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Chapter Text

The crystal glasses clinked with practiced precision, a sound that echoed hollowly in Gun's chest. Around him, the private dining room of Bangkok's most exclusive restaurant buzzed with conversation and laughter, but all he could focus on was the way Jane's fingers barely brushed his when she passed him the wine menu. Three months ago, that casual touch would have sent warmth spreading through his entire body. Now, it left him cold.

"The '82 Bordeaux, perhaps?" Jane suggested, her voice carrying that perfect mix of sophistication and sweetness that had first drawn him to her. Gun watched as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear – a gesture he'd seen a thousand times before. He used to think it was adorable. Now, it felt like watching an actress perform a well-rehearsed move.

"Perfect choice, as always," Gun replied, his business smile firmly in place. Their parents beamed from across the table, pride evident in their eyes as they watched what they believed to be Bangkok's perfect power couple. If only they could see the hairline fractures spreading through this carefully constructed façade.

The memories of three weeks ago crashed over him like a wave...

Three weeks earlier, Jane had asked to meet him at their favorite coffee shop – not the fancy one their parents frequented, but the small, quiet place where they'd spent countless afternoons during university. Gun had arrived early, ordered her usual vanilla latte, and waited with a smile, completely unaware that his world was about to shatter.

"I don't love you anymore," she had said quietly, her fingers wrapped around the untouched coffee cup. "I've tried, Gun. I've tried so hard to keep feeling what I used to feel."

The words had hit him like physical blows, each one landing with precise, devastating accuracy. "Since when?" he'd managed to ask, his voice surprisingly steady despite the earthquake happening in his chest.

"Does it matter?" Jane's eyes had been full of tears. "Our families' merger is too important. We need to maintain appearances, at least until everything is finalized. Can you do that? For both our families?"

Back in the present, Gun mechanically raised his wine glass as someone proposed a toast to the upcoming merger. Jane's shoulder brushed against his as she shifted in her chair, and he had to resist the urge to pull away. The touch felt wrong now – like trying to fit together puzzle pieces from different sets.

"I need some air," Gun announced suddenly, his chair scraping against the hardwood floor. "Just a moment. Please, continue without me."

He ignored the concerned looks, the questioning glance from Jane, and stepped out into the Bangkok night. The first drops of rain were just beginning to fall, cool against his overheated skin. Instead of ducking under the restaurant's awning, Gun started walking, welcoming the increasing downpour. Each step took him further from the suffocating performance back there, from the weight of expectations and arranged futures.

The rain was falling in earnest now, soaking through his expensive suit, plastering his hair to his forehead. Gun barely noticed, lost in the rhythm of his feet against the wet pavement. It wasn't until a particularly loud crack of thunder that he became aware of his surroundings – he'd wandered into an unfamiliar neighborhood, its narrow streets lined with small shops and cafes.

A warm glow from one particular window caught his attention. Through the rain-streaked glass, he could see a cozy café, sparsely populated at this hour. Something about its quiet atmosphere pulled at him, promising shelter from more than just the rain.

The bell above the door chimed softly as Gun entered, bringing with him the scent of rain and expensive cologne. Water dripped from his suit onto the worn wooden floor, each drop a reminder of how out of place he looked in this humble establishment. Most of the tables were empty, save for a few students with their laptops and textbooks spread out before them.

And then there was him – the man by the window.

Gun's attention was drawn to him immediately, though he couldn't exactly say why. Perhaps it was the way he seemed completely absorbed in whatever he was sketching, his hand moving across the paper with confident strokes. Dark hair fell slightly over his eyes as he worked, and there was something about his presence that felt both gentle and intense at the same time.

Art supplies were scattered across the table: colored pencils, various types of paper, what looked like children's drawings pinned to a small portfolio beside him. Gun found himself staring, watching as the stranger paused, tilted his head slightly, then continued his work with renewed focus.

A sudden shiver reminded Gun of his drenched state. He must have made some small sound because the artist looked up then, and their eyes met across the quiet café. The stranger's gaze was kind but searching, as if he could see past Gun's expensive suit and carefully maintained façade to something deeper.

"Here," the man said, reaching for a napkin holder on his table. His voice was warm, with a hint of amusement. "You look like you could use these."

Gun stepped closer, drawn forward almost against his will. "Thank you," he managed, reaching for the offered napkins. Their fingers brushed briefly in the exchange, and Gun felt an unexpected jolt of... something. The stranger's hands were artist's hands – long-fingered and elegant, with smudges of graphite on the sides.

"I'm Off," the man offered, gesturing to the empty chair across from him. "And you look like someone who needs a cup of coffee and a moment to breathe."

Gun hesitated, years of social conditioning warring with the inexplicable urge to sit down. "I wouldn't want to disturb your work," he said, even as his eyes drifted to the sketchbook. The page was filled with drawings of children – playing, laughing, some looking uncertain or scared. Each face was rendered with incredible sensitivity.

"You're not disturbing anything," Off replied, closing the sketchbook with a gentle smile. "Besides, the rain's getting worse. Might as well wait it out somewhere warm."

Gun found himself sinking into the chair, his usual careful poise forgotten. Up close, Off's presence was even more intriguing – there was something calming about him, like the quiet after a storm. A waitress appeared with a menu, but Off waved her away with a familiar smile.

"Two Americanos," he called after her, then turned back to Gun. "Unless you prefer something else?"

"No, that's... that's perfect, actually." Gun realized he was still clutching the damp napkins and began awkwardly dabbing at his suit. "I'm Gun, by the way. I apologize for dripping all over your table."

Off's laugh was unexpected – gentle and genuine, nothing like the polished chuckles Gun was used to hearing at business dinners. "The table's seen worse. I work with kids – you wouldn't believe the amount of paint and glitter I usually end up wearing home."

"The children in your drawings," Gun gestured to the sketchbook, "they're your students?"

"Patients, actually. I'm an art therapist at Bangkok Children's Hospital." Off's expression softened as he spoke about his work. "Art helps them express what they can't say with words. Sometimes the scariest monsters become less frightening when you can draw them on paper."

Gun thought about his own monsters – the crushing weight of expectations, the hollow echo of Jane's "I don't love you anymore" – and wondered what they would look like on paper. "That must be rewarding work," he said instead, falling back on social pleasantries like armor.

"It has its moments." Off studied him for a second, head tilted slightly. "You're good at that, aren't you?"

"At what?"

"Saying exactly the right thing while thinking something entirely different."

The observation hit too close to home, making Gun's breath catch. Before he could respond, their coffee arrived, the rich aroma creating a momentary barrier between them. Outside, the rain drummed against the windows with increasing intensity, the streets beyond reduced to watery blurs.

"I didn't mean to overstep," Off said quietly, pushing one cup toward Gun. "Occupational hazard – I spend my days looking for what people aren't saying."

Gun wrapped his hands around the warm cup, anchoring himself in the sensation. "No, you're... you're not wrong." The words surprised him as they left his mouth. "I've gotten very good at playing my part."

Off didn't push, didn't rush to fill the silence with questions or platitudes. Instead, he opened his sketchbook again, flipping to a fresh page. The scratch of pencil against paper became a gentle counterpoint to the rain.

"Do you mind?" Off asked, glancing up at Gun through his lashes. "Sometimes it's easier to talk when you're not the center of attention."

Gun found himself relaxing slightly, the familiar pressure of being watched easing from his shoulders. "What are you drawing?"

"The rain," Off replied, though his eyes kept flickering to Gun's face. "The way it changes everything it touches. Makes everything look a little sadder, a little more honest."

Something about the way he said it made Gun's chest tighten. He took a sip of coffee, letting the bitter warmth spread through him. "I'm supposed to be at a business dinner right now," he found himself saying. "With my girlfriend and our families."

Off's pencil paused briefly before continuing its dance across the paper. "Supposed to be?"

"We're... maintaining appearances." The words tasted as bitter as the coffee. "Three weeks ago, she told me she didn't love me anymore. But our families' businesses are merging, so we have to pretend everything's perfect."

"That sounds exhausting," Off said simply, no judgment in his voice. His pencil kept moving, creating shadows and light on the page.

"It is." Gun stared into his coffee cup, watching the dark liquid ripple. "Tonight, I just couldn't... I couldn't keep smiling and pretending. So I walked out into the rain."

"And ended up here," Off finished softly. He turned the sketchbook slightly, and Gun caught a glimpse of his own reflection – not the polished businessman he usually presented to the world, but something rawer, more vulnerable. Off had captured the sadness in his eyes, the slight downturn of his mouth, but somehow made it look beautiful rather than broken.

"Is that really how I look?" Gun asked, leaning closer to see the drawing better.

"It's how you look when you're not trying to look like anything at all," Off answered, adding one final line to the sketch. Their eyes met over the sketchbook, and for a moment, Gun felt completely seen – all his carefully constructed walls as transparent as the rain-streaked windows.

The moment stretched between them, fragile as spider silk. Gun found himself noticing small details about Off he hadn't registered before – a small scar near his left eyebrow, the way his fingers never quite stopped moving, always tapping or sketching or fidgeting with his pencil. There was something soothing about his restless energy, so different from the calculated stillness Gun maintained in his corporate world.

"Your art," Gun said, breaking the silence, "it's not just therapy for the children, is it?"

Off's fingers stilled on the pencil. "What makes you say that?"

"The way you draw... there's something sad in even the happiest pictures. Like you understand their pain from the inside out."

A shadow passed over Off's face, quick as a cloud across the moon. "Maybe we're all a little broken," he said quietly. "Some of us just learn to make something beautiful from the pieces."

Thunder crashed outside, making them both jump. Gun glanced at his watch and was startled to realize over an hour had passed. His phone, which he'd silenced earlier, would undoubtedly be filled with messages from Jane and his parents.

"I should go," he said reluctantly, reaching for his wallet. Off waved him away.

"Please, let me. Consider it a thank you for being an unexpected muse." He tore the sketch from his book, hesitated, then held it out to Gun along with a fresh napkin. "For the rain."

Their fingers brushed again as Gun took both items, and this time the jolt was unmistakable. The napkin was soft, ordinary, but Gun carefully tucked it into his pocket along with the sketch, knowing he would keep both.

"Thank you," he said, standing. "For... everything." The words felt inadequate for what had transpired between them, for this strange hour of honesty with a stranger.

Off smiled, that gentle expression that seemed to see right through Gun's defenses. "Sometimes the rain brings unexpected gifts," he said simply, already turning to a new page in his sketchbook.

Gun stepped back into the night, the rain now a gentle mist. His phone buzzed in his pocket – a message from Jane: "The contracts for the merger are being drawn up. Dinner with both families again next week. We need to be perfect."

Behind him, through the café window, he could see Off's silhouette bent over his sketchbook. Gun touched the napkin in his pocket, feeling its soft texture against his fingers. For the first time in three weeks, something inside him felt almost peaceful.

Off's apartment was a small studio on the quieter side of Bangkok, where the city's pulse faded to a gentle murmur. He unlocked the door, stepping into the darkness that smelled of paint and paper. Children's artwork covered one wall – a rainbow gallery of hope and fear and healing. His own pieces occupied another, more subdued but no less emotional.

He dropped his bag by the door, but kept his sketchbook clutched close. The evening's encounter had left him feeling oddly unsettled, like the first tremors before an earthquake. Making his way to his workspace – really just a corner with good lighting and an easel – he opened to a fresh page.

Gun's face emerged from memory onto the paper. Off's hand moved almost of its own accord, capturing the contradiction he'd seen: expensive suit and vulnerable eyes, perfect posture and trembling hands. There was something compelling about that duality, about the way Gun's careful mask had cracked just enough to show the pain beneath.

The rain tapped against his windows, providing a rhythm to his work. Off found himself adding more details – the way water had dripped from Gun's hair, the slight flush on his cheeks when their eyes met, the barely perceptible tremor in his lip when he spoke about his girlfriend. Each stroke of the pencil felt like preserving a secret.

"What are you running from?" Off murmured to the drawing, shading the shadows under Gun's eyes. His own reflection ghosted in the window, overlaying the cityscape beyond. At twenty-eight, he'd learned to find beauty in broken things, to help children turn their nightmares into manageable stories on paper. But something about Gun's carefully hidden pain felt different – more familiar, perhaps.

His phone buzzed with a message from Tay: "Drinks tomorrow? New's buying!" Off smiled but didn't respond immediately. His fingers were still moving across the paper, adding final touches to Gun's portrait. The man on the page looked both lost and found, caught in that strange moment of honesty they'd shared.

Thunder rolled again, distant now. Off's apartment felt unusually empty, though he'd lived alone for years. He pinned the new sketch to his wall, between a child's bright drawing of a hospital room and his own darker piece about family expectations.

"Stay in the rain," he whispered to the portrait, though he knew he'd never see Gun again. Some encounters were meant to be temporary – beautiful as raindrops, just as quick to fade.

In his high-rise apartment across the city, Gun stood at his floor-to-ceiling windows, watching lightning split the sky. He'd shed his wet suit jacket, but the napkin from the café sat on his desk, along with Off's sketch. His phone had finally stopped buzzing with messages – he'd sent a brief apology about feeling unwell, knowing Jane would smooth things over with their families.

He picked up the sketch, studying it in the storm's intermittent light. Off had captured something in his expression that Gun hadn't seen in himself for years – a raw honesty that both frightened and fascinated him. His fingers traced the lines, feeling the slight indentations in the paper where Off's pencil had pressed harder, more certain.

His phone lit up with a final message from Jane: "Hope you're feeling better. Remember, we need to discuss the PR strategy for the merger announcement. Lunch tomorrow?"

Gun set the phone face-down without replying. Instead, he found himself thinking about Off's words about making beautiful things from broken pieces. His own reflection wavered in the window, overlapping with the city lights below. The man looking back at him seemed different somehow – less polished, more real.

The napkin was soft between his fingers as he pulled it from his pocket again. It was just paper, just a simple gesture of kindness from a stranger, but Gun carefully placed it in his desk drawer like something precious. The sketch he propped against his laptop, where the eyes Off had drawn with such understanding could watch him pretend to work on merger documents.

Lightning flashed again, briefly illuminating his empty apartment. Gun thought about the warmth of that small café, about artist's hands stained with graphite, about the way Off's presence had somehow made silence feel safe rather than suffocating. It was strange how a single hour could shift something fundamental, like earth moving beneath seemingly solid ground.

Tomorrow, he would return to his role – the perfect son, the devoted boyfriend, the future CEO. He would smile and plan and pretend nothing was cracking beneath the surface. But for now, in the storm's wild honesty, Gun let himself remember the feeling of being truly seen, if only for a moment.

The storm rolled on, washing the city clean, while destiny drew its own pictures in the dark.

Chapter Text

The afternoon light filtered through the hospital's pediatric ward windows, casting warm squares on the floor where Off sat cross-legged with seven-year-old Mint. Her small hands clutched a red crayon, pressing it hard against the paper until the color bloomed like blood.

"Tell me about the monster, Mint," Off said softly, watching as she drew jagged teeth and sharp claws. She'd been in the hospital for three weeks now, her tiny body fighting a battle too big for her age.

"It lives in the machines," she whispered, adding dark shadows around her creation. "It makes the beeping sounds at night and eats my dreams."

Off nodded, reaching for his own paper. "Shall we draw something that can protect you from it?" His hand moved smoothly, sketching a gentle creature with wings. But as he drew, a memory surfaced – unwanted, sharp as broken glass...

He was twelve again, kneeling on hard wooden floors while his mother's prayers filled their small house. "Please, Lord, heal my son. Take away this sickness, this wrong thing inside him." Her rosary beads clicked like tiny bones as she moved them through her fingers. Off remembered the way his knees ached, the shame burning in his chest, the confusion about what exactly needed healing.

"Phi Off?" Mint's voice pulled him back to the present. "Your drawing looks sad."

Off blinked, realizing he'd unconsciously made his protective creature's eyes reflect his old pain. "Sometimes," he told her gently, "even the things that protect us can be a little sad. But that doesn't make them less strong."

The session with Mint ended with a small victory – she'd drawn herself bigger than her monster, a first since starting therapy. Off carefully added her artwork to her progress folder, his heart warming at her shy "Thank you, Phi" before a nurse led her back to her room.

He was gathering art supplies for his afternoon group session when a familiar figure caught his eye through the ward's glass doors. Gun stood at the reception desk, his usual corporate armor slightly cracked. Even from a distance, Off could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers drummed nervously against the counter.

For a moment, Off debated pretending he hadn't seen him. Their rain-soaked encounter felt almost dreamlike now, a week later. He'd found himself adding to that sketch of Gun several times, trying to capture the exact moment vulnerability had replaced his perfect façade.

But then Gun turned, and Off saw real fear flash across his face as a nurse approached with admission forms. Before he could think better of it, Off was moving toward the doors.

"Gun?" He kept his voice gentle, the same tone he used with his nervous patients. Gun's head snapped up, relief and something else flickering in his eyes.

"Off? I... what are you doing here?"

"I work here, remember?" Off smiled, noting the way Gun's hands were slightly trembling. "Art therapy, third floor. Are you okay? You look a bit pale."

Gun attempted his business smile, but it wavered at the edges. "Just a routine check-up. I'm fine. I just..." He trailed off as another nurse walked past with a tray of syringes. Off watched his face drain of color.

"Not a fan of needles?" Off asked quietly, stepping closer. Gun's laugh was shaky.

"That obvious? It's ridiculous, I know. A grown man afraid of—" His breath hitched as someone screamed down the hall – probably a child getting a shot.

"Hey," Off touched Gun's elbow lightly, steering him toward a quieter corner. "Look at me. Focus on my voice. Tell me about the most boring meeting you've had this week."

Gun's laugh was more of a gasp, but he latched onto Off's words like a lifeline. "Yesterday... budget reports for three hours," he managed, his eyes fixed on Off's face. "Quarterly projections and... God, I can't breathe properly."

"You're doing fine," Off assured him, keeping his touch light on Gun's elbow. "Keep telling me about the meeting. Who was the most annoying person there?"

"Old Mr. Thanachai," Gun said, his breathing gradually steadying. "He falls asleep during presentations but always wakes up just in time to criticize everything."

Off nodded encouragingly, subtly guiding Gun to one of the waiting area chairs. "Sounds delightful. What does he look like? I could sketch him drooling on the conference table."

That earned a genuine laugh, shaky but real. Gun's color was returning slowly, though his hand still trembled when he reached up to loosen his tie. "I don't know how you do that," he said quietly.

"Do what?"

"Make everything feel... manageable." Gun's eyes met his, holding the same raw honesty they'd shown in the café. "Is that part of your job?"

Off smiled, finally withdrawing his hand from Gun's elbow. The loss of contact felt strangely significant. "Part of who I am, I guess. My kids teach me something new about bravery every day."

"Your kids?" Gun's eyebrows raised slightly.

"My patients," Off corrected, glancing toward the pediatric ward. "Speaking of which, I should get these supplies up to them. Will you be okay?"

Gun straightened, his corporate mask sliding back into place though not quite as perfectly as before. "Yes, I'm fine now. Thank you. Again."

"Wait here a minute?" Off asked impulsively. "I just need to drop these off. Maybe... maybe you'd like to see what I actually do here?"

Gun's nod was hesitant but curious. Off led him to the children's ward, where afternoon sunlight painted everything in gentler shades. The sterile hospital smell was softened here by the presence of artwork covering every available wall space – bright splashes of hope against institutional white.

"This is my domain," Off said, pushing open a door to reveal a room transformed into an art studio. Easels stood in a circle, paint splatters decorated the floor, and windows looked out over Bangkok's skyline. Three children were already waiting, their faces lighting up at Off's arrival.

"Phi Off!" The smallest boy, probably around five, waved excitedly. His other arm was connected to an IV drip, but he moved with the boundless energy of youth. "You promised we could paint dinosaurs today!"

"That I did, Nong Pin," Off laughed, setting down his supplies. He glanced at Gun, who hung back near the door. "This is my friend Gun. He's going to watch us create some masterpieces today."

Gun watched, transfixed, as Off transformed. The gentle presence he'd experienced became something magnetic, drawing the children out of their shells with quiet questions and silly jokes. Each child's fear or pain seemed to lessen under his attention, like shadows shrinking in the sun.

"See, Nong Mai," Off was saying to a girl with no hair, helping her mix colors, "sometimes the scariest things become beautiful when we paint them. Your cancer cells look like flowers now, don't they?"

