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The Domundi office was freshly painted and smelled of wood. Kim Pongsaton Sittipan noticed this the moment he stepped through the glass doors, that particular smell of a place that was always in the middle expanding and growing. He liked it immediately. He liked most things immediately, if he comes to think of it. It was both his gift and, according to his mother, his most exhausting quality.
"You're going to get attached to a cactus and cry when it dies," she'd told him once. She was probably right.
A staff member named Mild, wearing a lanyard with a chipmunk photo tucked behind her ID led him through the main floor. They came past editing bays, conference room, and a small recording studio visible through a long panel of glass. Kim looked at everything. He couldn't help it. He was cataloguing, the way he always did in new places. The sticky notes layered on monitors, the half-dead plant someone had optimistically placed near a window with no sunlight, the framed photo of a group of people laughing at what must have been a company trip.
"The teams, including the artists, do a casual lunch together on Saturdays," Mild was saying, scrolling through something on her tablet as she walked. "Not mandatory, of course. Everyone is busy with their group or solo projects and events, but most people show up, even for a little while. It's a good way to get to know everyone."
"I really like that," Kim said immediately.
She smiled without looking up. "I figured."
The main gathering space was a large open room, part lounge and part meeting area where several people were already assembled, some sitting, some standing with coffee cups. Most of them turning when Kim walked in. He felt the attention like a change in air pressure, which used to make him shrink and now made him stand a little straighter instead. He'd worked hard for that small shift.
"Everyone," Mild announced, with the practiced cheer of someone who had done this many times, "this is Kim. He's officially joining the Domundi family, as the newest artist today."
There was a warm, collective welcomes and smiles. Someone near the back gave a little wave. A guy with round glasses and an oversized hoodie said "finally!" as if he'd been personally waiting. Kim laughed genuinely, because that kind of easy warmth was still something he received with a full heart no matter when.
He greeted each person in turn, working his way through the room. He was good at this part. Eye contact, a real smile, remembering the name the moment it was given and using it once in the next sentence so it would stick. His mother had taught him that.
He was nearly through the room when he noticed a man sitting slightly apart from the rest.
Not separate in a dramatic way, he wasn't in a corner or anything. He was just simply at the end of a couch, one arm resting along the back of it, scrolling through his phone with the particular air of stillness that suggested he was entirely unbothered by the proceedings. He was handsome in a way that seemed almost inconvenient, sharp jaw, slanted eyes, easy posture, the kind of face that looked like it belonged to a vogue magazine cover.
Kim walked towards the couch and waited.
The man did not look up.
Around them, conversation had resumed its normal flow. Nobody seemed to find this strange. Kim filed that information away: this is normal for him, then.
He considered letting it go. Moving on. Circling back to the guy with the round glasses who had seemed genuinely delighted by his existence.
Instead he took two steps more towards the couch, exactly at the man's line of sight.
"Hi," Kim said. "I'm Kim."
The man looked up then, though he was not startled, as if he'd always intended to look up at exactly this moment and Kim's arrival had simply coincided with it. His eyes were dark and direct. He looked at Kim the way some people looked at a passing stranger, knowing they’ll never meet or see each other again.
"I know," he said. Then he looked back at his phone.
Kim blinked. What.
He stood there for one beat, two beats, three, waiting for a name, a nod, anything. Nothing came. The man's thumb scrolled. Somewhere behind Kim, someone laughed at something. The half-dead plant sat in its sunless window with more dignity than Kim currently felt.
He turned back to the room.
"Who's that?" he murmured to Mild when he got to her and pointed his head slightly toward the man at the couch.
She followed his gaze. Something crossed her face for a moment, a mix of amusement and sympathy perhaps.
"Latte," Mild said. "Latte Thanutchon Chankaewarmon. He's, " She paused, clearly selecting words. "He takes a little while."
Kim scoffed slightly, "clearly." He said.
"Don’t mind him," said Mild. "That’s just the way he is. He means no malice."
Kim looked back at the man, who had not moved, had not looked up, was scrolling with the serene focus of someone who had made peace with exactly how much social engagement he was willing to offer the world.
Latte. Interesting, Kim thought.
He was a patient person. He was warm and kind and he generally believed in people, believed in the slow work of connection the way he believed in the slow work of everything that mattered.
He also, and he did not share this widely, was quietly and profoundly competitive.
He smiled to himself and turned back to the rest of the room.
