in response.

"So if you please," Jimmy said, his voice dropping to barely a whisper, "just give me a chance to spend the rest of my life making you half as happy as you've made me—"

"Yes."

The word came out of Ohm's mouth before he could stop it, before he could think, before he could do anything except feel the overwhelming, all-consuming yes that had been building in his chest since the moment Jimmy dropped to his knees.

"Yes," Ohm said again, louder this time, and then again, and again, like a prayer or a chant or a song he couldn't stop singing. "Yes, yes, a billion times yes, yes—"

He reached down and grabbed Jimmy's hands—the hands that were still holding the ring box, the hands that were trembling, the hands that had held him through nightmares and celebrations and everything in between—and pulled. Jimmy came up easily, rising to his feet like he was being drawn by gravity, and Ohm didn't wait, couldn't wait, wouldn't wait another second before his lips found Jimmy's.

The kiss was not gentle.

It was the kind of kiss that happened when two people had been holding themselves back for too long, when every moment of restraint had been building toward this single point of release. It was desperate and hungry and loving in a way that transcended words, that bypassed language entirely and spoke directly to the soul.

Ohm felt Jimmy's hands cup his face, felt the ring box press against his cheek, felt the tears that were now streaming down both their faces mix together where their skin touched. He tasted salt and coffee and Jimmy, just Jimmy, and he thought—he thought—

This is what forever feels like.

The crowd was still screaming. The cameras were still flashing. The world was still spinning, still moving, still existing in all its chaotic, beautiful, overwhelming glory.

But Ohm didn't care.

Because Jimmy was kissing him. Jimmy had asked him to marry him. Jimmy had gotten down on both knees in front of thousands of people and offered him everything—his heart, his future, his forever—and Ohm had said yes.

Yes.

When they finally pulled apart—breathless and trembling and laughing and crying all at once—Ohm rested his forehead against Jimmy's. Their noses touched. Their breath mingled. The world, for just a moment, held still.

"I can't guarantee that the future will be easy," Ohm said, his voice hoarse with emotion. "I can't promise that we won't fight, or that we'll always get it right, or that life won't throw things at us that we never expected."

Jimmy's hands tightened on his face, thumbs stroking along his cheekbones in a gesture so tender it made Ohm's heart ache.

"But I can promise you this," Ohm continued, and he felt the words settle into his chest like stones dropped into still water, sending ripples outward through his entire being. "Whatever happens—whatever storms come, whatever battles we face, whatever darkness tries to find us—you will have me. Every single day. Every single moment. Every single breath."

He pulled back just enough to look into Jimmy's eyes, those impossibly brown eyes that held his entire world.

"I don't know what the future will look like," Ohm said softly. "I don't know if it will be happy or sad or somewhere in between. But I know—I know—that I'll be with you. Through every sunrise and every sunset. Through every joy and every sorrow. Through everything."

Jimmy's tears were falling freely now, trailing down his cheeks and catching on his smile. "That's—" he started, then stopped, his voice breaking. "That's not fair. You're supposed to let me be the romantic one for once."

"You asked me to marry you in front of ten thousand people," Ohm pointed out, laughing through his own tears. "I think you've got the romantic corner covered."

"Ten thousand and four hundred," Jimmy corrected automatically.

"Did you—did you count?"

"I wanted to know exactly how many people were going to witness me having a complete emotional breakdown."

Around them, the crowd had erupted into chaos. Fans were crying and screaming and hugging each other and calling their friends and updating their social media and generally losing their collective minds. The host had apparently given up on maintaining any pretense of professionalism and was openly sobbing into her microphone. The security guards were looking at each other with expressions that suggested they had absolutely no idea what to do next.

And Ohm was looking at Jimmy, at the man who had just gotten down on both knees and asked him to spend forever together, and he was thinking about how strange and wonderful and absolutely terrifying love could be.

It was, he decided, worth every moment of fear.

He leaned in and kissed Jimmy again but softer this time, gentle, a promise wrapped in a caress. And when he pulled back, he took Jimmy's hand , the one still holding the ring box and brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to Jimmy's knuckles.

"So," Ohm said, his voice light despite the tears still clinging to his eyelashes. "Are you going to put those rings on me, or do I have to do it myself?"

Jimmy's laugh was watery but real. "I'm getting there. I'm having a moment."

"You've been having a moment for the past five minutes."

"I'm allowed. I just proposed to the love of my life."

"Fair point."