The girl nodded solemnly, adding another purple petal. "Pretty flowers can't hurt me," she declared.

Gun felt something catch in his throat. He thought about his own carefully hidden pain, wondering what it would look like painted on canvas. Would Off be able to transform that too?

"P'Off!" A voice called from the doorway. "Ready for lunch?"

Two men stood there – one tall and lanky with an easy smile, the other shorter with gentle eyes. They paused when they saw Gun, exchanging a quick look.

"Ah, Tay, New," Off called back, carefully cleaning a paintbrush. "Give me five minutes to finish up here?"

The way Tay and New moved into the room spoke of long familiarity – Tay automatically reaching to steady an easel New almost bumped, New rolling his eyes but smiling at the protective gesture. Gun found himself studying their easy dynamics, the casual way they occupied each other's space.

"Who's your friend?" Tay asked, his tone friendly but slightly protective as he glanced at Gun's expensive suit and polished appearance.

"This is Gun," Off said, helping his young patients clean their brushes. "We met during the rain last week." Something in his voice made both his friends look at him sharply, but Off kept his focus on the children.

"Phi Gun has pretty eyes but they're sad," Nong Mai announced suddenly, making Gun start. "You should let Phi Off draw you. He makes everything pretty."

New laughed softly while Tay's eyebrows shot up. Off's cheeks colored slightly as he gathered the finished artwork. "Mai, remember what we said about personal observations?"

"That some thoughts can stay in our heads," she recited, then added stubbornly, "but it's true."

Gun felt exposed under the child's innocent assessment and the curious looks from Off's friends. He reached for his phone, checking the time. "I should go. My... appointment."

"Of course," Off said, standing. Something flickered in his expression – concern, perhaps? "Do you need me to—"

"No, I'm fine now. Thank you." Gun managed a small smile. "It was nice meeting everyone."

He left quickly, the sound of children's laughter and friendly chatter following him out. The contrast with his own world felt stark – no easy friendships, no honest observations, no paint-splattered joy. Just business dinners and careful pretense.

His phone buzzed with a message from his mother: "Dinner tonight with the Jiranorraphat. Jane's father wants to discuss the resort expansion. Wear the blue tie."

Gun sighed, heading toward the clinic wing for his check-up. He didn't notice his business card slipping from his jacket pocket as he turned the corner.

Back in the art room, Off was enduring gentle teasing from his friends.

"Met in the rain, huh?" Tay wiggled his eyebrows. "Sounds romantic."

"It's not like that," Off protested, but his eyes kept drifting to the doorway where Gun had disappeared.

"His eyes are sad though," New said quietly. "Mai wasn't wrong about that."

"Not everyone needs saving, Off," Tay said gently, recognizing the look in his friend's eyes. "Especially not straight businessmen in expensive suits."

Off busied himself cleaning paint from tables, trying to ignore the knowing looks his friends exchanged. "I'm not trying to save anyone. He's just... interesting."

"Interesting like that artist last year?" New asked carefully. "The one who left you with a broken heart and an entire sketchbook of sad portraits?"

The memory stung, but Off shook his head. "This is different. Gun is..." He paused, searching for words that wouldn't give away too much. "He's wearing a mask so heavy it's crushing him. You can see it in the way he holds himself, like he's afraid of cracking."

"And you want to help him take it off?" Tay sighed. "Some people choose their masks, Off. They're comfortable with them."

Off thought about Gun's panic attack, the way fear had stripped away his perfect façade. The genuine laugh he'd managed to draw out. The way Gun had watched him with the children, something like longing in his expression.

"Sometimes," he said quietly, "people just need to know it's safe to be themselves."

New touched his shoulder gently. "Just be careful, okay? We hate seeing you hurt."

Their concern wrapped around Off like a warm blanket, familiar and comforting. He was lucky, he knew, to have friends who loved him so openly, who could read his heart so easily.

"Come on," Tay said, changing the subject. "You promised us lunch, and I'm starving."

As they left the room, Off spotted something white on the floor near the door. Bending down, he picked up a business card. The embossed letters caught the light: "Gun Atthaphan, Chief Operating Officer, Atthaphan Industries."

Off traced the letters with his finger, remembering the way Gun's corporate mask had slipped in moments of vulnerability. The card was heavy, expensive – another piece of Gun's carefully constructed world.

"Off?" New called from the hallway. "You coming?"

"Yeah," Off tucked the card into his pocket, feeling its weight like a secret. "Coming."

Across the hospital, Gun sat stiffly in an examination room, trying to focus on budget reports on his phone instead of the memory of Off with his patients. A text from Jane lit up his screen: "Don't forget dinner tonight. Daddy wants to discuss the Phuket properties."

Gun closed his eyes, feeling the weight of expectations press down on him. He thought about the little girl's words – "pretty eyes but they're sad" – and wondered when he'd last felt as genuine as Off looked when working with his kids.

Later that evening, Off sat at his desk, Gun's business card propped against his lamp. He'd started and discarded several sketches, none quite capturing what he wanted to express. The children's artwork from today surrounded him – Mint's monster now had a friendly smile, Mai's cancer cells bloomed into a garden, Pin's dinosaurs danced across the page.

His phone lit up with texts from the group chat:

Tay: "Stop thinking about him." New: "You know he's thinking about him." Tay: "OFF WE CAN SEE YOU READING THESE"

Off smiled despite himself, typing back: "Working on commissions. Not thinking about anyone."

But his latest sketch betrayed him – Gun in the children's ward, that moment of unguarded wonder as he watched the art session. Off had captured the way sunlight had softened his corporate edges, the slight relaxation in his usually perfect posture.

His mother's voice echoed in his memory: "It's not natural, Off. We can pray this away." He'd spent years learning to silence that voice, to accept himself, to turn pain into art. Looking at Gun, he recognized that same trapped feeling, that same desperate need to be perfect.

Across town, Gun sat through another elaborate dinner, nodding at appropriate moments as Jane's father detailed their expansion plans. Jane sat beside him, their hands clasped on the table – a perfect picture of young love, both of them acting their parts flawlessly.

"The Phuket resort will be our flagship property," Mr. Jiranorraphat was saying. "The merger announcement next month will coincide with the groundbreaking ceremony. The press loves young power couples."

Gun felt Jane's hand tighten briefly in his. When he glanced at her, her smile was picture-perfect, but he caught the same shadow he'd seen in Off's young patients – fear dressed up as bravery.

"Of course, Khun Gun will oversee the development personally," his father added. "With Jane handling the PR strategy."

"It's perfect timing," Jane's mother beamed. "Just before the engagement announcement."

Gun's chest tightened, the restaurant's air suddenly too thick. He thought about Off's art room, where children turned their fears into something beautiful. What would his own fear look like on canvas? The fear of disappointing everyone, of living a lie, of never being truly seen?

"To the future," Mr. Jiranorraphat raised his glass, and everyone followed suit. Gun's champagne tasted like obligation on his tongue.

Back in his apartment later that night, Gun loosened his tie and stared at the city lights below. The sketch from the café still sat on his desk, and now he studied it with new understanding after seeing Off work today. The way Off could see through people's carefully constructed walls, could translate pain and fear into something manageable on paper – it was both fascinating and terrifying.

His phone buzzed with a message from Jane: "You were quiet tonight. Everything okay?"

Gun started to type his usual reassurance, then stopped. How could he explain that watching Off with those children had shown him a kind of freedom he'd never known? That seeing the easy friendship between Off, Tay, and New had made him realize how choreographed his own relationships had become?

"Just tired," he typed instead. "Long day at the hospital."

In his small apartment, Off finally picked up Gun's business card, running his thumb over the embossed letters. The evening light painted shadows across his desk, where his latest sketch showed Gun in two versions – the perfect businessman in the doorway, and the softer version who'd watched children paint their fears away.

Off reached for his phone, then set it down again. What would he even say? "Hey, I found your card, and I can't stop drawing you"? "I think you're drowning and I want to help you breathe"? "I recognize the look in your eyes because I used to see it in my mirror"?

His mother's voice whispered in his memory: "Prayer will fix this, Off. Prayer will make you normal." He'd learned the hard way that some things didn't need fixing – they needed accepting. But that acceptance had come at a price he wasn't sure Gun was ready to pay.

The business card caught the last rays of sunset, the name gleaming like a question. Off opened his sketchbook to a fresh page, letting his pencil move across the paper. This time, he drew Gun as he might be – free of the perfect suit, the perfect posture, the perfect lies. Just a man in the rain, learning to breathe.

Chapter Text

The rooftop bar caught the last colors of sunset, turning glass and steel into gold. Gun watched his drink sweat onto the expensive wood table, the condensation forming patterns like tear tracks. Across from him, Dew waited with the patience of a childhood friend who knew when silence was needed.

"She doesn't love me anymore," Gun finally said, the words falling like stones into the expensive whiskey between them. "Hasn't for a while, apparently."

Dew's sharp intake of breath was barely audible over the ambient music. "Jane? But you two seemed..." he trailed off, perhaps remembering recent gatherings where something had felt off but unspoken.

"Perfect?" Gun's laugh was hollow. "We're very good at perfect. Have to be, with the merger coming up." He knocked back his drink, signaling for another. "Did you know we have a countdown calendar for the engagement announcement? Her mother's idea."

"Shit, Gun." Dew leaned forward, his usual playful demeanor replaced by genuine concern. "How long have you been holding this in?"

At another table, partially hidden by artfully arranged bamboo plants, Off was adding details to a sketch while Tay pretended not to stare at New. The ice in their drinks clinked gently, a counterpoint to the city noise below.

"Just tell him," Off murmured, not looking up from his paper. "The pining is getting painful to watch."

"Says the man who's drawn the same mysterious businessman twice today," Tay shot back, though his eyes drifted back to New, who was at the bar ordering another round.

"I haven't drawn him twice," Off protested, then glanced down at his sketchbook where Gun's profile had indeed emerged unconsciously beside his other drawings. "Okay, maybe. But that's different."

"Different how?" New asked, returning with their drinks. The way Tay immediately straightened made Off hide a smile behind his sketchbook. "Are we talking about the rain guy again?"

"The straight, engaged, definitely-not-available rain guy," Tay emphasized, though his attention was caught by the way New's shirt rode up slightly as he sat down.

Off was about to defend himself when movement near the bar's entrance caught his eye. His breath hitched slightly – Gun stood there, backlit by the setting sun, looking somehow both immaculate and lost. Another man was with him, leading him toward a table on the opposite side of the rooftop.

"Oh no," New muttered, recognizing Off's expression. "That's him, isn't it?"

At their table, Gun was only half-listening to Dew's concerned questions. His eyes had caught on a familiar figure partially hidden by bamboo plants. Off's head was bent over what looked like his ever-present sketchbook, the dying sunlight painting gold highlights in his dark hair.

"Gun?" Dew waved a hand in front of his face. "You still with me?"

"What? Yes, sorry." Gun forced his attention back to his friend. "You were saying?"

Dew turned subtly, following Gun's previous line of sight. "Interesting. Want to tell me who you're looking at?"

"I'm not—" Gun started, then sighed at Dew's knowing look. "He's just someone I met. Twice, actually. Coincidentally."

"Uh-huh." Dew's eyebrows rose. "And this 'coincidental' someone has you looking more alive than you have in weeks because...?"

Gun took another drink, letting the alcohol warm his chest. "He's an art therapist. Works with kids. He's... different. Real, somehow."

"Real?" Dew smiled slightly. "As opposed to our usual crowd of perfectly fake socialites?"

"I didn't mean—" Gun started, then caught the gentle teasing in Dew's expression. "Maybe I did mean that. You've seen our social circle lately. Everyone's got their assigned roles, their perfect scripts. Even you."

"Even me?" Dew pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. "I'll have you know I'm delightfully unpredictable."

"Really?" Gun raised an eyebrow. "So you're going to tell your parents you don't want to take over the family business? That you'd rather open that music studio you've been dreaming about since university?"

Dew's smile faltered slightly. "Low blow, Atthaphan."

"Sorry," Gun sighed, signaling for another round. "I'm not exactly one to talk about breaking free from expectations."

Across the rooftop, Off was failing spectacularly at not watching Gun. The way the setting sun caught his profile, softening his corporate edges – Off's pencil moved almost without his conscious direction, capturing the moment.

"You could go say hello," New suggested, his shoulder brushing against Tay's as he leaned forward. "Instead of just drawing him like a lovesick teenager."

"I'm not—" Off started.

"You kind of are," Tay interrupted, though his attention was caught by the way New's knee pressed against his under the table. "It's both sad and adorable."

The evening air grew heavier with unspoken things as both groups continued their separate orbits. Gun found himself tracking Off's movements in his peripheral vision – the way he gestured when he spoke, how his friends clearly adored him, the occasional glance in Gun's direction that made his skin tingle with awareness.

"You know," Dew said carefully, watching his friend's distraction, "it's okay to want something different than what's been planned for you."

Gun's laugh was bitter. "Is it? Tell that to our parents. Tell that to the merger documents already being drawn up. Tell that to—"

He cut off abruptly as a commotion erupted near the bamboo plants. A clearly drunk man had stumbled into Off's table, sending drinks spilling and Off's sketchbook sliding to the floor. But instead of apologizing, the man was getting aggressive, his words becoming clearer as Gun unconsciously leaned forward.

"What's this?" The drunk man slurred, snatching up Off's fallen sketchbook before anyone could react. "Drawing people without permission? Bit creepy, isn't it?"

Off remained calm, though Gun could see tension in his shoulders. "Please return my sketchbook," he said quietly. "Some of those are my patients' drawings."

Tay and New had both stood, but the drunk man was already flipping through pages, his alcohol-clumsy fingers threatening to tear them. "Patients? What kind of—" He stopped, eyes narrowing at something on the page. "Is this... are you some kind of stalker?"

Gun was moving before he consciously decided to, Dew's warning "Gun, wait—" fading behind him. He reached the scene just as the drunk man turned the sketchbook around, revealing what Gun recognized as Off's drawings of him from the café.

"Sir," Gun's corporate voice cut through the growing tension, smooth as expensive whiskey. "I believe you're making a scene."

The drunk man blinked, taken aback by Gun's pristine suit and authoritative tone. Off's eyes had widened in recognition, a flush creeping up his neck.

"This guy's been drawing you," the man accused, waving the sketchbook. "Lots of drawings of you."

Gun didn't let his expression change, though his heart rate picked up. "Yes, because I commissioned them. I'm having portraits done for my company's annual report. Now, please return the artist's property before I have to call security."

The combination of Gun's commanding presence and the arrival of a concerned-looking server seemed to deflate the drunk man. He practically shoved the sketchbook at Gun before stumbling away, muttering under his breath.

A moment of awkward silence fell over the group. Gun was acutely aware of Off's friends watching him, of Dew hovering uncertainly nearby, of Off's gaze burning into him.

"Thank you," Off said softly, reaching for his sketchbook. Their fingers brushed as Gun handed it over, sending that now-familiar jolt through both of them.

"You've drawn me more than once?" Gun asked, the alcohol in his system making him bolder than usual.

Off's blush deepened, but he met Gun's eyes. "Artists need to practice capturing different expressions," he said, then added more quietly, "And you have many worth capturing."

Behind them, Tay made a small choking sound that New quickly covered with a cough. Dew had drifted closer, his expression caught between concern and fascination.

"I think," Gun said, the whiskey warming his voice, "you owe me a drink. For the rescue."

"Oh, do I?" Something playful flickered in Off's eyes. "I seem to recall you claiming to have commissioned these drawings. Shouldn't you be buying?"

The tension between them shifted, becoming something warmer, more dangerous. Gun was vaguely aware of Dew exchanging looks with Tay and New, of some silent communication happening around them.

"We'll get the next round," New announced, pulling Tay toward the bar. Dew, bless him, took the hint.

"I should call it a night anyway," he said, catching Gun's eye. "Early meeting tomorrow. Text me later?"

The underlying message was clear: 'Be careful, but I'm here if you need me.'

Once they were alone at the table, the city lights twinkling below them like earthbound stars, Gun found himself studying Off's sketchbook. "May I?"

Off hesitated only briefly before nodding. Gun opened it carefully, breath catching at the pages of children's artwork interspersed with Off's own drawings. Then he found the portraits – himself in the rain, at the café, in the hospital watching the art therapy session. Each drawing captured something different: vulnerability, wonder, hidden pain.

"You see too much," Gun murmured, tracing one of the sketches with his finger.

"Or maybe everyone else sees too little," Off replied, his voice low and honest. "You're more than the suit and the perfect smile, Gun. I think you know that."

The alcohol made everything feel softer, more possible. Gun looked up to find Off watching him with that gentle intensity that seemed to strip away all his careful pretenses.

"Tell me about your art therapy," Gun said, partly to deflect from the weight of Off's observation. "The children I saw at the hospital... you seemed to understand them so well."

Off's entire demeanor softened at the mention of his work. "Kids are honest in a way adults forget how to be. They don't know how to hide their pain behind perfect smiles and designer suits." He glanced meaningfully at Gun's attire. "When they're hurting, they show it. When they're scared, they say so. It's... refreshing."

"And exhausting, I'd imagine," Gun observed, noting the slight shadows under Off's eyes.

"Sometimes. But worth it." Off took a sip of his drink. "Yesterday, one of my patients – she's been battling cancer for months – finally drew herself without the hospital machines. Just her, in a garden. It was like watching someone reclaim their identity from their illness."

Gun thought about his own carefully maintained identity, wondering what it would be like to draw himself free of expectations. "You help them feel safe enough to be vulnerable."

"Everyone needs that sometimes," Off said quietly. "A safe space to just... be."

The night air wrapped around them like a cocoon, the city's chaos muffled by height and distance. At the bar, they could see Tay and New in what looked like an intense conversation, their heads bent close together.

"They're in love with each other," Off said, following Gun's gaze. "Have been for ages. Too scared to say it."

"Fear of ruining the friendship?"

"Fear of change. Of taking a risk." Off's eyes found Gun's again. "Sometimes the scariest thing is admitting what we really want."

The words hung between them, heavy with meaning. Gun's phone chose that moment to buzz – a message from Jane about tomorrow's lunch with their parents. Reality crashed back in like a cold wave.

"I should..." Gun started.

"Give me your phone," Off said suddenly, holding out his hand.

Gun handed over his phone without questioning, watching as Off typed in his number. Their fingers brushed again during the exchange, and Gun blamed the alcohol for the way his skin tingled at the contact.

"Just in case," Off said softly, "you need a safe space."

"To just be?" Gun's voice came out rougher than intended.

"To be anything you want." Off's smile was gentle but his eyes held something deeper. "Even if that's just someone who needs to sit quietly while I sketch."

From the bar, New's laugh drifted over, followed by the distinct sound of Tay dropping something in surprise. Off glanced their way fondly. "I should probably rescue Tay from himself before he spontaneously combusts."

"And I should head home," Gun said, though he made no move to leave. "Early meeting tomorrow."

"Of course." Off stood, gathering his sketchbook. "The corporate world never sleeps."

"Neither do artists, apparently," Gun nodded toward the book. "How many more versions of me will you draw tonight?"

The question was meant to be teasing, but something in Off's expression made it feel weightier. "As many as it takes to capture the real you," he answered quietly.

They parted with lingering glances and unspoken words. Gun watched Off return to his friends, saw the way they immediately enveloped him in their easy affection. The sight made his chest ache with a longing he couldn't quite name.

Later that night, in his pristine apartment, Gun lay in bed staring at Off's number in his phone. His thumb hovered over the keys several times, but what would he say? "I can't stop thinking about your drawings"? "I want to know what it feels like to be that free"? "Sometimes when you look at me, I forget how to breathe"?

Across the city, in his art-filled studio, Off sat at his desk with a fresh page before him. His phone displayed Gun's contact information, the blue light casting shadows on his latest sketch – Gun at the bar, laughing at something Off had said, his perfect mask slipping just enough to show the man beneath.

Chapter Text

3:47 AM, and Gun's ceiling had no answers. The air conditioning hummed, a monotonous counterpoint to his restless thoughts. Jane's words played on repeat in his mind, each iteration more painful than the last.

"I've tried to keep feeling what I used to feel."

He rolled over, grabbing his phone from the nightstand. The screen's blue light illuminated his sleepless eyes as he scrolled through old photos – him and Jane at graduation, their first business dinner together, countless moments of what he'd thought was love but might have just been comfortable habit.