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The Domundi office at 9:00 PM on a Monday was a completely different entity than it was during the day. The bright, chaotic energy of artists and their managers, stylists, and vocal coaches was gone, replaced by a deep, hummed silence that felt almost sacred.
Kim stretched his arms over his head, a satisfying pop echoing from his spine. He had spent the last three hours in one of the small practice rooms, running through choreo lines until his shirt was damp with sweat and his thighs burned. It was exhausting, but it was the kind of ache he welcomed. It meant he was putting down roots. The company had him rotating on workshops, dance lessons, and voice lessons since he joined.
Thirsty, he grabbed his empty water bottle and padded out into the hallway in his socks. The main floor was dark, illuminated only by the standby lights of the editing bays and the pale moonlight cutting through the large glass windows.
As he neared the breakroom, he noticed a sliver of warm light spilling across the tiled floor.
Kim slowed his steps. He hadn't thought anyone else was left. He peered around the doorframe and stopped.
Latte was there. He was wearing a simple, oversized black t-shirt. His hair, which had been perfectly styled when they first met, fell loosely across his forehead. He was standing by the window, the exact window where the pathetic, half-dead plant resided.
Kim watched, holding his breath, as Latte used a small ceramic pitcher to carefully pour water into the soil. He poured it slowly, in a gentle circle around the base, ensuring the dry earth could actually absorb it. With his free hand, Latte gently cupped one of the drooping, yellowed leaves, lifting it slightly as if checking its pulse.
There was no phone in his hand. No protective, cool posture. In the dim light of the breakroom, his face looked softer, relaxed in a way that Kim hadn't thought possible for him.
So he does have a gentle side, Kim thought, a small, involuntary smile tugging at his lips.
Kim deliberately cleared his throat as he stepped into the room, not wanting to genuinely startle him.
The change was instantaneous. Latte didn't jump, but the softness vanished from his expression in a fraction of a second, replaced by that familiar, unbothered mask. He set the pitcher down on the counter, his dark eyes locking onto Kim.
"You're still here," Latte said. It wasn't a question, and it wasn't particularly welcoming, but it was more words than he had offered Kim all week.
"Just finishing up practice," Kim said cheerfully, holding up his empty bottle as an excuse. He walked over to the water dispenser, filling it up while maintaining an easy, relaxed posture. "I didn't expect anyone else to be around. Keeping the plants alive?"
Latte looked at the plant, then back at Kim. "Someone has to. People buy them for aesthetic and forget they require actual effort."
"True," Kim agreed, tightening the cap on his bottle. He leaned against the counter, deliberately entering Latte's orbit instead of retreating. "I'm Kim, by the way. We didn't really get a chance to introduce ourselves last time?"
Latte let out a breath that was a hair away from a sigh. "I know who you are. P'Mild introduced you."
"Yeah, but you didn't introduce yourself, no?" Kim pointed out, his tone light and conversational. He offered a warm, easy smile, leaning back against the counter while tilting his head sideways towards the other. "I usually like to hear a person's name from their own mouth. It feels more official."
Latte stared at him for a long beat. He looked at Kim's damp hair, his workout clothes, and the steady, unwavering curiosity in his eyes. There was a calculation happening behind Latte's gaze, an assessment of whether this new guy was going to be a persistent nuisance.
"Latte," he finally said, his voice low and direct.
"Nice to officially meet you, Latte," Kim said, using the name immediately. He tilted his water bottle in a tiny, silent toast. "See? That wasn't so bad."
A tiny, almost imperceptible twitch occurred at the corner of Latte's mouth. It wasn't a smile, but it was a crack in the ice. "Don't push your luck."
"Never," Kim lied smoothly behind a chuckle, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "But I'm pretty good with plants, too, if you ever need backup on watering duty. I'll water it whenever you're not here."
Latte picked up his phone from the counter, tapping the screen to check the time. The cool, unbothered wall was firmly back in place, but the atmosphere between them had shifted, if only by a fraction of a degree.
"I'm leaving," Latte said, ignoring the offer entirely as he walked past Kim toward the door.
But just before he stepped out into the dark hallway, he paused. He didn't look back, but he tilted his head slightly.
"Don't leave the lights on when you go," Latte murmured.
Then he was gone, his quiet footsteps fading down the corridor.
Kim stood alone in the breakroom, looking at the newly watered plant, and then out into the empty hallway.
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The mirror-lined walls of the main rehearsal studio were humid and warm.