Jimmy opened the ring box with trembling fingers and removed one of the rings—a simple band of platinum that caught the light and scattered it like tiny stars. He took Ohm's left hand, and Ohm noticed that his own fingers were shaking too, trembling with the weight of this moment, of everything it meant.

"Forever," Jimmy said softly, sliding the ring onto Ohm's finger.

"Forever," Ohm agreed, and he meant it with every fiber of his being.

The aftermath was chaos in the best possible way.

Social media exploded—literally exploded, if the reports of Twitter crashing were to be believed. The hashtag #JimmyOhmEngagement trended worldwide within minutes. Fans posted videos and photos and tearful reaction shots, and the general consensus seemed to be that the fake breakup had been cruel but the proposal had more than made up for it.

(There were, of course, a few people who were still angry about the prank. But even they seemed to soften when they watched the video of Jimmy dropping to his knees, of Ohm's tearful "yes," of the kiss that had broken the internet )

Their phones buzzed constantly with messages from friends and family and colleagues who had apparently been watching the live stream and were now demanding answers. Ohm's mother called four times in the span of ten minutes, and when Ohm finally answered, she was crying so hard he could barely understand her.

"Did you know about this?" she demanded, her voice crackling with emotion. "Did you know?"

"I had no idea," Ohm admitted, and he was still smiling so wide his cheeks hurt. "He surprised me."

"Surprised you? He—he got down on his knees—"

"I know, Mom."

"In front of everyone—"

"I know, Mom."

"I'm going to kill him and then I'm going to hug him and then I'm going to kill him again—"

"That's fair."

Jimmy's mother, by contrast, was surprisingly calm. She listened to Jimmy's explanation—the prank, the proposal, the fact that she now had a son-in-law—and then said, in a voice that was somehow both warm and terrifying, "We'll talk about this when you come home."

Jimmy had gone pale. Ohm had laughed so hard he almost choked.

And through it all, through the chaos and the messages and the phone calls and the chaos (did he mention the chaos?), Jimmy held Ohm's hand. Not tightly, not possessively, but gently, like Ohm was something precious and fragile and worth protecting.

Like Ohm was his.

Which, Ohm thought with a surge of warmth that spread through his entire body, he was. And Jimmy was his. And they were theirs—together, always, forever.

Later that night—after the event had ended and the fans had gone home and the venue had emptied and the world had had time to process what had happened—Ohm and Jimmy lay tangled together in their bed, the same bed where this whole ridiculous journey had begun.

The ceiling fan spun slowly above them, stirring the warm air into gentle currents. The city hummed outside their window, a distant lullaby of traffic and life and the world continuing to turn. And Ohm lay with his head on Jimmy's chest, listening to the steady thump of Jimmy's heartbeat, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing, tracing patterns on his skin with idle fingers.

"Today was insane," Ohm said eventually, his voice soft in the darkness.

"Mmm," Jimmy agreed. His fingers were carding through Ohm's hair, slow and soothing, and Ohm felt himself melting into the touch like butter on warm bread.

"You proposed to me."

"I did."

"In front of ten thousand four hundred people."

"I wanted witnesses."

"In case I said no?"

"In case you forgot."

Ohm laughed, the sound muffled against Jimmy's chest. "How could I forget something like that?"

"I don't know. You forget your things all the time."

"They are not the same as a marriage proposal."

"They are all important."

"Jimmy."

"What?"

Ohm lifted his head, propping his chin on Jimmy's chest so he could look at him. The moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting pale silver light across Jimmy's face, illuminating the soft curve of his smile and the warm depth of his eyes.

"Thank you," Ohm said quietly.

Jimmy's brow furrowed. "For what?"

"For this. For today. For you." Ohm reached up and touched Jimmy's face, tracing the line of his jaw, the curve of his cheek, the softness of his lips. "For loving me enough to do something that terrifying."

Jimmy caught Ohm's hand and pressed a kiss to his palm. "Loving you is the easiest thing I've ever done," he said simply.

Jimmy laughed, and Ohm felt it vibrate through his chest, through his bones, through his soul. He lowered his head back down, settling into the familiar curve of Jimmy's body, and closed his eyes.

"I love you," he whispered into the darkness.

"I love you too," Jimmy whispered back.

The stars continued to shine bearing witness to the beautiful miracle of two people who had found each other in the chaos of existence and decided—against all odds, against all reason, against everything—to hold on.

Forever.