His thumb paused over Off's contact information. Three days had passed since the rooftop bar, and they'd exchanged a handful of casual messages:

Off: "Hope you made it home safely."
Gun: "Thanks for showing me your sketches."
Off: "Thanks for the rescue from drunk art critics."

Simple, safe messages that somehow felt like they contained entire conversations in their subtext. Gun's fingers hovered over the keyboard, the late hour and his insomnia weakening his usual restraint.

"Are you awake?" he typed, then immediately regretted it. But before he could delete the message, those three dots appeared.

"Artists never sleep, remember?"

Gun stared at Off's response, his heart doing something complicated in his chest.

"I keep thinking about her," he typed before he could stop himself. "How she used to look at me like I was her whole world. When did that change? How did I not notice?"

The dots appeared and disappeared several times before Off's reply came: "Sometimes we don't notice changes because we're too afraid of what we might see."

Gun closed his eyes, letting that truth sink in. Had he ignored the signs? The way Jane's smile had become more practiced, less spontaneous? The increasing distance in their touches?

"I loved her since we were kids," Gun typed. "She was my constant. My future. Now I don't know who I am without that framework."

"You're still you," Off replied. "Maybe for the first time."

The words made Gun's chest tight. His fingers moved across the screen: "I can't sleep. Can't stop remembering every moment, trying to pinpoint where it all went wrong."

"Want to call?"

Gun's thumb hovered over the phone icon. It was nearly 4 AM, and he had meetings tomorrow. But the thought of hearing Off's voice, of having someone listen without expectations...

The phone rang twice before Off answered.

"Hey," Off's voice was soft, slightly rough with late-night honesty. Background noises suggested he was in his studio – the subtle scratch of pencil on paper, the whisper of pages turning.

"Hey," Gun replied, then fell silent, suddenly unsure what to say. How do you explain to a near-stranger that your entire world has lost its center? That you're drowning in memories of a love you thought would last forever?

"Tell me about her," Off said gently. "The real her, not the perfect corporate match everyone sees."

The dam broke. Gun found himself talking about Jane's secret love for trashy romance novels, how she used to sneak them into boring board meetings. About the way she'd dance in elevators when she thought no one was watching. About their shared dreams before their parents' business ambitions had taken over.

"I thought we'd grow old together," Gun's voice cracked slightly. "Have kids who'd play with Dew's kids. Build something real, not just mergers and acquisitions."

The line was quiet for a moment, filled only with the soft sounds of Off's sketching. "When did the real parts start becoming performances?" he asked finally.

Gun laughed bitterly. "Maybe they always were. Maybe we just got better at pretending." He rolled onto his side, phone pressed to his ear. "She used to look at me like... like I was enough. Just me, not the company heir, not the perfect son. Just Gun."

"You are enough," Off said quietly. Something rustled in the background – papers being moved, perhaps. "With or without the perfect relationship narrative."

"Am I?" Gun's voice was barely a whisper. "Then why doesn't it feel that way?"

Another pause, filled with unspoken understanding. Then Off said, "I have a place. A studio separate from my apartment. It's... quiet. Safe. If you ever need somewhere to just exist without pretending."

The offer hung in the air between them, heavy with possibility. Gun thought about Off's sketchbook, about the way he saw through people's careful masks, about the gentle understanding in his eyes.

"Now?" The word escaped before Gun could stop it.

"Now," Off confirmed, and Gun could hear him moving, keys jingling. "I'll text you the address."

The drive through Bangkok's pre-dawn streets felt surreal. Gun's grip on his steering wheel was too tight, his thoughts a mess of Jane's memories and Off's gentle voice. He'd changed from his silk pajamas into jeans and a simple shirt – clothes that felt foreign after years of suits and formal wear.

The studio was in an old building on a quiet street, its windows dark except for one warm light three floors up. Gun stood outside for a long moment, heart pounding. This was crazy. It was 4:30 AM, he had a board meeting at nine, and he was about to enter the private space of a man he barely knew.

But when Off opened the door, all of Gun's hesitation melted away. The artist looked softer in the studio's warm light, wearing paint-stained clothes, his hair slightly mussed. Behind him, Gun could see canvases and sketches, the organized chaos of a creative space.

"Come in," Off said softly, stepping aside. "You look lost."

"I am lost," Gun admitted, stepping into the studio. The space smelled of paint and graphite, of creativity and freedom. Art covered every surface – not just Off's work, but his patients' pieces too, a kaleidoscope of emotions rendered in color.

"This is where I come when the world gets too loud," Off explained, moving to a small kitchenette. "Tea?"

Gun nodded, wandering the space. His eyes caught on a particular sketch – a man in a perfect suit, but the edges were blurred, like he was dissolving into something else. With a start, he realized it was him.

"You keep drawing me," he said, not quite a question.

Off handed him a steaming cup. "You keep showing up in my head." The honesty in his voice made Gun turn to face him. "Something about you... it's like watching someone drowning in expectations, and I can't look away."

"Is that why you invited me here? To save me?" There was an edge to Gun's voice that surprised them both.

"No," Off set his cup down, moving closer. "I invited you because I recognize the look in your eyes. The need to be something other than what everyone expects, even if just for a moment."

They were standing too close now, the air between them charged with possibility. Gun could smell paint on Off's clothes, could see the flecks of gold in his eyes.

"What if..." Gun's voice was rough. "What if I need to feel something different? Something that isn't wrapped in corporate expectations and family obligations?"

Off's breath hitched. "Gun..."

"No strings," Gun pressed on, alcohol and desperation making him bold. "No expectations. Just... something real. Something that's just mine."

"You're still in love with her," Off said softly, but he hadn't stepped away.

"Yes," Gun admitted. "And you're still healing from your own heartbreak. I see it in your art."

Off's eyes widened slightly. "How did you—"

"The way you draw love scenes in your sketches. Like you're remembering pain."

Off let out a shaky breath. "His name was Arm. Another artist. He said he loved my passion, my honesty. Then he took a job in Paris and said long-distance would kill his creativity." A bitter smile crossed his face. "Artists can be very good at making selfishness sound poetic."

Gun reached out, touching Off's wrist where a paint stain marked his skin. "I'm not asking for love. I'm not... I can't offer that. But maybe we both need something real. Something that's just about feeling, not thinking."

The tension between them crackled like static before a storm. Off's free hand came up to cup Gun's face, his touch feather-light. "This is a bad idea," he whispered, even as his thumb traced Gun's cheekbone.

"Probably," Gun agreed, leaning into the touch. "But I'm tired of only having good ideas."

The first brush of their lips was hesitant, questioning. Off tasted of tea, his hands gentle as they framed Gun's face. Gun pressed closer, seeking more contact, more sensation, anything to drown out the echoes of Jane's goodbye in his head.

The kiss deepened, becoming something hungry and desperate. Gun's hands fisted in Off's paint-stained shirt, while Off's fingers tangled in Gun's perfectly styled hair, messing it up in a way that felt like freedom.

Off's phone shattered the moment, Tay's ringtone cutting through the heated silence. They broke apart, breathing hard, lips swollen and eyes wide.

"I should..." Off gestured vaguely at his phone.

"Yeah," Gun stepped back, running a hand through his disheveled hair. Reality was creeping back in, bringing with it all the complications they'd momentarily forgotten.

Off answered his phone briefly, making some excuse to Tay about being up early for work. When he hung up, the air between them had shifted.

"We should set some rules," Off said quietly, though his eyes kept dropping to Gun's lips. "If we're going to do this."

"Rules," Gun nodded, putting some distance between them. His corporate mind appreciated structure, even in this undefined thing between them. "No acts of service. No cooking, no caretaking."

"No sharing our past," Off added, though his artist's eyes couldn't help but trace the way Gun's shirt had become rumpled. "What happened with Jane, what happened with Arm – those stay separate from this."

"No feelings," Gun's voice was firm. "This is physical. An escape. Nothing more."

"No staying overnight," Off continued. "No morning afters."

They stood in the studio's warm light, listing boundaries they both suspected would crack like thin ice. The space between them felt charged, electric with danger.

"Just this," Gun stepped closer again, drawn back into Off's orbit. "Just now."

Off's hands found Gun's waist, pulling him in. "Just feeling," he agreed, before capturing Gun's mouth in a kiss that burned away all their careful rules.

They moved together like gravity, inevitable and natural. Clothes fell away under desperate hands, each touch a revelation. Off's mouth traced the line of Gun's throat, marking perfect skin, while Gun's fingers mapped the artist's body like unexplored territory.

They stumbled toward the studio's small bed, hidden behind a partition covered in children's artwork. The contrast between innocent drawings and their heated touches should have felt wrong, but somehow it just emphasized the sanctuary of this space – a place where all masks could fall away.

"Are you sure?" Off breathed against Gun's collarbone.

Gun answered by pulling him down, letting actions speak louder than words. Their bodies moved together with an intensity that surprised them both, each touch erasing thoughts of past loves and future obligations.

In the soft light of dawn, they broke every rule they'd just made, losing themselves in sensation and need. Off's artist hands painted pleasure across Gun's skin, while Gun's careful control shattered into breathless moans and desperate pleas.

Afterward, as the sun began to paint Bangkok's sky in gold, they lay tangled in sheets, reality seeping back in. Gun's phone buzzed with meeting reminders, while Off's sketchbook lay open nearby, new drawings of passion and release scattered across its pages.

"I should go," Gun said quietly, though he made no move to leave.

Off nodded, already reaching for his pencils, unable to resist capturing the way morning light played across Gun's bare shoulders. They'd broken their first rule before they'd even started – no staying overnight. But as Gun watched Off sketch, neither mentioned it.

Chapter Text

The Jiranorraphat family's dining room gleamed with old money and new ambitions. Gun sat in his usual place beside Jane, watching her delicately cut her salmon into precise pieces she wouldn't eat. He'd spent years memorizing her habits, and now he noticed things he'd been blind to before – the way her smile never quite reached her eyes anymore, how her fingers fidgeted with her napkin when her father talked about their future.

"The resort's environmental impact report came back positive," Mr. Jiranorraphat was saying. "Construction can begin next month."

Jane's knife slipped slightly, creating a harsh screech against her plate. Gun might have missed her flinch if he hadn't been watching so carefully.

"That's wonderful news, Father," she said, her voice perfect as cut crystal. But Gun saw her grip tighten on her utensils, saw the slight tremor in her perfectly manicured hands.

The memory unfurled like a flower in his mind, as vivid as if it had happened yesterday:

They were sixteen, sneaking away from another tedious family function. Jane had grabbed his hand, pulling him through the manicured gardens of his family's summer house until they reached the small hill overlooking the property. The grass was slightly damp with evening dew, but neither of them cared as they lay back, shoulders touching.

"Look," Jane had pointed upward, her voice full of wonder. "You can actually see the stars tonight."

Gun remembered how beautiful she'd looked in that moment – her usual perfect appearance slightly disheveled, hair spread out on the grass, eyes reflecting the starlight. They'd known each other their whole lives, thrown together by their parents' business dealings, but something had been shifting between them that summer.

"Dad's been talking about our future again," Jane said, her voice softer now. "About how perfect we'd be together, running both companies."

Gun had turned his head to look at her profile. "And what do you think about that?"

"I think..." she'd hesitated, then rolled to face him. "I think I want it to be real. Not because of our parents, not because of the businesses. Just because of us."

His heart had thundered in his chest as she'd moved closer. At sixteen, everything had felt possible, every emotion huge and certain.

"Promise me something," Jane had whispered, close enough now that he could see each individual eyelash. "Promise we'll always be honest with each other. No matter what happens with our families, with the companies... we'll tell each other the truth."

"I promise," Gun had said solemnly, meaning it with all the intensity of first love. "No masks between us. Ever."

Their first kiss had tasted like summer air. Jane had smiled against his lips, and Gun had thought, 'This is it. This is forever.'

They'd stayed out until the stars began to fade, making plans and promises. Jane had talked about traveling the world, doing art before settling into corporate life. Gun had shared his secret dream of maybe studying music instead of business. Each confession had felt like building something real, something that was just theirs.

Gun took another sip of wine, the taste bitter now. How many of those dreams had they slowly abandoned? When had their honest conversations become careful scripts? When had Jane's smile stopped reaching her eyes?

His phone buzzed in his pocket – probably another business email, another meeting request, another piece of the life that had somehow swallowed all those starlit dreams.

But when he subtly checked the screen under the table, it was Off:

"Working late at the studio. The silence is too loud tonight."

Something in Off's message made Gun's chest tight. He could picture him in that art-filled space, surrounded by other people's stories while holding his own so carefully inside.

"The merger timeline looks aggressive," Jane's father continued, spreading documents across the cleared dinner table. "But with the wedding announcement providing positive PR..."

Gun's fingers moved under the table: "Can I come over after this?"

Off's response was immediate: "Door's unlocked."

"Gun?" Mr. Jiranorraphat's voice cut through his thoughts. "The projection reports?"

Gun smoothly pulled out his tablet, launching into statistics and growth forecasts. Beside him, Jane's hand trembled slightly as she reached for her water glass. Their eyes met briefly, and he saw in hers the same crushing weight of expectations that made him want to run to Off's studio.

"Excellent work," his future father-in-law nodded approvingly. "You two are the perfect team."

Perfect. The word felt like ash in Gun's mouth.

Two hours later, he was parking outside Off's building. The studio window glowed warmly above, a beacon in the night. Gun loosened his tie as he climbed the stairs, shedding his corporate skin with each step, not realizing he faced the wrong door, but Off opened it anyway before he could knock. He looked softer than usual, wearing paint-stained sweatpants and a faded t-shirt. A streak of blue paint marked his cheekbone.

"Bad dinner?" Off asked, stepping aside to let Gun in.

"Don't," Gun warned, already reaching for him. "No personal questions, remember?"

Their lips met with familiar hunger, hands pulling at clothes with growing expertise. Gun pushed Off against the nearest wall, needing to feel something real, something that wasn't wrapped in corporate expectations.

Off's hands slid under Gun's expensive shirt, leaving paint smudges on perfect skin. "Wait," he gasped as Gun's mouth found his neck. "Not here. The walls..."

Gun pulled back slightly, finally noticing their surroundings. This wasn't Off's studio – it was his actual apartment, and every wall was covered in artwork. Children's drawings mixed with Off's own pieces, creating a story that made Gun's breath catch.

"This is different," Gun said, stepping back to take in the space. Unlike the studio's organized chaos, Off's apartment felt more personal, more vulnerable. Each piece of art seemed carefully chosen, deliberately placed.

"We can go to the studio instead," Off offered, but Gun was already moving deeper into the apartment, drawn to a particular photograph tucked between drawings.

A young boy sat on church steps, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. Even without the familiar curve of his jaw, the artistic sensitivity in his expression, Gun would have known it was Off. The sadness in young Off's gaze was too familiar.

"That's breaking rule number two," Off said quietly, coming to stand beside him. "No personal questions includes no studying old photos."

Gun turned to face him, their bodies close enough to share breath. "Then distract me."

Off did, pulling Gun into a kiss that tasted of paint and need. Three weeks into this setup he already knows how to distract the man in front of him. They stumbled toward Off's bedroom, leaving a trail of expensive clothes among the artwork. Gun's tie draped across a painting of ocean waves, his suit jacket landed beneath a child's drawing of a rainbow.

Their bodies came together with practiced familiarity now, knowing where to touch, how to move. But something felt different in Off's apartment, more intimate somehow. Gun found himself watching Off's face as they moved together, memorizing expressions he knew he shouldn't care about.

Off's hands painted pleasure across Gun's skin, each touch an masterpiece of sensation. Gun surrendered to it, letting everything else fall away – Jane's sad eyes, his father's expectations, the weight of being perfect.

Afterward, lying in Off's sheets, Gun knew he should leave. Rule number one: no staying overnight. But Off's bed smelled of paint and passion, and his body felt too heavy with satisfaction to move.

"I'll set an alarm," Off murmured, already reaching for his sketchbook. "Just... stay a little longer."

Gun knew he should protest, but the soft scratch of pencil against paper was oddly soothing. He watched through heavy eyes as Off captured him in lines and shadows.

"You look peaceful like this," Off said softly. "When you're not trying to be perfect."

Gun must have drifted off because the next thing he knew, morning light was filtering through Off's curtains. Panic seized his chest – he'd broken rule number one. But before he could move, the smell of coffee reached him, followed by the sound of quiet humming from the kitchen.

He found Off at the stove, still shirtless, making what looked like breakfast. More rule-breaking. Gun should stop this, should grab his clothes and leave, maintain their carefully constructed boundaries.

Instead, he found himself asking, "When did you learn to cook?"

Off glanced over his shoulder, a soft smile playing at his lips. "My mom worked a lot when I was young. Before..." he trailed off, then shrugged. "Had to feed myself somehow."

"That's breaking rule number two," Gun pointed out, even as he settled onto a kitchen stool.

"You started it by asking." Off slid a plate of eggs and toast toward him. "We can pretend this isn't happening if you want."

Gun stared at the plate, at Off's paint-stained hands, at the morning light catching the angles of his face. Everything about this felt dangerous – too intimate, too real.

His phone rang, shattering the moment. His father's name lit up the screen.

"Gun," his father's voice was sharp. "Where are you? The Phuket contractors are waiting."

Gun's spine straightened automatically, his voice shifting into its corporate register. "My apologies, Father. Traffic is terrible. I'll be there soon"

Off watched the transformation with artist's eyes, noting how Gun's shoulders squared, how his expression smoothed into professional neutrality. When Gun hung up, the silence felt heavy.

"You don't have to be him all the time," Off said quietly, collecting their barely-touched plates.

"Don't," Gun warned, but his voice lacked conviction.

"I used to pray every night," Off said suddenly, his back to Gun as he washed dishes. "Begging God to make me normal. To want what my mother wanted for me."

The confession hung in the air, breaking their third rule about personal histories.

Off's words triggered another memory in Gun, this one sharper, more painful:

He was eighteen, sitting in his father's study. The leather chair felt too big, too adult, as his father laid out his future like a blueprint.

"Harvard Business School has agreed to fast-track your application," his father had said, not looking up from his papers. "The Jiranorraphats are sending Jane to Wharton. You'll both return to take your positions in the companies."

Gun had gripped the chair's arms, gathering courage. "Father, I've been thinking... about music composition—"

"Don't be ridiculous." His father's voice had cut like steel. "You're my only son, Gun. The Atthaphan legacy rests on your shoulders. This isn't about what you want – it's about your responsibility to this family."

"But—"

"Jane understands her duty," his father had continued. "You two will make an excellent team. The perfect merger of our families' interests."

That night, Gun had called Jane, hoping to find understanding. She'd been quiet for a long moment before saying, "Maybe our parents are right, Gun. Maybe this is our destiny."

He'd heard the resignation in her voice, the slow death of their starlit dreams. That was the night they'd started becoming who their parents wanted, piece by piece, dream by dream.

Gun blinked back to reality, finding Off watching him with those perceptive eyes.

"My mother caught me kissing a boy when I was fifteen," Off said softly, continuing his own story. "Behind the church, of all places. She dragged me to the altar every day for a month after that..."

Off's memory unfolded as he spoke, his hands still wet from washing dishes:

He was fifteen, and Kao had been the church pianist's son. They'd been practicing hymns together after services, Off pretending he needed help with the music just to spend time with him. The church was different after hours – quieter, more intimate, sunlight filtering through stained glass to paint rainbow patterns on the wooden pews.

"You're not really bad at singing, are you?" Kao had asked one afternoon, their shoulders touching on the piano bench. "I've heard you during service. Your voice is beautiful."

Off had blushed, caught in his pretense. "I just... wanted to spend time with you."

Kao's smile had been like sunrise. They'd started meeting behind the church instead, hidden by old trees and young love. That particular day, Off had been sketching Kao's profile, trying to capture the way faith and gentleness lived in his features.

"You make me look too good," Kao had laughed, leaning over to see the drawing.

"I draw what I see," Off had replied, and then Kao had kissed him.

It had felt like flying, like finally understanding all the love songs he'd been practicing. But then he'd heard his mother's gasp, followed by the sound of her prayer book hitting the ground.

"Demon," she'd whispered, her face ash-white. "There's a demon in my son."

What followed was a month of hell dressed as salvation. His mother dragged him to church every morning before school, forcing him to kneel until his knees bruised on the hard floor.

"Pray it away," she'd demand, her rosary beads clicking like bones. "Ask God to heal you."