For the past four weeks, Kim’s life had been a blur of vocal evaluations, media training, and grueling dance sessions. He loved the momentum of it all. He has already familiarized the coffee orders of half the staff and other artists and could successfully navigate the building without getting lost. But today was different. Today was his first official acting workshop.
"Acting isn't about fabricating a feeling," the acting coach, P'Bew, explained as she paced the center of the room. "It’s about access. If you feel anger, or sadness, or joy, but you keep it locked in your chest, the camera will only see a blank wall. You have to let the emotion travel to your eyes, your hands, your posture. You have to let it out."
Kim sat on the floor with the other artists, listening intently. He looked around the room. There were about ten of them in total, a mix of rookies like himself and a few who had joined the prior year, including Latte.
Over the last few weeks, Kim had tried to be a friendly presence. A cheerful "Good morning" in the hallway would yield a slight nod from Latte. A shared elevator ride resulted in a quiet, civil silence. Kim understood that Latte wasn't being mean; he was just distant.
But as the workshop progressed into practical exercises, Kim noticed that the emotion sharing drills were visibly uncomfortable for Latte. When asked to project vulnerability or joy, Latte’s delivery was technically perfect, his diction was clear and his posture was great, but he pulled his punches. He kept his expressions carefully guarded, shielding whatever emotions that needs to be shown.
"Alright, let's pair up," P'Bew announced, clapping her hands. "I want you to find a partner and face them. We are going to practice emotional projection without words. Find a memory, any memory that you feel strongly attached to. It will help. One person will project the what they're feeling in that memory; sadness, comfort, or joy, using only their eyes and expression. The other person just has to receive it and let themselves react naturally. Go."
The room instantly dissolved into a flurry of movement as people scrambled toward their usual friends. Kim, standing near the center, noticed Latte lingering near the back, looking entirely prepared to just take whoever was left over.
Kim didn't want him to feel isolated. With an easy smile, he walked over and stopped in front of him.
"Hi," Kim said softly, offering a warm smile. "Want to pair up?"
Latte looked at him, a faint flicker of surprise crossing his features before his expression smoothed out. "Yeah, sure."
They found a quiet spot near the corner of the room and sat cross-legged, facing each other. Up close, Kim could see a slight tightness in Latte's jaw.
"Who goes first?" Latte asked, his voice low.
"I can go," Kim offered gently, wanting to take the pressure off. "I'll try to project, you just receive. Ready?"
Latte nodded, fixing his dark eyes on Kim.
Kim took a slow breath, letting his posture relax. He didn't want to act out a dramatic scene; he just tapped into something genuine. He thought about how grateful he was to be here, how much he genuinely liked the people in this company, and how much he wanted to build a real connection with the reserved man sitting across from him. He let that simple, uncomplicated warmth and kindness fill his expression, looking at Latte with complete, open friendliness.
Latte watched him. At first, his eyes were carefully neutral. He kept his face an unreadable mask. But as Kim just kept offering that steady, undemanding kindness, Latte’s shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch. The rigid tension in his frame began to ease, just a little. He didn't smile, but his gaze softened, accepting the warmth Kim was putting out into the space.
"Good," Bew’s voice drifted over from across the room. "Now, switch roles. Receiver becomes the giver."
Kim let his expression settle into a relaxed, encouraging calm. "Your turn," he murmured. "No pressure."
Latte swallowed, his throat moving tightly. He closed his eyes for a brief second, centering himself, and when he opened them, he tried to project. Kim could see the effort behind his eyes. Latte was trying to channel something open and expressive, but the habit of keeping people at a distance was a heavy instinct to break. His expression remained tight, his eyes guarded by a lifetime of reserve.
Instead of getting frustrated or breaking character, Kim simply maintained a soft, patient expression. He didn't push or demand more; he just stayed there, a steady, encouraging presence, silently telling Latte that whatever he was able to show right now was completely okay.
Latte took a quiet breath. He didn't suddenly burst into a wide smile or show a massive wave of emotion, but the guarded look in his eyes cracked just enough to let a sliver of genuine, quiet sincerity through. It was a tiny shift, but to Kim, it felt incredibly real.
"And relax, everyone," P'Bew called out, signaling the end of the exercise.
The room filled with the sound of rustling clothes and chatter as the tension broke. Latte blinked, taking a half-step back into his usual reserved posture, but the cool, unbothered wall didn't snap back as harshly as it usually did.