The priest would come, placing a heavy hand on Off's bowed head. "Repeat after me: Lord, cleanse me of these unnatural desires."

Off had repeated the words until they lost meaning, tears falling silently onto his clasped hands. Kao was sent away to another church, another city. Off's sketchbooks were burned – "Artists are too sensitive, too prone to sin," his mother had declared.

The worst part wasn't the prayers or the punishment. It was watching his mother's love become conditional, seeing her eyes fill with fear every time she looked at him. She'd started working longer hours, leaving money for food instead of cooking his favorite meals. Their home became a battlefield of silence and disappointed looks.

"I tried so hard to be what she wanted," Off said quietly, present-day pain coloring the memory. "I prayed until my voice gave out. But you can't pray away who you are."

Gun sat motionless at the kitchen counter, his cooling coffee forgotten. He recognized the pain in Off's voice – different from his own, but just as deep. Without thinking, he reached across the space between them, touching Off's paint-stained wrist.

"What happened to Kao?" Gun asked softly, knowing he was breaking another rule but unable to stop himself.

Off's laugh was hollow. "He wrote me one letter. Said God had shown him the right path, that he was going to become a missionary. Last I heard, he's married with three kids somewhere in Cambodia."

The morning light painted shadows across Off's face, highlighting the lingering pain in his expression. Gun's fingers tightened slightly around his wrist, feeling his pulse beat steady beneath the skin.

"After that," Off continued, "I learned to hide better. Started dating girls from church, joined the youth group, became the perfect repentant son. But at night..." He gestured to the artwork surrounding them. "This was my real prayer. Every drawing was a piece of truth I couldn't speak."

Gun looked around the apartment with new understanding. Each piece of art was a confession, a moment of honesty in a world that demanded pretense. His eyes caught on a particular sketch – a boy kneeling at an altar, but his shadow showed him standing tall, unashamed.

"Your turn," Off said quietly, turning his hand to intertwine their fingers. "Fair exchange. Tell me something real."

Gun should pull away. Should remind them both of their rules. Instead, he heard himself say, "I haven't played piano in five years."

"Why?"

"Because every time I sit at the keys, I remember who I wanted to be before I became who they needed me to be." The confession felt like bleeding. "Jane used to love watching me play. Said it was the only time I looked completely free."

Off moved closer, standing between Gun's legs as he sat on the kitchen stool. His free hand came up to cup Gun's face, thumb tracing his cheekbone. "We're breaking all our rules," he murmured.

"I know," Gun replied, leaning into the touch. "We should stop."

Instead, their lips met in a kiss that tasted of coffee and shared pain. It was different from their usual passionate encounters – slower, deeper, heavy with understanding. Gun's hands slid under Off's shirt, feeling his heart beat against his palm.

They moved together with a new awareness, each touch weighted with the truths they'd shared. Gun pushed Off against the kitchen counter, swallowing his soft gasps. Off's hands worked their way under Gun's borrowed t-shirt, leaving trails of warmth on his skin.

"We'll be late," Off breathed against Gun's neck. "Your meeting..."

"Don't care," Gun muttered, pulling Off closer. In this moment, the corporate world felt distant, unreal. Here, with morning light painting patterns on their skin and truth still raw on their tongues, nothing existed but this.

Off's phone rang – Tay's ringtone cutting through their haze. Gun pulled back slightly, reality creeping back in. His own phone showed five missed calls from his father, three from Jane.

"This is getting messy," Off said softly, still close enough that Gun could feel his breath.

"It was always going to be messy," Gun replied, finally stepping away. He gathered his wrinkled suit from where it lay among the artwork, each piece now holding new meaning after Off's revelations.

Off watched him transform back into the corporate heir – suit smoothing away their intimacy, tie becoming armor, hair perfectly styled once more. But something was different now. They'd seen too much of each other's truth to maintain their careful distance.

"I'll call you?" Gun said, pausing at the door. It came out like a question.

Off nodded, already reaching for his sketchbook. "Just... be careful with my heart, Gun. I know we said no feelings, but..."

"I know," Gun cut him off, unable to hear the rest. "I should go."

He left Off standing in his paint-splattered apartment, surrounded by art that told too many truths. In his car, Gun's phone buzzed with another message from Jane:

"Where are you? Father is furious. Please, Gun. We need to maintain appearances."

Gun stared at the words, remembering starlit promises and church kisses, piano dreams and paint-stained confessions. He typed back: "On my way," but his fingers still tingled from touching Off's skin.

In his apartment, Off added to his sketchbook – Gun in morning light, walls crumbling around him, truth breaking through perfect cracks.

They'd broken every rule they'd set, and both knew there was no going back.

Chapter Text

"You're humming," Nuch observed, making Off pause in arranging art supplies for his morning session. His fellow art therapist leaned against the doorframe, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "You've been humming all week, actually."

Off ducked his head, focusing on organizing paintbrushes by size. "Am I not allowed to be in a good mood?"

"Of course you are," she said, moving to help him set up the circle of easels. "It's nice seeing you happy. After Arm, we were worried..."

"I'm not—" Off started to protest, but his phone lit up with a message from Gun:

"Trapped in budget meetings. Rather be watching you sketch."

A smile crept across his face before he could stop it. Nuch raised an eyebrow but didn't comment, just started laying out paper on each easel.

Their first group session brought five children, including Mai who was responding well to her latest treatment. Off watched as they settled into their usual spots, noting how they naturally grouped themselves – the shy ones near the door, the more outgoing ones clustering together.

"Today," Off began, holding up blank paper, "we're going to draw what love looks like."

Mai's hand shot up immediately. "Can we draw what broken love looks like too?"

The question hit Off harder than it should have. "Of course," he managed, passing out colored pencils. "Love comes in many forms, including the kind that hurts."

Seven-year-old Pin frowned at his paper. "How do you draw something broken?"

"However it feels to you," Off explained, settling cross-legged on the floor among them. His phone buzzed again in his pocket, but he resisted checking it. "There's no wrong way to show feelings."

Mai was already drawing intently, her small face serious with concentration. Off moved between the children, offering encouragement and gentle questions. When he reached Mai's easel, he had to pause.

She'd drawn two figures with a heart between them, but the heart was splintered into pieces. One figure was reaching for the broken pieces while the other turned away. The detail was remarkable for a child her age, the emotion raw and honest in a way that made Off's chest tight.

"Tell me about your drawing, Mai," he said softly, kneeling beside her.

"It's like my mom and dad," she explained, adding more cracks to the heart. "Dad doesn't live with us anymore. Mom tries to fix things, but he keeps walking away." She looked up at Off with too-wise eyes. "Sometimes love breaks even when you try really hard to keep it whole."

Off swallowed hard, thinking of Gun's perfect relationship crumbling despite years of effort, of his own heart that was starting to feel dangerously full despite all their rules.

His phone buzzed again. Mai giggled. "Someone really wants to talk to you, Phi Off."

"Focus on your drawing," he smiled, but snuck a glance at his screen:

"These financial projections would look better with your sketches in the margins." "The coffee here isn't as good as yours." "Is it inappropriate to say I can still feel your hands on my skin?"

Heat crept up Off's neck. He quickly pocketed his phone, but not before catching Nuch's raised eyebrow from across the room. Who would have thought that within just a month, he'd go giddy over some thirsty message?

The morning session continued, each child revealing their understanding of love through art. Some drew happy families, others showed complex emotions beyond their years. Off guided them through their expressions, all while feeling his phone burn in his pocket with each new message from Gun.

During their break, Tay cornered him in the supply room.

"Okay, spill," his friend demanded, blocking the doorway. "You're being weird. Secretive weird. Happy weird."

"I'm just having a good week," Off tried, organizing paint bottles that didn't need organizing.

"Bull." Tay crossed his arms. "I know you, Off. This is more than a good week. This is... oh god." His eyes widened. "You're seeing him, aren't you? The businessman from the rain?"

Before Off could respond, his phone lit up again. Tay moved faster than Off could react, snatching the device.

"'Meeting finally over. Can't stop thinking about this morning,'" Tay read, his eyebrows climbing higher. "'Your kitchen counter will never be the same.' Off, what the hell?"

Off grabbed his phone back, cheeks burning. "It's not... we have rules."

"Rules?" Tay's voice was skeptical. "Like the rules you had with Arm? The ones that ended with you crying into my couch for a month?"

"This is different," Off insisted, though his heart clenched at the memory. "We both know what this is. No feelings, no complications."

"Right," Tay's voice softened. "Because you're definitely not humming love songs while setting up art supplies. And he's definitely not texting you every five minutes like a lovesick teenager."

Across town, Gun sat in yet another meeting, his mind wandering to that morning. The way Off had looked in sunrise light, paint smudges on his skin, honesty raw in his eyes. The boardroom felt suffocating in comparison.

"Gun?" Jane's voice pulled him back. "The Phuket numbers?"

He straightened, sliding smoothly into his presentation. But he caught Jane watching him with a strange expression, something knowing in her eyes.

As Gun delivered his presentation, his eyes kept drifting to Jane's familiar profile. Every gesture, every small smile she gave the board members – he knew them all by heart. Eight years of love didn't fade just because she'd stopped feeling it back. His messages to Off might have been passionate, desperate even, but they were just that – desperation to feel something other than the constant ache of losing her.

After the meeting, Jane caught his arm. "Can we talk?"

His heart jumped traitorously at her touch. Even now, after everything, she was still his true north. "Of course."

They found a quiet corner in the corporate café, away from curious eyes. Jane looked beautiful in her cream-colored suit, and Gun had to fight the urge to reach for her hand like he used to.

"You seem different lately," she said carefully. "Less... controlled."

Gun thought about Off's apartment that morning, about losing control in the best way. But looking at Jane now, he knew he'd trade all those moments of freedom for just one more day of her real love.

"I'm managing," he said, which wasn't quite a lie.

"Are you?" Her eyes were gentle. "Because sometimes you look at your phone and smile in a way you used to smile at me."

"Jane..." His voice cracked slightly. "Don't."

"I want you to be happy, Gun," Jane said softly, her eyes holding memories of a thousand shared moments. "To find someone who—"

"Don't," Gun's voice was raw. "Please don't do this. Don't act like what we had was something I can just replace."

Jane reached across the table, an old habit neither of them had quite broken. Her fingers brushed his, and Gun felt his world tilt on its axis. Every touch from Off, every moment of passion in paint-stained sheets – none of it compared to this simple contact.

"Remember that summer in Hua Hin?" she asked quietly. "When we snuck out to watch the sunrise?"

Gun's throat tightened. Of course he remembered. They were nineteen, home from their first year at different universities. He'd climbed up to her balcony at 4 AM, like some scene from a romance movie.

"You were wearing that old blue dress," he said, the memory vivid. "The one your mother hated. Your hair was messy from sleep."

"You said I looked perfect," Jane smiled, sadness tingeing the edges. "We sat on the beach and planned our whole future. Two kids, a house with a piano room for you..."

"A garden for your herbs," Gun continued. "Sunday dinners with our families. Vacations in Paris..."

"Reality's never as beautiful as our dreams, is it?" Jane's fingers withdrew, leaving Gun's skin cold. "I keep thinking, if I just try harder, if I could make myself feel what I used to feel..."

"I would give anything," Gun whispered, meaning it with every fiber of his being. Every touch from Off, every moment of freedom in his studio – he'd trade it all in a heartbeat to have Jane look at him again the way she used to. "Anything to go back."

"I know," Jane's eyes shimmered with tears. "That's what makes this so hard. You're still in love with who we were, Gun. And I'm... I'm trying to figure out who I am without that story."

His phone buzzed – probably Off, whose touches could make him forget for a moment but never truly heal the Jane-shaped hole in his heart. Gun ignored it.

"I miss you," he admitted, the words feeling like glass in his throat. "Not just... not just the relationship. I miss my best friend. The person who knew all my dreams before they became compromises."

Jane wiped a tear before it could fall. "I miss you too. Sometimes I pick up my phone to tell you something funny, or find myself saving articles you'd like. Then I remember..."

"That you don't love me anymore," Gun finished, the words still sharp despite how many times he'd said them.

"That I don't love you the way you deserve," Jane corrected gently. "The way you love me."

Gun wanted to reach for her, to pull her close and breathe in her familiar scent. Instead, he gripped his coffee cup tighter, wedding catalogs from their mothers burning a hole in his briefcase.

"Do you remember," Jane said suddenly, "that night before I left for Wharton? When we danced in your parents' garden?"

The memory hit him like a physical ache. They'd put on their song – some old Thai ballad about eternal love – and swayed under the stars. Jane had fit perfectly in his arms, her head tucked under his chin.

"You promised to wait for me," Gun said softly. "I said four years would feel like nothing because we had forever."

"I meant it then," Jane's voice cracked slightly. "With everything I was, I meant it."

His phone buzzed again. Off's name flashed on the screen, a reminder of warm studios and paint-stained sheets. But sitting here with Jane, those moments felt like watching a movie of someone else's life – entertaining but ultimately unreal.

"I keep your pictures, you know," Jane admitted, playing with her napkin. "The ones from high school, before all this corporate pressure. You used to smile differently then."

Gun knew exactly which pictures she meant. There was one in particular he still kept in his wallet – Jane laughing at something he'd said, her hair wild from the beach wind, her college acceptance letter clutched in her hand. They'd been so young, so certain of their future.

"Dad found me looking at them last week," Jane continued, her voice soft. "He said I needed to focus on the future, not the past. But Gun..." she looked up, her eyes meeting his. "How do you forget twelve years of loving someone?"

"You tell me," Gun said, trying and failing to keep the bitterness from his voice. "You seem to have managed it."

"Don't," Jane's hand found his again, the touch achingly familiar. "Don't think this isn't killing me too. Watching you hurt, knowing I'm the cause... seeing you try to move on..."

Gun stiffened slightly. Did she know about Off? Had someone seen them?

"I noticed the paint stains on your cuff last week," she said gently. "The way you check your phone more often. Someone's helping you forget."

If only she knew that every moment with Off just made him remember her more sharply. Every kiss, every touch was overlaid with memories of Jane – their first kiss in his father's garden, their last real embrace before everything changed.

"It's not..." Gun started, then stopped. How could he explain that Off was like morphine for a wound that wouldn't heal? That in Off's arms, he could pretend for a few hours that his heart wasn't permanently locked in Jane's keeping?

"Remember our first corporate event together?" Jane asked, smiling at the memory. "You were so nervous about the dance."

"Because you were wearing those heels that made you almost as tall as me," Gun replied, the memory vivid. "I was terrified I'd step on your feet."

"But you didn't. You never did." Jane's smile turned sad. "You were always so careful with me, Gun. So perfect."

"Not perfect enough to make you stay," he said softly, the words escaping before he could catch them.

Jane's eyes filled with tears. "Gun..."

"I'm sorry," he said quickly. "That wasn't fair."

"No, it was honest. We promised each other honesty once, remember?" She wiped her eyes carefully, ever mindful of her makeup. "I just... I wish I could make myself feel it again. Sometimes I look at you and for a moment, I think maybe... but then..."

"Then reality hits," Gun finished. His phone buzzed with Off's reply, but he barely noticed. "Jane, if there's any chance... any possibility..."

"Don't put your life on hold waiting for me to change my mind. That paint-stained person who makes you check your phone and smile – maybe they're what you need right now." she cut him off gently.

If only she knew that Off was just a beautiful distraction, a way to survive the nights when memories of Jane threatened to drown him. That every time Off touched him, Gun closed his eyes and remembered Jane's softer hands, her gentler kisses.

Across the city, Off was receiving news about his mother's routine check-up, unaware that he was just a beautiful bandage over Gun's still-bleeding heart.

"Phi Off?" Nuch touched his arm, concern in her eyes. "The doctor wants to run more tests..."

"What kind of tests?" Off asked, his voice steady despite the fear curling in his stomach. His phone sat silent now, Gun's messages stopped – though he didn't know it was because Gun was lost in Jane's eyes across a corporate café table.

"They found some abnormalities in your mother's blood work," Nuch explained gently. "It could be nothing, but..."

Off nodded, already reaching for his bag. "I need to go."

At the hospital, Off sat in a sterile waiting room, his sketchbook open but untouched. He should call his mother, but their relationship had been strained for so long. What would he say? 'The doctors want more tests because something's wrong with your blood, and by the way, I'm still the gay son you pray for every Sunday'?

His phone lit up with a new message from Gun: "Can I see you tonight?"

Off's heart did that complicated thing it wasn't supposed to do, given their rules. He typed back "Always," before he could stop himself.

Hours later, Off sat in his studio, staring at his mother's test results without really seeing them. His phone showed several missed calls from Tay, probably worried after he'd left the hospital abruptly. The children's drawings from the morning session were spread across his desk – Mai's broken heart piece catching his eye repeatedly.

A knock at his door startled him. Gun stood there, still in his business suit but somehow looking undone. There was something different in his eyes tonight, something raw that Off couldn't quite read.

"Bad day?" Off asked, stepping aside to let him in.

Gun didn't answer, just pulled Off into a desperate kiss. His hands were almost rough as they pushed Off against the wall, his mouth hungry and seeking. Off responded instinctively, even as he noted the taste of expensive coffee on Gun's tongue, the lingering scent of a woman's perfume on his collar.

"Wait," Off gasped as Gun's mouth moved to his neck. "Are you—"

"No talking," Gun muttered against his skin. "Please. I just need..."

Off understood needing. Hadn't he spent years drawing his pain into art rather than speaking it? So he let Gun push him toward the bed, let desperate hands strip away their clothes, let the physical drown whatever ghosts Gun was running from.

But something was different tonight. Gun's touches felt almost apologetic, his kisses tinged with a sadness Off couldn't understand. When they moved together, Gun kept his eyes closed, and Off wondered who he was seeing behind those closed lids.

Afterward, Gun didn't leave immediately like usual. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, while Off sketched him in the dim light. The words "I think I'm falling for you" burned in Off's throat, but he swallowed them back. Their rules existed for a reason.

"Can I stay?" Gun asked suddenly, his voice small.

Off's pencil paused. Rule number one: no staying overnight. But Gun looked so lost, so unlike his usual controlled self.

"Of course," Off said softly, adding shadows to his sketch of Gun's profile.

Gun fell asleep quickly, his body curled slightly away from Off, as if protecting something even in sleep. Off kept sketching, trying to capture the vulnerability in Gun's sleeping face, the way his corporate mask fell away to reveal something younger, more fragile.

His phone lit up with test results from the hospital – more appointments needed, more blood work required. Off set his sketchbook aside, suddenly feeling the weight of everything: his mother's potential illness, Gun's presence in his bed, Tay's warnings about getting hurt.

Mai's drawing from that morning flashed in his mind – two figures with a broken heart between them. One reaching, one turning away. Looking at Gun's sleeping form, Off wondered which one he was becoming.

He added one final detail to his sketch – a small crack in the corner of the page, barely noticeable unless you knew to look for it. Like the first sign of his mother's illness. Like the way his heart was starting to break its own rules.

Gun shifted in his sleep, murmuring something that sounded like a name. Not Off's name. Off pretended not to hear, just like he pretended not to notice how Gun's phone wallpaper was still a photo of him and Jane, or how he sometimes touched Off with eyes closed, as if imagining different hands.

The night stretched on, filled with the soft sounds of Gun's breathing and the scratch of Off's pencil against paper. Each line he drew felt like a confession he couldn't speak aloud: "I'm breaking all my rules for you. I'm falling for someone who's still in love with someone else. I'm setting myself up for another heartbreak."

His final sketch showed Gun peaceful in sleep, but Off added a shadow beside him – a feminine silhouette that Gun's sleeping form seemed to reach for, even while lying in Off's bed.

Chapter Text

The church's silence pressed around them, heavy with incense and unspoken words. Off noticed how his mother's hands trembled slightly as she held her rosary, the beads worn smooth from years of desperate prayers. She looked smaller somehow, more fragile than the strong woman who'd raised him alone.

"The doctor called," he said quietly, mindful of the echoing space. "They want to run more tests."

His mother didn't look at him, her fingers moving mechanically over the beads. "God will provide," she murmured, the same answer she'd given to every crisis since he was twelve.

Off fought back the urge to shake her, to demand real answers about her health, about their past, about why she'd chosen endless prayers over facing reality. Instead, he watched her profile in the colored light from the stained glass, an artist's eye noting the new hollows in her cheeks, the yellowish tinge to her skin that makeup couldn't quite hide.

A memory surfaced: himself at thirteen, finding her sobbing in their tiny kitchen at 3 AM. She'd been clutching a photograph he'd never seen before – his father with another woman, another child. When she'd seen him watching, she'd burned the photo and spent the next six hours in church. They never spoke of it again.

Another memory: age fifteen, the day after the incident with Kao. His mother on her knees, begging God to save them both from sin. "I've already failed Him once," she'd whispered, thinking Off couldn't hear. "Please don't let my son be another punishment."

Now, watching her pray, Off wondered what sins she thought she was atoning for. What secrets lay buried under all those rosary beads and choir hymns.

"The tests," he tried again, "they're concerned about your liver function."

"Everything happens according to His plan," she responded mechanically, but her hands clutched the rosary tighter, knuckles white with tension.

"Mae," Off's voice cracked slightly. "Please. This is serious."

She finally turned to look at him, and for a moment, her careful mask slipped. Fear flickered in her eyes, raw and human beneath all the practiced piety. She reached out as if to touch his face, then pulled back, making the sign of the cross instead.

"The hospital has an excellent specialist," Off pressed gently. "If we could just—"

"I have my church group," she cut him off, the mask sliding back into place. "Sister Agnes knows a healing prayer—"

"Prayer won't fix your blood test results," Off said, sharper than he intended. The words echoed in the sacred space, making several prayer group members turn to stare disapprovingly.

His mother flinched as if he'd struck her. "You always were too much like him," she whispered, then immediately crossed herself as if asking forgiveness for the comparison.

The words hit Off like a physical blow. He'd spent his whole life watching his mother flinch away from any mention of his father, any reminder of their past life. Now she was looking at him like he was a ghost of that past, come to haunt her pristine church sanctuary.

A memory: age ten, his last birthday with his father present. He'd gotten art supplies, premium ones that made his mother's face tight with some emotion he couldn't name. "You have his artistic soul," she'd said later that night, and it hadn't sounded like a compliment.

"The doctor wants to start treatment next week," Off said quietly, pulling out the paperwork. "I can take you. We can face this together."

His mother stood abruptly, smoothing her modest skirt. "I need to pray," she announced, as if he hadn't spoken. "You should join us. Prayer cleanses the soul of worldly concerns."

Off watched her walk away, her small figure straight-backed despite everything. She joined her prayer group, their heads bowing together like dark flowers. Their whispered prayers floated back to him: "Lord, heal our sisters in need, cleanse us of our sins..."

How many sins was his mother trying to cleanse? How many secrets lay buried under those endless prayers? The test results felt heavy in his pocket, like stones weighing him down in this sea of faith and denial.

Back at the hospital, Off tried to focus on his afternoon session. The children were drawing their dreams today, their papers filled with impossible colors and hope. But his eyes kept drifting to his phone, to the doctor's number that hadn't called back yet, to Gun's messages he hadn't answered.

"Phi Off?" Mai tugged at his sleeve. "Your drawing looks sad again."

Off looked down at his own paper, surprised to find he'd been sketching unconsciously – a woman kneeling before an altar, shadows gathering around her like waiting sins.

"Sometimes," he told Mai gently, "grown-ups don't know how to draw happy things."

"That's silly," Mai declared, adding a rainbow to her own drawing. "You taught us that art is for feeling better."

Before Off could respond, he heard familiar voices in the hallway. Tay and New appeared in the doorway, carrying takeout bags and concerned expressions.

"Surprise lunch delivery," Tay announced, but his eyes said they knew something was wrong. They always could read him too well.

"Five more minutes, kids," Off called out, watching as his young patients put finishing touches on their dreams. Mai drew a star over her rainbow, while Pin added wings to his dinosaur.

In the break room later, Off picked at his pad thai while his friends exchanged worried looks.

"Nuch called us," New said finally. "Said you've been off since the hospital called about your mom."

"I'm fine," Off replied automatically, then caught Tay's skeptical expression. "Really. It's just routine tests."

"Right," Tay drawled. "Because routine tests totally make you zone out during sessions and draw sad churches."

"Oh god," New said suddenly, catching sight of Off's expression. "You're falling for him, aren't you? The straight businessman?"

"He's not straight," Off corrected automatically, then winced at his friends' shocked faces. "And it's not... we have rules."

"Rules?" Tay's voice rose slightly. "Off, please tell me you're not sleeping with an engaged man."

"It's complicated," Off managed, pushing his food around the plate. "He's not... they're not really together anymore. But he's still in love with her."

"And you're just what? His experiment? His crisis comfort?" Tay's voice was gentle despite the harsh words. "Off, we watched you break after Arm. We can't—"

"It's different," Off interrupted, though he wasn't sure how. "We know what this is. No feelings, no complications."

"Really?" New raised an eyebrow. "Because you've been drawing him constantly. And now with your mom's health..."

"You're already in too deep," Tay said softly, reading Off's face as he stared at the message. "And from what Nuch tells us, he's still wearing couple rings with his girlfriend."

The truth of it hit Off like a physical blow. Every time Gun came to him, it was to forget – forget Jane, forget family expectations, forget the perfect life that was crumbling around him. But who did Off have to help him forget? Who would hold him when the doctor finally called with his mother's real diagnosis?

"I should end it," Off said quietly, more to himself than his friends. "Before..."

"Before you fall in love?" New finished gently. "Off... I think that ship has already sailed."

Another message from Gun lit up his screen: "Can I come over? Need you."

Three simple words that meant everything and nothing. Off remembered his mother's shaking hands on her rosary beads, the way Gun sometimes whispered Jane's name in his sleep, the growing weight of secrets and unspoken truths.

"Go," Tay sighed, seeing Off's conflict. "But protect your heart this time, please? You're too good at loving people who can't love you back."

The boardroom gleamed with polished wood and expectations. Gun stood at the head of the table, his presentation flawless as always. But his mind kept drifting to Off's last message: "At church with Mae. Talk later."

Something about the brevity felt wrong. Off usually sent longer texts, often with small sketches or observations about his day. Even their simplest exchanges had a warmth to them, however temporary their arrangement was supposed to be.

"The profit margins for the third quarter," Gun continued smoothly, while checking his phone under the table. No new messages. The silence felt heavy, wrong somehow.

Jane caught his distraction from across the table, her eyebrow raising slightly. Once, she would have known exactly what he was thinking, would have squeezed his hand under the table in silent support. Now her concern felt like another reminder of what he'd lost.

After the presentation, amid congratulations and handshakes, Gun sent another message: "Finished here. You've been quiet today."

The response came quickly, too quickly, as if Off had been holding his phone: "Everything's fine."

Three messages in a row, all lacking Off's usual artistic soul. No mentions of whatever he'd sketched that day, no small observations about light and shadow. Just short, clipped responses that felt like walls going up.

Gun stared at his phone, an unfamiliar worry gnawing at his chest. He shouldn't care this much. Off was supposed to be his escape, his breathing space between meetings and memories of Jane. Not someone whose silence could make him anxious.

"You seem distracted," Jane said softly, catching him in the corridor. "Everything okay?"

The irony of her concern made his chest tight. Here was the woman he'd love until his last breath, asking if he was okay because she'd noticed his worry about someone else.

"I need to go," Gun said, already loosening his tie. "Someone... someone needs me."

Jane's smile was sad but understanding."Just... be careful with them, Gun. You're still carrying too much of us to offer anyone else anything about you"

She was right, of course. She always was. But something in Off's silence pulled at Gun, made him need to see those paint-stained hands and honest eyes, even if he could never offer them the love they deserved.

The drive to Off's studio felt longer than usual, each traffic light another moment for Gun to question what he was doing. His presentation notes sat untouched in his briefcase, next to wedding venue brochures Jane's mother had given him. The contrast felt like his life in microcosm – corporate success beside a love story that refused to die, while he drove toward someone who made him feel both free and guilty. Gun arrived at Off's studio still wearing his presentation suit, every inch the corporate heir except for the desperation in his eyes.

Off wanted to tell him everything – about his mother's trembling hands on rosary beads, about test results that could change everything, about the growing fear that threatened to choke him. Instead, he let Gun pull him close, their usual heated rush transformed into something slower, more deliberate.

"I'm outside," he texted, then added before he could stop himself: "Need to see you're okay."

The words felt too honest, too close to breaking their rules. But when Off opened the door, looking somehow smaller than usual, Gun knew he'd made the right choice.

"You didn't have to come," Off said quietly, but his eyes told a different story.

Gun stepped inside, taking in Off's studio. Usually, there would be fresh sketches pinned up, new splashes of color on the walls. Today, the space felt heavy with unspoken things. An unfinished drawing on Off's desk caught his attention – a woman kneeling in shadows, rosary beads spilling from her hands like tears.

"Off," Gun started, not sure what he was going to say. Their rules hung between them – no personal questions, no feelings, no complications. But something in Off's expression made Gun's carefully constructed walls crack.

He reached out, straightening Off's paint-stained collar in a gesture too intimate for what they were supposed to be. Off's breath hitched slightly at the touch.

"Don't," Off whispered, but he leaned into Gun's hand. "I can't... not today."

Instead of pulling away, Gun drew him closer. "Then don't be anything today. Just... let me..." Gun murmured, carefully unknotting Off's paint-stained apron. His fingers traced the collar of Off's shirt before starting on the buttons. "Just... let me take care of you tonight."

The tenderness was worse than their usual passion. Off could handle being Gun's escape, his moment of freedom between business meetings. But this gentle undressing, the way Gun's fingers lingered on each inch of revealed skin – it felt too much like something they weren't supposed to have.

They made their way to the bed, Gun taking his time, mapping Off's body like an artist with a new canvas. Every touch felt weighted with meaning neither of them was ready to acknowledge. When Gun's lips traced the line of Off's collarbone, it felt like writing secrets on his skin.

"You're holding something back," Gun whispered against Off's throat. "I can feel it in how tense you are, in the way you're trying not to shake."

Off turned his face away, but Gun's hand caught his chin, turning him back. Their eyes met in the dim light, and for a moment, Off saw something in Gun's gaze that looked almost like real care.

"Don't," Off warned, but his voice cracked. "We have rules."

Gun's response was to kiss him, deep and thorough, like he was trying to draw out whatever pain Off was holding inside. Their bodies came together with practiced ease, but tonight felt different. Gun kept his eyes open, watching Off's face with an intensity that burned. His hands were everywhere – soothing, claiming, comforting in ways they'd never allowed before.

When they finally moved together, it wasn't with their usual desperate pace. Gun took his time, drawing sounds from Off that felt like confessions. Each thrust was measured, deliberate, like Gun was trying to memorize every moment, every sensation.

"Look at me," Gun whispered, one hand cupping Off's face. "Stay with me."

Off's eyes met his, and something cracked inside his chest. Gun was watching him with such tenderness, such focused attention – everything they'd promised not to share. Every gentle touch felt like another rule breaking, another wall crumbling.

Off arched into Gun's movements, trying to recapture their usual heated pace, to turn this back into something simple and physical. But Gun wouldn't let him, keeping the rhythm slow, devastating in its gentleness.

"Please," Off gasped, though he wasn't sure what he was begging for. To speed up? To stop? To never stop?

Gun pressed their foreheads together, breathing Off's air. His free hand found Off's, fingers intertwining in a gesture far too intimate for what they were supposed to be. When Off tried to turn his face away, overwhelmed, Gun's lips followed, kissing away whatever words Off might have said.

Their release, when it came, felt like drowning in slow motion. Gun held Off through it, whispering something that might have been comfort or might have been names – Off couldn't tell through the rushing in his ears.

Afterward, instead of their usual careful distance, Gun pulled Off against his chest. His fingers traced patterns on Off's skin, like he was trying to draw his own art there.

"My mother," Off found himself saying into the quiet, Gun's unexpected tenderness breaking down his defenses, "she's sick. The doctors want more tests."

Gun's hand stilled for a moment on Off's back, then resumed its gentle motion. He didn't speak, didn't ask questions – just held Off closer, pressed a kiss to his temple that felt dangerously like care.

Off knew he should pull away. This wasn't part of their arrangement. Gun was still in love with Jane, still wore their couple ring on a chain around his neck – Off had seen it gleaming earlier as Gun moved above him. This tenderness was just another form of escape, another way for Gun to forget his own pain by soothing someone else's.

But Off let himself be held, let himself pretend for a moment that this meant something. Gun's heartbeat under his ear was steady, real, even if his love wasn't meant for Off.

"She was at church again today," Off continued, the words spilling out despite their rules. "Praying instead of facing reality. She's always done that, turned to God instead of..."

Instead of me, he didn't say. Instead of dealing with whatever secrets made her cry over old photographs late at night.

Gun's arms tightened around him. One hand came up to card through Off's hair, the gesture so tender it hurt. "What do you need?" he asked softly.

The question undid Off completely. What did he need? He needed his mother to face her health issues instead of hiding in prayer. Needed to understand why their life had shattered when he was young. Needed Gun to look at him the way he still looked at Jane across conference tables.

"Nothing," Off lied, pulling away slightly. "This isn't... we shouldn't..."

"Shh," Gun pulled him back, lips pressing against Off's temple. "Just for tonight, let me."

Let me what? Off wanted to ask. Let me pretend to care? Let me practice tenderness before going back to loving someone else?

Their phones lay forgotten on the bedside table. Off's would ring later with his mother's number, her voice small and frightened for the first time in years. Gun's would light up with messages from Jane about wedding venue options their mothers were discussing.

But for now, Off let himself be held, let Gun's hands paint comfort on his skin. He knew tomorrow would hurt worse for this tenderness, knew he was setting himself up for another heartbreak.

"Sleep," Gun murmured, still stroking Off's hair. "I've got you."

Off closed his eyes, knowing he should end this before it destroyed him. But Gun's arms felt like home, like everything he'd never let himself want.

Later that night, after Gun had fallen asleep, Off carefully extracted himself from his arms. He sat at his desk, sketchbook open, trying to capture the way Gun looked in sleep – vulnerable, real, someone else's love story waiting to resume in daylight.

His phone lit up: "Hospital Emergency Department."

Off's hands shook as he answered. "Hello?"

"Your mother collapsed at evening prayer," a calm voice informed him. "She's stable now, but—"

"I'll be right there." Off was already reaching for his clothes, heart pounding.

He looked at Gun's sleeping form, peaceful and unaware. Should he wake him? Leave a note? But what would he say? 'Thanks for the comfort, sorry my complicated life is bleeding into our uncomplicated arrangement'?

In the end, Off just pulled the blanket higher over Gun's shoulders and slipped out. The night air hit his face, carrying the scent of incense from nearby temples. His mother would be praying even now, he knew, rosary beads clicking in a hospital bed instead of a church pew.

Gun woke an hour later to an empty bed, the sheets beside him cold. His hand reached automatically for Off's warmth before remembering their rules. No staying over, no caring, no complications.

His phone showed three missed calls from Jane. The latest message read: "Mom's chosen a wedding planner. We need to meet tomorrow."

Gun stared at Off's contact info, thumb hovering over the call button. He wanted... he wasn't sure what he wanted. To make sure Off was okay? To hear his voice? To apologize for offering comfort he had no right to give?

 Both of them are slowly drowning in truths they couldn't speak.

Chapter Text

"You look like shit," Dew said bluntly, sliding into the booth across from Gun. The upscale bar was quiet for a Thursday afternoon, perfect for conversations that shouldn't be overheard.

Gun didn't bother denying it. Three days had passed since he'd left Off's studio at dawn, since Off's mother had been admitted to the hospital. Three days of unanswered messages and growing worry that felt too much like caring.

"When was the last time you slept properly?" Dew pressed, studying his friend's face. "And don't give me that corporate bullshit about being busy with the merger."

"I sleep," Gun defended weakly, though his nights had become a mess of checking his phone for messages from Off and staring at old photos of Jane.

"Right." Dew's voice dripped skepticism. "That's why you've worn the same tie twice this week, which the old Gun would rather die than do. That's why you keep zoning out in meetings, checking your phone like a teenager waiting for a crush to text back."

"Don't," Gun warned, but Dew had always been immune to his corporate tone.

"The artist from the bar," Dew said quietly. "It's more than just casual, isn't it?"

"Nothing about my life is casual anymore," Gun said, staring into his untouched whiskey. The amber liquid caught the afternoon light, reminding him of Off's eyes when he sketched – that same warm focus, that same depth.

"Talk to me," Dew leaned forward, concern etching lines around his mouth. "We've known each other since we were kids wearing matching uniforms and dreaming about being rock stars. What's happening to you?"

The memory hit Gun unexpectedly – him and Dew at fifteen, playing guitar in Gun's room while Jane sat cross-legged on his bed, applauding their awful attempts at rock songs. Everything had been simpler then. Their futures had seemed as vast as the sky, not like the narrow corridors of corporate expectations they now walked.

"I'm sleeping with someone," Gun admitted, the words falling like stones into the quiet bar. "Someone who makes me forget, just for a little while, that I'm still desperately in love with a woman who doesn't love me back."

Dew's sharp intake of breath was audible. "The artist? The one who draws children's therapy art?"

Gun nodded, finally taking a sip of his whiskey. It burned less than the truth. "Off. His name is Off."

"And this Off," Dew chose his words carefully, "he knows this is just about forgetting?"

"We have rules," Gun said, but the words sounded hollow even to his own ears. "No feelings, no complications"

"Rules," Dew repeated skeptically. "Like the rule about checking your phone every thirty seconds to see if he's messaged? Like the rule about wearing the same tie twice because you spent the night in his studio instead of going home to change?"

Before Gun could defend himself, both their phones buzzed – a group message from Jane's mother to all close family friends:

"Dear friends and family, we are proud to announce that Jane has been accepted into a prestigious MBA program in London. She will be departing next month to continue her education before the wedding. We ask for your understanding as we adjust the celebration timeline accordingly."

Gun's hand tightened around his glass. "London," he said numbly. "They're sending her to London."

"This isn't random," Dew said quietly, reading the message again. "Jane would have told us if she'd been planning this. Something happened."

As if summoned by their discussion, Gun's phone lit up with a private message from Jane: "My place. Please. I need my best friend right now."

Gun was already standing, throwing bills on the table. Dew caught his arm. "What about Off?"

"What about him?" Gun's voice was harder than intended. "Jane needs me."

"And that's exactly the problem, isn't it?" Dew's eyes were sad. "You're using him to forget Jane, but you'll always run back to her at the first sign of trouble."

Gun pulled away, unable to face the truth in his friend's words. Twenty minutes later, he was at Jane's door. She opened it with red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained cheeks, looking younger somehow, more vulnerable.

"They're sending me away," she whispered as he pulled her into his arms. Her familiar scent – jasmine and expensive perfume – made his heart ache. "Daddy found out I've been looking at art galleries in New York."

Gun led her to the couch, keeping her close. This was muscle memory – comforting Jane, being her safe harbor. It felt more real than anything he'd experienced in months, including every moment with Off.

"I told him I don't want to run hotels," Jane continued, her voice breaking. "That I've been taking online courses in art history. That I want... I want something different than what they planned."

"The London MBA," Gun said softly, stroking her hair like he used to. "That's your punishment?"

Jane laughed bitterly. "To 'clear my head of these artistic nonsense notions.' To remember my duty to the family." She pulled back to look at him, tears making her eyes shine. "He said if I wasn't ready to be a proper wife to you, to be the perfect merger daughter, then maybe some time alone would help me appreciate what I'm throwing away."

"When did we stop being people and start being business assets?" Gun asked softly, his thumb catching a tear on Jane's cheek. They sat in her private living room, the space filled with memories of their shared past – photos of them through the years, the small piano where Gun used to play for her, her hidden art supplies tucked behind business books.

Jane leaned into his touch, a gesture so familiar it physically hurt. "Do you remember the night you first played for me?"

Of course he did. They were fifteen, and he'd snuck into the Jiranorraphat mansion after everyone was asleep. Jane had been crying over a fight with her father about taking art classes.

"You played Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata," Jane continued, her voice thick with memories. "Said if your father was making you learn business, at least you could make beautiful things in secret."

Gun's hand found hers automatically, their fingers intertwining like they had a thousand times before. "And you showed me your first gallery design."

"We were going to change the world," Jane's laugh was wet with tears. "You with your music, me with my art spaces. Remember how we planned it? A cultural center with concert halls and exhibition spaces..."

The memory of that night flooded back:

Jane had spread her drawings across her bedroom floor – elaborate plans for a building that would combine all forms of art. "The piano hall will be here," she'd explained, eyes shining. "With perfect acoustics for when you perform."