"Thanks," Latte said, his voice quiet but completely sincere.
"Thank you," Kim smiled back, unrolling his legs and standing up. He didn't make a big deal out of the breakthrough, keeping things light. "You're actually a really good."
Latte looked up at him from the floor, a tiny, almost imperceptible trace of amusement softening the corner of his mouth. "I just didn't want to ruin the drill."
"Whatever the reason, it worked," Kim chuckled, offering Latte a hand to help him up.
Latte looked at Kim's extended hand for a brief beat, then took it, letting Kim pull him to his feet. As they turned back to join the rest of the group, Kim felt a quiet sense of happiness. He hadn't broken down any massive walls, but as he walked beside Latte, the distance between them felt just a little bit smaller.
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Friday afternoon at the Office was a loud, high-energy ecosystem. A few of the older artists had just returned from a major brand event, and the main lounge area was filled with the sounds of overlapping conversations, laughter, and the rustle of takeout bags.
Kim was sitting at one of the high tables near the back, a script for an upcoming promo event open in front of him. He was highlighting his lines, but his mind kept drifting to the casual hum of the room. He liked the noise. It made him feel like he was part of a living, breathing family.
Then, a particularly loud burst of laughter erupted from the couch area near the wide windows.
Kim looked up, his pen hovering over the page.
A group of the senior artists had taken over the large sectional. Net was draped dramatically over the armrest, gesturing wildly with a half-eaten skewer of meatballs, while Jimmy was leaning back, laughing so hard his shoulders shook. TeeTee was sitting on the floor, leaning against the coffee table, typing furiously on his phone while trying to defend himself from whatever joke had just been made at his expense.
And right in the middle of them was Latte.
Kim’s breath caught slightly. He had never seen Latte look like this.
The heavy, structured jacket Latte usually wore was draped over the back of the couch. He was sitting with one leg tucked under him, completely relaxed. His usual expression - that cool, unbothered neutrality was entirely gone. Instead, his eyes were bright, crinkled at the corners with genuine amusement, and a wide, brilliant smile lit up his entire face.
"I told you," Net was loud enough for his voice to carry across the room, "he literally walked right into the glass door because he was looking at the food delivery notification!"
"I did not walk into it," TeeTee protested without looking up from his phone, though his ears were bright red. "I merely tapped it with my forehead."
Latte reached out, playfully shoving TeeTee's shoulder with his foot. "Tee, you literally left a forehead print on the glass. The cleaning staff had to use Windex."
The delivery was quick, dry, and accompanied by a mischievous, cheeky grin that made Kim's heart do a strange, sudden flip. It was a glimpse of a completely different Latte. Playful, a little teasing, and entirely safe within his circle.
Jimmy threw a crumpled napkin at Latte, which Latte caught out of the air with effortless coordination, laughing softly as he tossed it back.
From his distance, Kim just watched, a quiet, completely ungrudging smile forming on his own face. He didn't try to go over there. He knew better than to intrude on a moment that belonged to a chosen few. But looking at Latte now, seeing the way his laughter made him look younger, softer, and incredibly attractive, Kim felt a warm sense of reassurance.
Latte wasn't empty or cold. He just kept his circle small and his defenses high. He didn't give his energy away to just anyone who walked through the door.
As if sensing eyes on him, Latte’s gaze drifted away from his friends for a brief second, scanning the room. Kim didn't look away or try to pretend he hadn't been watching. When Latte’s dark eyes locked onto his, Kim simply offered a small, pleasant nod and a warm, supportive smile, the same steady, undemanding presence he had offered during the acting workshop.
Latte stared back for one beat, two beats. The playful grin on his face faded, but it didn't snap back into a cold mask. His expression settled into something quiet and curious. He gave Kim a very small, almost microscopic nod of acknowledgment before Net said something else that pulled his attention back to the couch.
Kim lowered his eyes back to his script, a small chuckle escaping him. He tapped his highlighter against the paper, feeling a renewed sense of joy.
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Latte Thanutchon Chankaewarmon valued his peace above almost everything else.
In an industry that demanded constant emotional output, bright smiles, and immediate intimacy with strangers, Latte preferred to conserve his energy. He knew what people said about him; that he was distant, that he took a long time to warm up, but it wasn't a calculated persona. It was just as he was. He had a small, fiercely guarded circle of people who knew the real him, and he saw no reason to hand out pieces of himself to every new face that walked through the Domundi doors.