"And your main gallery here," Gun had added, pointing to her detailed sketches. "All glass and natural light."

They'd fallen asleep surrounded by their dreams, innocent enough to believe they could have it all.

Now, years later, Jane pulled away slightly, wiping her eyes. "I tried to tell him properly, you know. Set up a proper presentation, like he taught us."

"Tell me," Gun said softly, though his heart clenched knowing how this story ended.

Jane's voice turned hollow as she recounted the scene from two days ago:

She'd prepared everything perfectly in her father's study – portfolio laid out, business plan for an art gallery chain that could complement their hotels, market research showing the potential profits. Her father had sat behind his imposing desk, reading glasses perched on his nose, expression unreadable.

"The contemporary art market in Asia is expanding," she'd explained, hands only slightly shaking as she turned pages in her presentation. "By integrating galleries into our hotel properties, we could tap into a luxury market that—"

"Enough." Her father's voice had cut through her practiced pitch like a knife. "What is this nonsense, Jane?"

"It's not nonsense," she'd insisted, pulling out her online course certificates. "I've been studying art curation, business of fine arts. I could bring something unique to our holdings—"

"You've been what?" He'd stood then, his chair scraping against hardwood. "While we've been planning your future, your marriage, the merger – you've been wasting time on this... this hobby?"

"It's not a hobby!" For the first time in her life, Jane had raised her voice to her father. "This is who I am! These designs, these plans – this is what I want to do with my life!"

She'd pulled out her prize piece – acceptance letters from prestigious galleries in New York offering internships. Her father had stared at them like they were poison.

"I've already accepted one," she'd said, voice shaking but determined. "The Morton Gallery, they want me to—"

The sound of her portfolio hitting the wall had made her jump. Papers had scattered like broken dreams, her carefully crafted plans raining down around them.

"You selfish, ungrateful child," her father's voice had been deadly quiet. "After everything we've built for you. The legacy we're giving you. Gun's family, the merger, your future – and you want to throw it all away to 'play' with art?"

"I'm not throwing anything away!" Jane had scrambled to collect her fallen artwork. "I'm trying to be me! To build something that matters!"

"Matters?" He'd laughed then, a sound that made her blood run cold. "You want to know what matters? Family. Duty. The thousands of employees depending on this merger. Gun's future. Or do you not care about destroying his life too?"

"Don't bring Gun into this," Jane had whispered, but her father was relentless.

"Gun, who's loved you since you were children. Gun, who's built his entire future around you. Gun, whose family is counting on this merger." Each word had been a precise strike. "But of course, your little art dreams are more important than his happiness."

Jane curled closer to Gun on the couch, her voice breaking as she continued the story. "He made me sit there while he called the London Business School. Called in favors, arranged everything on the spot. 'If you want to act like a rebellious teenager,' he said, 'then we'll treat you like one.'"

Gun held her tighter, remembering all the times they'd comforted each other through their fathers' disappointments. His free hand found the couple ring he still wore, the metal warm from constant contact.

"The worst part," Jane's voice was barely a whisper now, "was when he pulled out our old photo albums. Pictures of us growing up, all those perfect moments they orchestrated. He said, 'Look at these. Look at the life we've built for you. And you want to throw it away for some artistic fantasy?'"

Gun's throat tightened. He knew those albums – their first dance recital together, family vacations carefully arranged so they'd fall in love, graduation photos where they already looked like the perfect corporate couple.

"I tried to explain that loving art doesn't mean I don't love..." Jane stopped, her hand finding Gun's couple ring. "That wanting something different doesn't erase our history."

"I know," Gun said softly, though his heart was shattering all over again. His phone buzzed in his pocket – Off's name lighting up the screen – but he couldn't look away from Jane's tears.

"He said London would help me remember who I'm supposed to be." Jane's laugh was bitter. "Six months of MBA classes to 'fix' whatever's broken in me. To make me worthy of being your wife again."

"You never stopped being worthy," Gun whispered, his thumb tracing the familiar curve of her cheek. They were sitting closer now, the space between them heavy with shared history and broken dreams. "You were always more than they planned for you to be."

Jane looked up at him, tears making her lashes sparkle in the fading light. For a moment, they were sixteen again, sharing secrets and first loves. Gun could almost hear the echo of their younger selves laughing in this same room, planning forever with the confidence of those who hadn't yet learned about life's complications.

"I miss you," Jane admitted, her fingers still playing with his couple ring.

"I'm right here," Gun's voice cracked. Their faces were close now, breath mingling in the space between words.

"Are you?" Jane's eyes searched his. "Because lately you seem... different. Like you're trying to forget me."

Gun thought of Off's studio, of paint-stained sheets and temporary escapes. But here, with Jane's familiar perfume surrounding him and years of love pressing on his chest, those moments felt like dreams he'd been using to numb the pain.

"I could never forget you," he confessed. "Not even sure if I can survive without you."

Jane's hand came up to cup his face, the gesture achingly familiar. "Gun..."

Their lips met softly, a ghost of what used to be. It felt like coming home and drowning at the same time. Gun's heart thundered in his chest as Jane's fingers threaded through his hair – a touch she'd performed countless times before.

His phone buzzed again insistently. Off's name flashed on the screen, but Gun couldn't pull away. Not when Jane was kissing him like she was trying to remember why she'd stopped, not when everything he'd ever wanted was right here, in his arms.

The kiss deepened, years of muscle memory taking over. Gun's hands found Jane's waist, pulling her closer as her fingers tightened in his hair. They moved together with the ease of long practice, each touch weighted with history and heartache.

Then Jane pulled back abruptly, tears streaming down her face. "We can't," she whispered, though her hands still clutched his shirt. "This isn't... I can't give you what you need anymore."

"You're all I've ever needed," Gun's voice was raw. "Since we were kids, it's always been you."

"And that's why I have to go," Jane pressed her forehead against his. "Because you deserve someone who loves you the way you love me. Someone who doesn't feel trapped by our perfect story."

Gun's phone buzzed again – Off's fourth message in an hour. The sound felt like reality crashing back in, reminding him of paint-stained hands and honest eyes that had nothing to do with this moment.

"I'll wait," Gun promised, meaning it with everything he was. "However long it takes. London, New York, wherever you need to go to find yourself – I'll be here."

Jane pulled away completely then, wiping her eyes. "That's exactly why I need to leave. Because you'd waste your whole life waiting for me to feel something I don't anymore."

The words hit like a truck, each one precise and devastating. Gun stood, needing space from the perfume and memories and the lingering taste of their kiss.

"Gun," Jane called as he reached the door. "The person who keeps messaging you... are they good to you?"

Gun's hand tightened on the doorknob. How could he explain that Off's touches, while healing, were just bandages over the Jane-shaped wound in his heart? That every moment in the studio was just practice for this – for when Jane would finally love him again?

"They're..." Gun struggled to find words that wouldn't betray either Off or his own confused heart. "They help me breathe when memories of us feel too heavy."

"Good," Jane's smile was sad but genuine. "Because I won't be coming back as the person you love. Not even London can fix that."

Chapter Text

The hospital room felt too small for the weight of their silence. Off sat beside his mother's bed, watching her fingers move mechanically over rosary beads worn smooth by years of desperate prayers.

"Stage three liver cancer," the doctor had said just hours ago, his voice clinical and detached. "We need to start treatment immediately." he said before the leaving the room.

But instead of discussing treatment options, his mother had asked for a priest.

"Mae," Off tried again, his voice soft in the sterile air. "The doctor said if we start chemotherapy—"

"This is God's will," she interrupted, her voice distant. "His judgment for my sins."

"What sins?" Off asked, frustration bleeding into his words. "You're the most devout person I know. You've spent my whole life in church, praying, trying to be perfect—"

"Perfect?" His mother's laugh was hollow, something Off had never heard before. "Nothing about me is perfect. This," she gestured to the hospital machinery surrounding her, "this is what I deserve."

Off's hand tightened around his phone. He'd sent message after message to Gun, each one more desperate than the last. But only silence answered him.

"I should have seen it coming," his mother continued, staring out the window at Bangkok's skyline. "The signs were there. The way your father would disappear for weeks. The cash instead of bank transfers. The way he never wanted photos..."

Something in her voice made Off's artist hands itch to draw, to capture this moment when his mother seemed to be speaking to ghosts rather than him. But for the first time, his sketchbook felt inadequate to hold this pain.

"Mae," he reached for her hand, but she pulled away, clutching her rosary tighter. "Please. Talk to me."

"Pray with me instead," she whispered. "Perhaps if we pray hard enough, God will forgive—"

"Forgive what?" Off's voice cracked. "Mae, you're scaring me."

Sunset painted the walls in shades of orange and purple, turning his mother's skin waxy and translucent under the harsh fluorescent lights. Off watched her hands move over the rosary beads – a rhythm he'd grown up with, like a second heartbeat in their home.

"The doctor said we need to decide about treatment by tomorrow," Off tried again, his voice gentle as if speaking to one of his young patients. "The sooner we start—"

"I saw your father today," his mother interrupted, her voice distant as if speaking from underwater. "In the hallway, while they were taking blood. He looked... he looked exactly the same."

Off's breath caught. His father hadn't been part of their lives for so long that sometimes Off struggled to remember his face. "He was here?"

"Standing there in his expensive suit," she continued, her fingers never stopping their movement over the beads. "Like a ghost. Or perhaps I imagined him. God sends visions sometimes, to remind us of our sins."

The room felt too small suddenly, crowded with unspoken things. Off reached for his phone again, typing another message to Gun: "I've never seen her like this. I don't know what to do."

The message stayed unread.

"Do you remember the house we lived in before?" his mother asked suddenly. "The one with the garden where you used to draw?"

"Sometimes," Off admitted. He remembered sunlight through big windows, space for his art supplies, the smell of his mother's cooking instead of church incense.

"I thought it was real," her voice cracked slightly. "The house, the marriage, the life we had. I thought... I thought I was building something blessed by God."

"Your father used to say you had his artistic soul," his mother whispered, looking at the sketchbook in Off's trembling hands. "I should have known then. The way he'd praise your drawings, but never stay to watch you create them. Always rushing off to his 'other meetings.'"

Off thought back to every birthday his father had missed, every school performance where his mother had sat alone in the audience. He'd grown up thinking his father was just busy, important, a successful businessman who couldn't always make time for family moments.

"The house," his mother continued, her voice distant as if lost in memory. "Do you remember how we never had visitors? How the neighbors never came for dinner? I told myself it was because your father valued privacy. That we were special, living in our own perfect world."

The sunset had deepened now, painting the hospital room in shades of blood and gold. Off watched his mother's fingers resume their endless dance over rosary beads, each click sounding like another secret falling into place.

"Sometimes," she said so quietly Off had to lean closer, "late at night, I'd hear him on the phone. Speaking softly, lovingly... I thought he was handling business calls. International time differences, he'd say." A tear rolled down her cheek. "He was talking to them. His real family. His real wife. While I sat in our beautiful lie of a house, thinking I was blessed."

"I went home and found the proof. Photos hidden in his office. Bank statements. A whole other life..." She looked at Off, really looked at him, for the first time since the diagnosis. "I couldn't let you grow up thinking it was normal. Being the secret family. The mistake. So I ran. Brought you somewhere small, somewhere he wouldn't find us easily. Somewhere I could pray for forgiveness."

"Is that why..." Off's voice caught, remembering years of forced church attendance, endless prayers, his mother's desperate grip on religion. "Is that why you pushed me so hard to be perfect? To pray? To be... different from him?"

His mother's laugh was hollow. "Perfect? I wanted you safe. Protected from becoming..." she gestured vaguely, "like us. Sinners. Mistakes." Her hands resumed their mechanical movement over the rosary. "But then you started drawing. Just like him. And then... and then with that boy at church..."

Off's chest tightened, remembering Kao, remembering the aftermath. "You thought I was being punished too. That's why you made me pray so much after Kao."

"I thought if I could save you from sin," her voice was barely a whisper now, "maybe God would forgive me. Maybe we could both be clean again."

The hospital machinery beeped steadily, marking time in this moment of unraveling truths. Off's phone lit up again – another message sent to Gun: "Everything I thought I knew about my life is a lie. Please. I need you."

"And now this," his mother touched her side where the cancer grew. "God's final judgment. For destroying a family. For tainting you with my sins. For—"

"Stop," Off's voice cracked. He moved to sit on her bed, taking her frail hands in his. "This isn't divine punishment. This is cancer, and we're going to fight it. Together."

"Together?" She looked at their joined hands as if seeing them for the first time. "After everything I've done? The lies, the prayers, trying to pray away your nature because I was so afraid of more sin?"

"You're my mother," Off said firmly, though his heart was breaking. "Nothing else matters."

She broke then, really broke, tears streaming down her face as she clutched his hands. "I'm so sorry," she sobbed. "For not being strong enough to give you a better life. For running. For making you pray away parts of yourself because I was so scared of more punishment."

Off held his mother as she cried, her tears soaking into his shirt. For the first time since he was a child, she didn't pull away from his touch, didn't reach for her rosary instead of accepting comfort.

"Sometimes," she whispered between sobs, "late at night, I'd hear you crying after prayer sessions. After what happened with Kao. But I was so convinced that if I could just pray enough, sacrifice enough, God would protect you from becoming..." she trailed off.

"Becoming what?" Off asked softly, though his heart already knew the answer.

"Lost. Like me. Someone who destroys families, who lives in sin." She pulled back slightly to look at him. "But you... you turned out beautiful despite everything I did. You help children heal. You create art that makes people feel less alone. While I just..." she gestured to her rosary, "hid behind prayers and punishment."

The sunset had faded now, leaving them in the artificial glow of hospital lights. Off's phone stayed silent, his messages to Gun remaining unread. In this sterile room that smelled of antiseptic and fading secrets, Off held his mother while thirty years of guilt poured out of her.

"The doctors," she said finally, her voice small, "they want to start treatment tomorrow?"

"Yes," Off squeezed her hands. "Chemotherapy first, then—"

"Will you..." she hesitated, looking more vulnerable than he'd ever seen her. "Will you stay with me? Through the treatment?"

"Of course," Off promised, his artist's heart breaking at how fragile she looked. "Every step."

She nodded, then reached for something under her pillow – an old photograph, worn at the edges. "I kept this one," she admitted. "Even though I burned the rest."

The photograph showed Off at age six, sitting in their old garden. He was drawing something, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration. His father's hand was just visible at the edge of the frame, reaching to ruffle his hair.

"It was the last photo we took before..." his mother's voice trailed off. "I couldn't burn this one. You looked so happy, so innocent. Before my sins caught up with us."

Off stared at the photo, at the simple joy on his younger self's face. He'd been drawing a family portrait that day – himself, his mother, and his father standing in front of their house. A child's dream of perfect family, rendered in crayon and hope.

"I used to dream," his mother continued, touching the photo gently, "that if I prayed hard enough, lived purely enough, maybe God would forgive me. Maybe we could go back to that moment, before everything shattered." She laughed softly, the sound raw with pain. "But instead, He sent this cancer. Perhaps it's better this way. A clear punishment, a way to atone—"

"No," Off's voice was firm despite the tears threatening to fall. "This isn't punishment, Mae. And you don't need to atone for loving someone, for believing in a future that turned out to be a lie."

His phone lit up again – another message sent to Gun, who was probably still with Jane, living in their own complicated love story while Off's past unraveled in this hospital room: "I need you, Gun"

The message remained unread, like all the others.

Off sat in his studio, the space feeling both too large and too confining. Sketches of his mother covered every surface – her hands on rosary beads, her profile against the hospital window, her tears catching the sunset light. He'd drawn compulsively since leaving the hospital, trying to make sense of a reality that kept shifting under his feet.

His phone lay silent, each message to Gun still unread. The progression from need to resignation felt like its own kind of cancer, eating away at whatever this thing between them was supposed to be.

A knock at his door. Off knew who it was before he opened it – he'd memorized the sound of Gun's knuckles against wood, just like he'd memorized every other detail he wasn't supposed to care about.

Gun stood there, still in his perfect suit, but something was different. His collar was slightly askew, his lips looked somehow guilty, and the scent of Jane's perfume clung to him like a second skin.

"Off—" Gun started, then stopped, really seeing Off's face for the first time. "What's wrong?"

Off laughed, the sound hollow. "What's wrong? I spent six hours in a hospital today, watching my mother fall apart. Finding out my entire childhood was built on lies. Discovering that my father had a whole other family, that we were just... secrets he kept in a separate house." He ran a hand through his hair, noticing how Gun's eyes tracked the movement. "But you wouldn't know any of that, would you? Because you were with her."

"I don't owe you explanations," Gun said, but his voice lacked conviction. "We have rules—"

"Rules?" Off's voice cracked. "Like the rule about you kissing her today? I can see it on your face, Gun. In the way you keep touching your lips like they remember something they shouldn't."

"Two months," Off said quietly, moving to his desk where sketches of Gun had multiplied like weeds among his artwork. Sixty days of trying not to fall, of telling himself this was just physical, just comfort between two broken people. But his art betrayed him – every drawing of Gun showed the truth his heart refused to acknowledge.

There was Gun laughing at Off's paint-stained hands. Gun concentrating during a phone call, his corporate mask slipping just slightly. Gun sleeping, vulnerable and real in Off's sheets. Gun watching Off work with children, something soft in his eyes that Off hadn't dared to name.

"We agreed," Gun said, but his eyes caught on the sketches, on the evidence of Off's growing feelings laid bare in graphite and shadow. "No feelings. No complications."

"And I tried," Off's voice cracked. He picked up a recent sketch – Gun in morning light, reaching for something in his sleep. Off knew now he'd been reaching for Jane, always Jane. "I told myself it was just physical. Just two people helping each other survive. But you don't make it easy, do you?"

He started picking up sketches, each one a confession he couldn't take back. "The way you bring coffee exactly how I like it, even though we never discussed it. The way you remember which takeout places I prefer. The way you hold me sometimes, like you're trying to memorize something you shouldn't want to remember."

Off thought about all the little moments that had betrayed his heart – Gun straightening Off's collar before leaving, Gun's genuine interest in Off's work with children, Gun's fingers tracing Off's sketches with something like tenderness. Each small gesture had been a crack in Off's defenses, letting feelings seep in like water through stone.

"Today," Off continued, his voice rough, "the doctor informed us Mae has cancer. Stage three. And all I could think was 'I need Gun.' Not just for sex, not just for comfort. I needed..." he swallowed hard. "I needed the person who asks about my patients. Who notices when I'm tired. Who sometimes looks at me like I might be more than just a distraction from her."

"But that's not who I am to you, is it?" Off moved through his studio, touching sketches like wounds. "I'm just your morphine. Something to numb the pain when memories of Jane become too much. And I let myself forget that sometimes, when you look at me like I matter. When you stay for breakfast even though we said we wouldn't."

He picked up a sketch from last week – Gun in Off's kitchen, wearing borrowed sweatpants, looking so domestic it hurt. "Do you know how many times I've drawn you? How many moments I've tried to capture, knowing they weren't really mine to keep?"

Gun stood frozen in the doorway, Jane's perfume still clinging to him like a reminder of where he really belonged.

"Two months," Off continued, his voice barely a whisper. "Two months of learning how you take your coffee. How you look when you're really sleeping, not just pretending for politeness. The way your voice changes when you talk about music – your real passion, not the corporate life they planned for you."

He turned to face Gun fully. "Today, I learned my entire childhood was a lie. That my father had another family, that we were just his guilty secret. And while I sat in that hospital room, watching my mother break apart, do you know what hurt the most?"

Gun took a step forward, then stopped. "Off, don't—"

"What hurt the most was realizing I'm doing the same thing he did. Letting myself be someone's secret. Someone's escape. The person they come to when they need to forget their real life." Off's laugh was hollow. "I'm becoming everything my mother prayed I wouldn't be."

His phone lay on the desk, messages to Gun still unread. Each one a testament to how foolish he'd been, thinking this could ever be more than what it was.

"And the worst part?" Off's voice trembled slightly. "I let it happen. I watched myself fall for you, sketch by sketch, touch by touch. I cataloged every genuine smile, every moment you forgot to be perfect Gun Atthaphan. I stored them away like secrets, pretending they meant something."

He moved to his wall of sketches, where Gun's evolution was displayed in chronological order – from the rain-soaked stranger to something far more intimate. "Look at these. Look how you change in my drawings. First, you were just interesting. Beautiful but distant. Then..." he touched a sketch from their first morning together, "you became real. Human. Someone who snores slightly and steals blankets."

Gun remained silent, but his eyes followed Off's movements, taking in the visual diary of their two months together.

"I drew you sleeping seventeen times," Off continued, his artist's precision making the confession more painful. "Drew you laughing twenty-three times. Drew your hands, your profile, the way you look when you think no one's watching. I told myself it was just artistic practice. Just capturing interesting moments."

He picked up his sketchbook, opened to his most recent drawing – Gun watching Off with his patients, something soft in his expression that Off had foolishly thought might be real affection.

"But today, sitting in that hospital room, listening to my mother talk about being someone's secret, about living in a beautiful lie..." Off's voice cracked. "I realized I'm no better. I'm letting myself be your beautiful lie. Your escape. Your moment of freedom between meetings with her."

The scent of Jane's perfume seemed stronger now, a physical reminder of where Gun's heart truly lived. Off could see the guilt in Gun's posture, the way he kept unconsciously touching his lips – remembering other kisses, other touches, a love story that wasn't about Off at all.

"Did you kiss her today?" Off asked quietly, though he already knew the answer. The way Gun flinched confirmed it. "When you were with her, while I was sending you messages about my world falling apart, were you remembering what it felt like to love someone who loved you back?"

Gun took a step forward, his corporate mask cracking. "Off, it's not—"

"Don't lie to me," Off cut him off. "Not today. Not when I can smell her perfume on you, when I can see the memory of her kiss in your eyes. At least give me that much honesty."

He moved to his easel where a fresh sketch lay half-finished – his mother in her hospital bed, looking small and broken. "You know what's funny? While I was drawing this, trying to understand how my life could change so completely in one day, I kept thinking about you. About how you'd know what to say. How you'd hold me and make everything feel manageable for a little while."

Off's hands shook slightly as he picked up his pencil, adding shadows to his mother's portrait. "But you were with her. Of course you were with her. Because that's where you belong, isn't it? In that perfect world of corporate mergers and arranged marriages. I'm just... I'm just the paint-stained secret you visit when that world becomes too heavy."

"That's not fair," Gun's voice was rough. "You knew what this was. We both agreed—"

"Did we?" Off turned to face him. "Did we really agree? Or did I just accept whatever pieces of yourself you were willing to give me, pretending it could be enough?"

The studio felt smaller suddenly, crowded with two months of memories they weren't supposed to make. Off could see them all – Gun laughing at Off's attempts to cook breakfast, Gun unconsciously straightening Off's art supplies, Gun watching Off work with a tenderness that felt real until moments like this.

"Time is a funny thing," Off said, turning back to his mother's portrait. "Two months. That's all it took. Sixty days of you coming here, breaking down my walls piece by piece without even trying. Do you know when I realized I was in trouble?"

Gun remained silent, but Off could feel his presence, heavy with guilt and something else – something that might have been regret in another story, another life.

"It was that morning you brought coffee from that tiny shop across town. The one I mentioned once, briefly, while half-asleep. You remembered. You cared enough to remember." Off's pencil moved across paper, adding depth to his mother's eyes. "That's when I knew I was falling for someone who could never fall for me."

"Off—"

"I kept count, you know. Artist's habit." Off's laugh was hollow. "Twenty-seven nights you stayed over, breaking our first rule. Forty-three times you asked about my patients, breaking the second. And feelings?" He gestured to the walls covered in Gun's face in various moments. "I broke that rule every single day." 

Gun moved closer, his expensive shoes silent on the paint-splattered floor. "You're not—"

"A mistake?" Off finished. "A sin? That's exactly what I am, Gun. I'm the thing you run to when everything feels heavy"

A long pause enveloped the whole place. 

"I think we should stop this," Off said quietly, the words feeling like glass in his throat. "Whatever this is between us... it needs to end."

Gun went still, his perfect posture faltering for the first time since he'd arrived. "What?"

"Look at us, Gun," Off gestured between them, at the space filled with two months of broken rules and growing feelings. "You're here with her perfume still on your collar, her kisses still on your lips. And I'm..." he swallowed hard, "I'm turning into someone I promised myself I'd never be."

"You're not thinking clearly," Gun stepped closer, reaching for him. "You're upset about your mother, about everything you learned today. We don't have to make decisions now—"

"Don't," Off stepped back, putting distance between them. "Don't try to manage this like one of your business crises. This isn't a merger you can negotiate."

"Then what is it?" There was an edge of panic in Gun's voice now. "We have something that works. Something that helps us both—"

"Helps us?" Off's laugh was bitter. "Helps you forget her, you mean. Helps you breathe between moments of loving Jane. While I..." he gestured to his walls of sketches, "while I fall deeper every time you pretend to care."

Off's phone rang suddenly – New's familiar ringtone cutting through the tension. Both men stared at it, the sound somehow making everything more real.

"You should answer that," Gun said stiffly, his corporate mask sliding back into place. "Your real friends are calling."

"Don't do that," Off's voice cracked. "Don't act like what we have isn't real just because it's not what you want it to be."

The phone kept ringing, New's persistence a counterpoint to their fraying connection. Off let it ring, watching Gun retreat behind his perfect walls.

"What exactly do you want from me?" Gun asked, his voice taking on that controlled tone he used in business meetings. "We agreed to this arrangement. You knew I was still in love with Jane. You knew this wasn't—"

"Wasn't what?" Off challenged. "Wasn't real? Then why do you remember how I take my coffee? Why do you ask about my patients? Why do you hold me like I matter when we both know I don't?"

The phone started ringing again. New, again.

"Answer it," Gun said, already backing toward the door. "Obviously someone needs you."

"You needed me today too," Off's voice was quiet but it stopped Gun in his tracks. "While you were with her, while you were tasting old memories on her lips, I needed you. And you weren't there."

"That's not fair—"

"No?" Off moved to his desk, picking up his latest sketches. "My mother has cancer, Gun. She thinks it's divine punishment"

The phone rang a third time. Gun used the interruption to move closer to the door, his retreat obvious in every movement.

"This isn't..." Gun struggled for words, something like panic creeping into his eyes. "We can't just end—"

"We can," Off said softly. "We have to. Because I'm starting to want more than you can give, and you're still in love with someone else."

Gun's hand found the doorknob, his knuckles white with tension. "You're upset. We should talk when you're calmer, when—"

"Go," Off turned away, unable to watch Gun leave. "Go back to her. To your perfect world. To a love story that doesn't involve paint-stained sheets."

The door closed softly behind Gun, the sound final as a goodbye. Off's phone rang one more time, and this time he answered, his voice breaking as he said, "New? I think I just made a huge mistake."

Chapter Text

The date glared from Jane's departure email: Three weeks. Gun stared at his screen, the London Business School logo seeming to mock him. His finger hovered over his phone, wanting to text Off about the hollow feeling in his chest, but their last interaction had left things... complicated.

He'd sent fourteen messages in the past week:

"Are you okay?"

"Your mother's treatment - how is it going?"

"I miss y—" (deleted before sending)

"The café near your studio still makes terrible coffee."

"Can we talk?"

"Off, please."

"I know I messed up."

"The children's ward - do they still paint dinosaurs?"

"I keep thinking about what you said."

"Just let me know you're okay."

"I drove by the studio today."

"There's a new art supply store opening downtown."

"Off..."

"Please."

Only two responses, both painfully professional:

"Mae's treatment is progressing as expected."

"The children are fine. Thank you for asking."

Gun set his phone down, trying to focus on the merger documents spread across his desk. But his eyes kept drifting to the small sketch Off had given him months ago – Gun in the rain, looking lost and found at the same time. He'd hidden it beneath budget reports, like he was hiding so many other things these days.

The London Business School acceptance letter sat like a time bomb on Gun's desk, its official letterhead catching the morning light. The date felt both too close and impossibly distant, like everything in his life lately. Jane would board a plane, taking with her twelve years of shared history and dreams.

Gun's office felt too small suddenly, the walls pressing in with expectations and deadlines. The merger documents demanded his attention, but his mind kept wandering to paint-stained hands and honest eyes. He found himself searching for traces of Off everywhere – in the way sunlight created shadows (Off would have wanted to sketch that), in the children's laughter from the park below his window (Off would have known what made them so happy), in the coffee that never tasted quite right anymore.

His phone lay silent, though he'd spent the past week trying to bridge the growing distance between them. Each message felt like throwing pebbles into a void, hoping for an echo. Off's rare responses were perfectly polite, carefully stripped of the warmth that used to color their conversations. No more random observations about light and shadow, no more stories about his young patients, no more of that quiet understanding that had made Gun feel seen in ways he never expected to need.

The sketch Off had given him months ago peeked out from beneath budget reports – Gun in the rain, looking simultaneously lost and found. He'd started hiding it whenever anyone entered his office, the same way he hid the growing confusion in his chest. The same way he tried to hide how much he missed someone he wasn't supposed to need.

These days, Gun found himself driving past Off's studio without meaning to, taking the long way to meetings just to see if the light was on, if Off was there creating beauty from other people's pain. He'd catch himself reaching for his phone to share random thoughts, only to remember that Off was pulling away, creating distance that felt like punishment for crimes Gun wasn't ready to acknowledge.

At home, Gun's closet still held evidence of their entanglement – a paint-stained shirt he couldn't bring himself to wash, afraid of losing the last traces of Off's studio. His expensive suits hung in perfect order, but his eyes kept catching on that one casual shirt, its imperfections more honest than anything else in his carefully curated life.

The merger preparations continued relentlessly. Each meeting felt like another brick in a wall he wasn't sure he wanted to build anymore. His father's voice droned on about expansion plans and market shares, while Gun found himself sketching tiny figures in his notebook margins – a habit he'd picked up from watching Off work.

"The Jiranorraphat alliance is crucial," his father had emphasized in their morning meeting. "Jane's temporary absence shouldn't affect the timeline. The engagement announcement will proceed as planned."

Engagement. The word felt hollow now, like everything else in his corporate world. Gun caught himself touching the couple ring he still wore, but instead of finding comfort in its familiar weight, he remembered Off's words about being someone's secret, someone's escape.

The worst part was how physical Off's absence felt. Gun had grown accustomed to having somewhere to go when the pressure became too much, someone who would look at him and see past the perfect heir facade. Now, trapped in endless meetings about his perfect future, he felt like he was suffocating in slow motion.

He found himself becoming irritable, snapping at assistants when coffee arrived luke-warm, growing frustrated when documents weren't perfectly aligned. His control over small details became almost obsessive – a fact his secretary had noted with concerned glances.

Even Jane had noticed the change in him. "You seem tense," she'd observed during their last family dinner. "More than usual." Her eyes had held a knowing look that made Gun wonder if she could smell paint and freedom on him, the way he used to smell her perfume on Off's sheets.

Without Off's studio as his sanctuary, Gun found the corporate world increasingly suffocating. Every perfect smile, every calculated handshake felt like another layer of pretense adding to his burden. He caught himself studying hands during meetings – none of them had paint stains or charcoal smudges, none of them created beauty from pain the way Off's did.

The possessiveness crept up on him slowly, manifesting in unexpected ways. When he heard about a new art therapy program starting at a different hospital, his first reaction was an irrational surge of jealousy – would Off work there? Would he draw other people with the same careful attention he used to give Gun? The thought of Off's artist hands capturing someone else's vulnerable moments made something dark curl in Gun's chest.

He found himself hoarding information about Off like a miser with gold – overheard snippets from hospital staff when he deliberately scheduled meetings nearby, casual mentions of art therapy programs in medical journals he'd started subscribing to. Each piece of information about Off's life that he wasn't part of anymore felt like both treasure and torture.

His family noticed the changes in him, though they misinterpreted the cause. "You're taking Jane's departure hard," his mother had said over dinner, patting his hand sympathetically. "But it's just temporary, darling. The London program will help her understand her responsibilities better."

Gun had wanted to laugh at the irony. Yes, he was devastated about Jane leaving – that pain was constant, familiar, almost comfortable in its intensity. But it was the other absence that was driving him slowly mad. The absence of paint-scented air and honest conversations. The absence of someone who let him be imperfect, who saw beauty in his cracks instead of trying to polish them away.

He found himself growing obsessed with time in a way he never had before. Three weeks until Jane left. Two months since he'd first kissed Off in the rain. Forty-three days since their last real conversation. Eight days since Off's last proper message. Time had become both enemy and obsession, each minute marking distance from two different kinds of love.

His father was discussing the merger timeline, his mother adding details about the engagement announcement, but all Gun could focus on was the empty chair where Jane usually sat.

"The London program is exactly what Jane needs," his father was saying. "Some time away from... distractions. When she returns, you'll both be ready to take your proper places."

Gun nodded automatically, years of practice making the motion smooth. But his hand kept reaching for his phone under the table, checking for messages from Off that rarely came anymore. When they did, they were brief, professional – nothing like the warm, artistic observations that used to fill his days.

His possessiveness had started manifesting in strange ways. Yesterday, he'd nearly snapped at Dew for mentioning a mutual friend who'd visited Off's art therapy session. The idea of anyone else seeing Off in his element, watching him work with children, experiencing his gentle understanding – it made something dark and hungry twist in Gun's chest.

"The merger documents need your final review," Gun's father stated flatly, not looking up from his tablet. The dining room felt too large and too small simultaneously, every surface reflecting the perfect family image they'd cultivated for years. "I expect them on my desk by tomorrow morning."

Gun nodded mechanically, his phone a heavy weight in his pocket. He'd checked it twenty-seven times since dinner began – an obsessive count he couldn't stop keeping.

"The Jiranorraphat family's legal team sent over the resort property divisions," his father continued, his tone making it clear this was a command rather than a conversation. "The sooner we finalize these details, the better. Your mother has already started planning the engagement gala."

His mother hummed in agreement, more focused on her social calendar than the growing hollow in her son's eyes. "The Four Seasons has that lovely ballroom. Perfect for announcing the merger – oh, and the engagement, of course."

Gun pushed his food around his plate, the expensive ingredients blurring into meaningless colors. Every meal in this house had become another business meeting, another performance of the perfect family preparing for the perfect merger. Love, if it had ever existed here, had long since been buried under profit margins.

"I trust you're maintaining appropriate contact with Jane?" His father's question carried no real concern, just strategic interest. "Her father mentioned she's settling into London well."

The word 'appropriate' hung in the air like a command. Gun thought of his last conversation with Jane, how her voice had cracked when talking about freedom and art galleries. He thought about Off's studio, where nothing was appropriate but everything had felt real.

"Yes, Father." He paused, "Everything is proceeding as planned."

Except nothing was proceeding as planned. His phone remained silent, Off's last professional message – "The children are fine. Thank you for asking." – burning in his memory. Gun had never thought he'd miss someone's messiness, but the absence of Off's paint-stained observations felt like losing a color he hadn't known he needed.

"The engagement announcement needs to be flawless," his mother added, scrolling through venue options on her tablet. "Especially with Jane abroad. We need to show everyone that nothing has changed."

But everything had changed. Gun sat in his father's perfect dining room, wearing his perfect suit, playing his perfect role, while his mind kept wandering to a paint-splattered studio where imperfection had felt like freedom. His fingers itched to text Off again, to beg for just one real response, one moment of that honest connection he'd taken for granted.

"The press release for the merger is scheduled for next month," his father continued, each word another brick in the wall of Gun's predetermined future. "Your engagement announcement will follow a week later. The timing is crucial for market confidence."

Market confidence. As if his and Jane's lives were just another stock to be traded, another asset to be managed. Gun remembered Off's words about being someone's secret, about the pain of being hidden away. Here he sat, supposedly living his real life, while the most honest moments he'd known were confined to stolen hours in an artist's studio.

At the hospital, Off watched his mother endure her first round of chemotherapy. The sterile room felt worlds away from his art-filled studio, though he'd brought his sketchbook as always. His mother dozed fitfully in the treatment chair, her rosary beads still moving through her fingers even in sleep.

Through the ward's windows, he could see Tay and New in the hospital garden. They'd brought him lunch, but he'd sent them away, needing space from their newfound happiness. Earlier that morning, Tay had finally done it – confessed his feelings to New over coffee and messy breakfast. Off had watched from his studio window as they'd kissed for the first time, New's surprised laugh carrying up to where he sat sketching his mother's declining health.

The juxtaposition felt cruel somehow – his best friends finding their happiness while he sat watching his mother fade, while his phone buzzed with desperate messages from Gun that he couldn't let himself fully answer. Each message was like a small wound: Gun asking about his mother, about his patients, about everything except what really mattered.

His responses remained carefully professional, though each one cost him. How could he explain to Gun that every message made him want to break his own rules? That watching Tay and New's love story unfold made him ache for something he knew he couldn't have?

"Your friends," his mother said softly, startling him from his thoughts. She was looking out at Tay and New, who were still sitting close together in the garden. "They look happy."

"They are," Off replied, adding another shadow to his sketch of her sleeping form. "They finally figured things out."

"Like I never did," she murmured, her fingers still moving over rosary beads. "I chose the wrong kind of love, built a life on lies. But them..." she smiled faintly. "They chose truth."

Off couldn't respond, his throat tight with all the things he couldn't say. How could he tell his mother that he understood now, more than ever, how someone could choose the wrong kind of love? How easy it was to fall for someone who could never fully love you back?

Through the window, Tay leaned over to kiss New's cheek, the gesture so casually affectionate it made Off's chest ache. He remembered Gun's unconscious touches – straightening Off's collar, brushing paint from his cheek, small moments of care that had meant everything and nothing.

His phone buzzed again with another message from Gun, but Off focused on his sketch instead. His mother's face emerged on the paper, each line capturing her fatigue, her faith, her quiet determination to survive what she still sometimes called divine punishment.

"Your art," his mother touched the sketchbook gently, "it shows such love. Even when you draw sad things, there's so much love in every line."

Off thought about his studio walls, covered in drawings of Gun – every angle, every expression, every unguarded moment captured with an artist's precision and a fool's heart. He'd started turning them to face the wall, unable to bear the evidence of his own weakness.

"You need to stop responding," New said gently, watching Off check his phone for the hundredth time. "Even these professional replies – they're just keeping the wound open."

Off stared at Gun's latest message, something about the children's ward and dinosaur paintings. So carefully casual, as if they hadn't broken apart in his studio weeks ago. As if Gun hadn't chosen Jane, would always choose Jane.

"I know," Off's voice was rough. "I know I should just block him. Make it clean. But then I think about his face when he watches me work with the kids, or how he remembers tiny details about my day that even I forget, and I just..."

"Fall all over again?" New finished softly. "Off, you can't keep doing this to yourself. He's engaged. He's in love with someone else. These messages, this push and pull – it's destroying you."

"He leaves coffee on my studio steps," Off admitted quietly, his fingers tracing the rim of his cold cup. "Every morning at 7 AM, before his meetings. I watch from the window sometimes. He looks... lost. Like he's waiting for something. But I can't be that something anymore, can I?"

New reached across the table, covering Off's trembling hand. "You told me what he said in your studio that day. About kissing her. About still loving her. Some people, Off... some people are like your sketches. Beautiful to look at, but not meant to be held."

Off thought about his studio walls, now turned to face inward, hiding two months of Gun's evolution on paper. Every smile, every vulnerable moment, every time Gun had let his perfect mask slip – all of them captured in graphite and hope and foolish love.

"Yesterday," Off's voice cracked slightly, "one of my kids drew a picture of her family. Said sometimes people can love each other but still need to be apart. Seven years old, and she understands more than I do."

His phone lit up with another message from Gun, something about the sunset and how it reminded him of Off's paintings. Each word felt like a small knife, perfectly aimed at Off's weakening resolve.

"He's not being fair to you," New said firmly. "These messages, these little breadcrumbs of attention – they're not kindness, Off. He's keeping you as his safety net while he lives his real life with her."

Off thought about the coffee going cold on his studio steps each morning, about Gun standing there in his perfect suit, waiting for something Off couldn't give anymore. About how even their ending had been marked by Jane's perfume, by Gun's inability to choose anything but his predetermined path.

"I check the society pages," Off confessed, shame coloring his voice. "Looking for news about their engagement, about Jane's return date. How pathetic is that? I'm becoming everything my mother had been" He paused, then breath as deep as he could before he continued, "You know what hurts the most?" Off stared at his phone where Gun's messages glowed like accusations. "He remembers everything. Every tiny detail I've ever mentioned. The coffee shop I love, which colors I use most in my sketches, how I arrange my supplies. He notices everything except how much it's killing me to be his something-on-the-side."