Then came Kim, or P'Kim, as he had learned a day after that the other was actually older.
Latte remembered the first day P'Kim had arrived at the office. The room had been buzzing, the air thick with that superficial, practiced excitement that always accompanied a new arrival. Latte had stayed on his couch, intentionally buried in his phone, silently wishing for the social storm to pass.
But P'Kim hadn't just taken the hint and moved on. He had actually walked over.
“Hi,” Kim had said. “I’m Kim.”
Latte had looked up, fully intending to give his standard, polite-but-reassuring nod to signify the end of the conversation. “I know,” he’d replied, before looking back down. It wasn't meant to be cruel; it was just a boundary. He expected Kim to awkwardly shuffle away like everyone else did. Instead, he’d felt Kim’s lingering, unbothered presence for three full seconds. No anger, no offense—just a quiet, resilient pause before the guy walked away.
It had been... strange.
Then came that Tuesday night in the breakroom. Latte had stayed late specifically to avoid the daytime crowds, taking a quiet moment to water the office plants that everyone else ignored. When PKim had walked in, damp-haired and smelling of sweat from practicing, Latte’s defenses had gone up instantly. He had braced for the inevitable, exhausting small talk.
But Kim hadn't pushed. When Latte tried to shut things down by saying Mild had already introduced him, P'Kim had just offered this impossibly patient, easygoing smile.
“I usually like to hear a person's name from their own mouth. It feels more official.”
Hearing his own name spoken in P'Kim’s soft, grounding voice had caught Latte entirely off guard. There was an infuriating lack of pretense in P'Kim’s eyes. He wasn't trying to impress Latte, and he wasn't intimidated by him either. He was just... there. Generous and warm, like sunlight you didn't ask for but couldn't really turn off. Latte had found himself giving his name just to see what would happen, and when P'Kim had teased him about it, Latte had actually felt a rare, involuntary twitch of amusement tugging at his lips.
By the time the acting workshop rolled around a few weeks later, Latte had found himself hyperaware of P'Kim’s presence in the room.
When P'Bew told them to pair up for the emotional projection exercise, Latte had fully intended to slide into a corner and wait for a staff member or an easy partner. But P'Kim had crossed the floor with that same steady, bright determination.
Sitting opposite P'Kim in that humid studio had been terrifying in a way Latte hadn't anticipated. Latte knew his own flaws as an actor; he was good with lines, but he hated letting people see what was behind his eyes. When it was P'Kim's turn to project warmth, Latte had braced himself to analyze the performance.
Except P'Kim wasn't performing.
He had just looked at him. Really looked at him, with a depth of genuine kindness and uncomplicated warmth that had made the air leave Latte’s lungs. Like it was an open invitation. For a split second, Latte had felt the heavy, exhausting weight of his own armor, and he had let it drop. Unintentionally, of course. Without Him realizing, he had let P'Kim see a glimpse of the quiet sincerity he usually kept locked away.
When he realized what had happened, he had expected Kim to gloat, or at least acknowledge the breakthrough, but Kim had simply kept it light, thanking him and offering his hands for assitance.
Now, sitting on the sectional on a loud Friday afternoon, Latte laughed as he threw a crumpled napkin back at Jimmy. He was completely relaxed, surrounded by P'Net, P'Jimmy, and TeeTee, his firends. He was trading dry jabs and letting his guard down, the way he only did with them.
But as P'Net roared at another joke, Latte’s eyes involuntarily drifted across the room.
P'Kim was sitting at a high table, a yellow highlighter in his hand, a script open in front of him. He was watching the couch. He was watching him.
Latte’s laughter quieted a bit, his posture shifting slightly as their eyes locked. He waited for Kim to use the opportunity to wave, or come over, or try to insert himself into the senior artists' circle.
Instead, Kim just smiled. It was a small, supportive, completely undemanding nod. It was a look that said, I’m glad you’re happy, without needing a single thing in return.
Latte felt a strange, unfamiliar warmth bloom in his chest. He gave a microscopic nod back before Net pulled him back into the conversation, but his mind stayed momentarily fixed on the rookie at the back table.
Kim Pongsatton Sittipan was a completely hazardous anomaly to Latte’s carefully constructed peace. He didn't use force, he didn't demand entry, and he didn't get offended by the cold. He was just slowly, patiently, with nothing but genuine kindness, making the distance between them disappear.
And for the first time in his life, Latte found that he didn't mind the intrusion.