New watched his friend crumble, seeing echoes of Off's pain when Arm left. But this was different, deeper somehow. "Maybe that's exactly why you need to block him. Because he notices everything except what matters most."

"He asked about Mai yesterday," Off's voice wavered. "Wanted to know if she was still drawing cancer cells as flowers. He remembers her name, New. Remembers all my kids' names. How am I supposed to..."

Off's voice broke completely. New moved to sit beside him, offering silent support as Off continued.

"How am I supposed to forget someone who remembers my children's names? Who knows which paint brands I prefer? Who looks at me sometimes like I'm..." Off swallowed hard, "like I'm something worth keeping, even though we both know I'm not?"

"Off," New's voice was gentle but firm. "They're him trying to keep both worlds, both lives, without having to choose."

Off pulled out his phone, opened Gun's contact information. His thumb hovered over the block button, trembling slightly.

"He left his couple ring at my studio once," Off said softly, the memory sharp as glass. "Just for an hour, while he was painting with me. Said it felt heavy sometimes. I thought... God, I thought maybe..." He laughed bitterly. "But he came back for it. He always goes back to her."

"You know what he said to me that last day?" Off's voice was barely a whisper. "After I found out about Mae's cancer, after he'd been with Jane... he said 'We can talk when you're calmer.' Like my pain was just an inconvenience to his perfect world. Like I was having some artistic tantrum he needed to manage."

New watched as Off's finger still hovered over the block button, years of friendship making him recognize the exact moment his friend's heart started to harden.

"And still," Off continued, "still, I find myself sketching him. In meetings I imagine. In that perfect suit he hates but wears because they expect him to. Sometimes I draw him the way he looks in my studio – messy, real, free. But that's not really him, is it? That's just the version of himself he lets himself be when he's hiding with me."

Off's studio flashed in his mind – the coffee going cold on the steps each morning, the way Gun would sometimes stand there for minutes, looking up at Off's window, waiting for something neither of them could name.

"I think," Off said slowly, his artist's hands shaking slightly, "I think I need to stop being someone's beautiful escape. Need to stop letting myself be the paint-stained secret between his real life moments."

With a finality that felt like breaking something precious, Off pressed block. The action was simple, electronic, nothing like the earth-shattering moment it represented.

"He's going to spiral," New said quietly, knowing Gun's growing obsession with reaching Off. "You know that, right?"

Off nodded, already imagining Gun's reaction when his messages stopped going through. "Maybe he needs to. Maybe we both need to stop pretending this was ever going to be anything but temporary."

At his corporate office, Gun was composing another message to Off, something about the sunset painting shadows that would look beautiful in Off's artistic style, when the error message appeared: "Message not delivered."

He tried again. Same message.

Again. Nothing.

Something cold settled in his chest as realization dawned. He tried calling – straight to voicemail. His perfectly manicured nails dug into his palms as he tried every messaging app they'd ever used.

Blocked. Everywhere.

The perfect heir, the dutiful son, the man who had everything planned since birth – something inside Gun cracked. He stood abruptly, his expensive chair crashing against the wall. Papers scattered as he swept his arm across the desk, sending merger documents flying.

"Sir?" His secretary's concerned voice came through the intercom. "Is everything—"

Gun cut the connection, his breathing ragged. He pulled out the sketch he kept hidden under reports – Gun in the rain, looking lost and found. Off's first drawing of him. His fingers traced the lines almost violently, as if he could force the paper to give him back what he'd lost.

He found himself in his car, driving to Off's studio like a man possessed. The morning coffee he'd left on the steps was still there, untouched.

Cold.

Rejected.

Like him.

Chapter Text

London's autumn painted everything in greys and blues, so different from Bangkok's vibrant warmth. Jane sat at her desk in her "appropriately prestigious" Mayfair apartment – another golden cage her father had chosen. Art supply stores dotted her walk to campus, each one a temptation she couldn't afford to indulge. She'd catch herself stopping, staring at display windows full of canvases, before forcing herself back to her prescribed path.

The MBA program felt like elaborate torture. Every lecture about corporate strategy and market expansion made her think of the gallery designs hidden in her laptop, buried under folders of business cases. Her classmates talked about disrupting markets and maximizing shareholder value, while she dreamed of exhibition spaces and natural light.

The farewell party replayed in her mind, a perfect performance of everything she was supposed to want.

She'd worn Valentino, cream silk that made her look like a bride-in-waiting. Gun stood beside her, his Armani suit and perfect smile completing their power couple image. Bangkok's elite had circled them, offering congratulations on her "educational opportunity" – everyone carefully avoiding the word "punishment."

"My daughter," her father had announced to the crowd, "understanding the importance of proper business education before taking her place in our family's legacy."

The bruises from his grip on her arm had lasted a week.

Now, alone in London, Jane stood at her window watching couples hurry through the rain. A street artist was packing up his supplies, protecting his work from the weather. Her fingers itched to draw, to create, to be anything other than the perfect daughter learning to be the perfect wife.

Her father's daily calls felt like chains:

"The business society's networking events are crucial."
"The professor mentioned you seemed distracted in Corporate Finance."
"The Atthaphan merger needs you focused, Jane."

Last night, Jane had sneaked into a small gallery opening in Shoreditch. She'd dressed down, removed her couple ring, pretended to be just another art enthusiast. For two glorious hours, she'd lost herself in conversations, about making meaning from chaos. A curator had liked her insights, offered her an internship on the spot.

She'd cried herself to sleep afterward.

Her course assignments sat untouched on her laptop

"Market Analysis of Southeast Asian Hospitality Industry,"

"Strategic Management in Family Businesses,"

"Corporate Governance and Leadership."

Each title felt like another nail in the coffin of her dreams.

Yesterday, during a corporate finance lecture, she'd found herself sketching in her notebook – plans for transforming one of their hotels' conference rooms into a gallery space.

Her professor had noticed, his comment cutting through her concentration: "Ms. Jiranorraphat, if you're having trouble focusing, perhaps we should discuss this with your father?"

The threat was clear. Everything here was monitored, reported back. She was on display as much in London as she had been in Bangkok, just with different observers.

Her apartment walls remained deliberately bare – she couldn't trust herself with art supplies, couldn't risk her father's spies reporting back about any "continuing distractions." But her dreams were full of colors and spaces, of light falling just so on carefully curated exhibitions.

At night, she'd walk through galleries' websites, studying layouts, imagining possibilities. She had a secret folder of design ideas that grew daily, hidden behind MBA assignments and market reports. Sometimes, she'd wake up having dreamed of standing in her own gallery space, finally free to be herself.

The worst part was the loneliness. Not just for Gun – though she missed her best friend desperately – but for understanding. Her classmates were all eager future CEOs and entrepreneurs. None of them understood the weight of being someone else's carefully crafted dream, of having their entire existence planned and polished until no trace of their true self remained.

Today's mail had brought another knife to her heart – wedding venue brochures her mother had sent, along with swatches for bridesmaid dresses. "For when you return, darling. Everything will be ready." As if her time in London was just a brief intermission in their perfectly scripted play.

Jane traced the glossy photos of grand ballrooms and crystal chandeliers, remembering different dreams she'd once shared with Gun under summer stars. They were going to change things, they'd promised each other. Create something new, something true. Now here she sat, an ocean away, both of them trapped in separate cages of expectation.

Her phone chimed with another message from her father's secretary, reminding her of tonight's video call with the board. She was expected to present her "learning insights" from her MBA program, to prove this exile was "improving" her. The presentation sat ready on her laptop – perfect slides, perfect analysis, perfect lies.

In her bedroom drawer, hidden under perfectly folded designer clothes, lay a small sketchbook. She'd bought it in a moment of weakness, hasn't drawn a single line. But knowing it was there, waiting, felt like having a piece of her real self hidden away, preserved.

Late at night, when Bangkok was waking up, she'd sometimes get texts from Gun. His messages had changed lately – more fragmented, more desperate. Something was breaking in him too, she could tell. But they were both too well-trained to speak of it directly, too conditioned to maintain their perfect facades.

Gun walked the empty corridors of the Atthaphan headquarters late at night, his footsteps echoing off marble floors that generations of success had polished. The building stood as a monument to his family's legacy - thirty floors of glass and steel reaching into Bangkok's skyline, each level holding pieces of the empire he was meant to inherit.

He'd stayed late, buried in merger documents that now felt like life rafts rather than business strategies. The cleaning staff had already gone home, leaving him alone with the gentle hum of air conditioning.

Passing his father's office, voices made him pause.

"The banks won't extend our credit lines anymore," his father's voice carried a note Gun had never heard before – raw fear stripped of its usual corporate polish. "The Phuket development is bleeding us dry. Construction costs have tripled, environmental compliance alone has eaten through our reserves..."

"The merger is our only option now," his mother's voice, usually so controlled, trembled. "Once the Jiranorraphat assets are combined with ours—"

"If they discover our actual financial position..." his father's laugh was hollow. "Everything I've built, everything I've planned for Gun's future, it would all collapse."

Gun pressed himself against the wall beside the door, his perfectly pressed suit suddenly feeling too tight, too fake, too much like the lie his family's success had become. Through the gap, he could see his father – the man who had scripted every moment of Gun's life – sitting at his massive desk looking small and broken.

"The preliminary audit reports," his father continued, shuffling papers with shaking hands, "they're devastating. The resort development was supposed to save us, but the environmental surveys came back worse than expected. The permit delays, the construction setbacks... we're hemorrhaging money we don't have."

"Without the merger?" his mother's voice was barely a whisper. "How long?"

"Six months. Maybe less." Papers rustled as his father moved. "We're running on borrowed time and borrowed money. The Phuket property alone has drained our reserves. The Chinese investors are threatening to pull out. If we can't complete the development..."

The words hit Gun, hard enough to make his knees weak. Each revelation rewrote his understanding of his perfect world – the world that had cost him Off, that was forcing Jane into exile, that was built on foundations as solid as sand.

His father continued, voice breaking, "The staff payroll... I don't know if we can cover it next month."

Gun's legs felt weaker. He thought of the office workers who bowed respectfully when he passed, the maintenance staff who knew his coffee preferences, the security guards who'd watched him grow up in these halls. All of them, their families, their lives – hanging by threads his father could no longer secure.

"And Gun," his mother's voice cracked on his name. "His future, his position... everything we've planned..."

"The merger has to work," his father's voice hardened with desperate determination. "The Jiranorraphats can't know. If Jane's father discovers our real situation before the contracts are signed..."

Gun's hand found the wall, needing support as his world tilted. Every perfect plan, every mapped-out moment of his future – all of it built on shifting sand. The weight of three generations of business, of hundreds of employees' livelihoods, of his family's legacy... it all rested on his engagement to Jane.

Jane, who dreamed of art galleries.

Jane, who was being forced to study business in London.

Jane, who didn't love him anymore.

Gun's hands shook as reality crashed over him in waves. Every childhood memory in this building took on new meaning – the marble floors weren't symbols of success anymore, but shiny distractions from growing debt. His father's strict rules about his future weren't about legacy, but desperation. Even his perfect engagement to Jane wasn't about love or family unity – it was a last-ditch rescue plan.

"The board meeting next week," his father's voice cracked again. "How do we hide this? The auditors—"

"We'll find a way," his mother cut in. "We have to. For Gun. For everyone."

Gun backed away from the door, his designer shoes suddenly feeling like concrete blocks. He'd lost Off because of this perfect life that wasn't even real. Had pushed away the one person who saw him truly, all to maintain a lie that was crumbling anyway.

The numbers spun in his head as he stumbled toward the elevator. The perfect heir, the dutiful son – he wanted to laugh at how fake it all was. His whole life had been a performance in a play about to end badly.

He was in his car, hand shaking as he turned the key. The city lights blurred as he drove aimlessly, every glowing building a reminder of the quietly dying empire. Past the hospital where Off helped children face their fears. Past the café where they'd first met in the rain. Past the studio where Off had finally had enough of being his secret escape.

Gun found himself at a high-end bar – the kind where Bangkok's elite pretended their lives were perfect. The bartender knew him, of course. Everyone knew the Atthaphan heir. If they only knew that heir was as fake as the gold-plated fixtures on the walls.

"The usual?"

"Double it," Gun's voice was rough. "Actually, just leave the bottle."

The first drink burned. The second one too. By the third, the edges of his perfect world started to blur properly. He loosened his tie – the one Jane's mother had given him last Christmas, saying how perfect he looked in blue. Everything in his life was perfectly color-coordinated, perfectly planned, perfectly fake.

The expensive whiskey tasted like his father's lies.  

His phone sat on the bar like a taunt. He picked it up, fingers moving on autopilot to Off's contact. Blocked. Still blocked. The most real thing in his life had shut him out, while all the fake parts demanded he keep pretending.

"Another," he gestured to the bartender, ignoring the man's concerned look. The crystal glass caught the bar's dim lighting, creating patterns that reminded him of Off's studio windows in rain. Everything reminded him of Off lately – colors, shadows, honest things that didn't fit in his dishonest world.

A group of young executives at the bar recognized him, raised their glasses in respectful acknowledgment. Gun wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or both. They probably envied him – the perfect heir to the perfect empire. If they knew that empire was built on empty bank accounts and desperate lies...

The whiskey made everything soft at the edges, but the pain stayed sharp. Gun stared at his reflection in the bar's mirrored wall – Atthaphan heir, perfect son, living lie. His tie hung loose now, his hair messy from running frustrated hands through it. Off would have wanted to sketch him like this, he thought bitterly. Raw. Real. Breaking.

"Another," he told the bartender, though the words slurred slightly. The expensive whiskey didn't taste like anything anymore. Just burned, like the truth he'd overheard, like the messages that wouldn't go through to Off.

His phone lay accusingly on the bar. Gun picked it up again, fingers moving without his permission to Off's contact. The block message appeared, stark and final. He tried another number, another app. Nothing. It was like Off had disappeared completely, taking all the real parts of Gun with him.

"Fuck," Gun muttered, dropping his head to the cool bar surface. Everything was spinning – the bar, his thoughts, his perfectly planned life. Somewhere in London, Jane was probably studying business plans she hated. Somewhere in Bangkok, Off was probably sketching something beautiful, something honest, something that wasn't Gun.

The irony hit him like another shot of whiskey: he'd pushed Off away to maintain this perfect image, this family legacy. But that legacy was as empty as his glass. Everything he'd sacrificed Off for was already lost.

He lifted his head, ordered another drink. The bartender hesitated.

"I own half this fucking building," Gun laughed, the sound raw. "Or maybe I don't. Maybe that's a lie too. But pour anyway."

Rain pounded against Off's studio windows, the storm matching his mood. Days since he'd blocked Gun's number. Days of silence that somehow screamed louder than any noise. His phone lay silent on his desk, no longer lighting up with messages about sunsets and children's art.

The studio felt different now. Every corner held memories he was trying to paint over. There, by the window, where Gun kissed him after a particularly rough meeting. The couch where Gun would watch him sketch, asking questions about his process. The small kitchen counter that still bore paint stains from their attempt at cooking together.

Off had reordered his entire space, trying to erase the traces of Gun's presence. He'd turned all their sketches to face the wall, but somehow still felt them watching him. Almost 3 months of Gun's rawness on paper – from rain-soaked stranger to something that had cracked Off's careful defenses.

The children at the hospital noticed the change in him. Mai had touched his hand during their session today, her small fingers tracing the paint stains. "You don't hum anymore when you draw," she'd said. Off hadn't even realized he used to.

Thunder rolled outside as Off tried to focus on a commission piece. A simple portrait for a family – mother, father, two children. But his hands kept betraying him, adding shadows that shouldn't be there, a familiar jawline in the father's face, eyes that held too much of someone he was trying to forget.

The coffee still appeared on his doorstep each morning, precise as a business meeting. Off would watch from his window as Gun left it, noting the growing desperation in each visit. How Gun's perfect posture seemed to crack a little more each day. How he'd stand in the rain, looking up at Off's dark studio, waiting for something Off couldn't give anymore.

Off had taken extra sessions at the hospital, staying late into evenings, drowning himself in other people's pain to forget his own. The children's art covered his walls now – bright pieces full of hope and healing, so different from the hidden sketches of Gun that he couldn't bring himself to destroy.

His mother's treatment schedule sat on his desk, a different kind of pain to focus on. She was responding well, the doctors said, though she still called it divine punishment. Off had drawn her yesterday, catching a moment when she'd fallen asleep with her rosary beads still moving through her fingers.

The rain grew heavier, drumming against the windows like nature's attempt at therapy. Off stood at the glass, watching Bangkok blur into watercolors.

Tay and New had started bringing dinner every evening, trying to fill his silence with their gentle love story. Off was grateful, truly, but watching their easy affection felt like watching something he'd foolishly thought he might have. They never stayed long – his pain was still too raw, too obvious in every sketch he couldn't stop himself from drawing.

Tonight, he'd tried working on three different commissions. Each one had somehow transformed into Gun – his eyes appearing in a child's portrait, his hands emerging in a family scene, his profile hiding in the shadows of a landscape. Off had torn them all up, the pieces joining others in his overflowing trash bin.

The storm outside matched his inner turmoil, lightning occasionally illuminating his workspace in harsh flashes. In these moments, Off could see his own reflection in the windows – artist, fool, someone who'd let himself believe he could be more than someone's pass time.

His phone hadn't rung in days. The silence felt wrong after months of constant messages, of Gun's observations, of quick photos of things that reminded Gun of Off's art. He'd gotten used to that connection, that constant undercurrent of awareness. Now the quiet felt like another kind of storm.

Off moved through his studio, touching pieces of their shared past he should have packed away by now. The mug Gun always used, still unwashed from their last morning together. The oversized shirt Gun had borrowed once and never returned, now tucked in Off's bottom drawer. The sketchbook full of Gun's sleeping forms – peaceful, vulnerable, real in a way he never allowed himself to be in daylight.

The rain created rivers down his windows, distorting the city lights outside. Off pressed his forehead against the cool glass, remembering their first meeting in similar weather. Gun had looked lost then, seeking shelter from more than just the rain. Now Off wondered if he'd been just as lost, just as ready to believe in something that could never really be his.

"You need to eat something," New had said earlier, dropping off dinner Off knew he wouldn't touch. The container sat untouched. Off was starting to understand his mother's fasts, her belief that denial could be its own kind of prayer.

The storm grew louder, thunder shaking the windows in their frames. Off's hands itched to draw, to capture this moment of natural violence that matched his inner turmoil. But he knew whatever he drew would somehow become Gun – it always did lately.

The longer he stayed in his studio, the more memories surfaced in every corner. By his easel, where Gun had first watched him work with genuine curiosity in his eyes. Near the window, where Gun would stand during phone calls, his reflection showing the cracks in his perfect mask. The small couch where they'd sat talking until dawn once, Gun's guard down enough to share childhood dreams of music and freedom.

Off moved to his work table, fingers trailing over dried paint stains. Some were his, some were from the day he'd taught Gun basic color theory. Gun had been terrible at it, too concerned with perfection to let the colors flow naturally. But his laugh when Off painted a streak of blue across his cheek – that had been real. Everything about Gun in the studio had felt real, until reality came crashing back in wearing Jane's perfume.

The rain seemed to be getting stronger, if that was possible. Water drummed against the windows with increasing fury, making the whole studio feel like it was underwater. Off thought about his mother in her hospital room, probably still awake and praying. He should be there with her, not here drowning in memories he should be trying to forget.

His phone remained silent, dark, accusatory on his desk. Three days felt like three years. Off caught himself reaching for it sometimes, muscle memory wanting to share observations about the storm, about how the lightning painted shadows that belonged in art. But there was no one to share these thoughts with anymore. No one who understood how an artist saw the world.

Thunder cracked so loudly it made his windows rattle. Off stepped closer to them, watching Bangkok disappear and reappear with each lightning flash. Somewhere out there, Gun was probably in another perfect meeting, making another perfect decision, playing his perfect part in a story that had no room for paint-stained hands and honest eyes.

The thunder was so constant now it felt like a heartbeat. Off's mother had once told him storms were God's way of washing away sins. He wondered what this storm was trying to cleanse – his foolishness for falling for someone who could never be his? His weakness in blocking Gun instead of being strong enough to stay just friends?

His latest commission attempt lay ruined on his desk, water damage from the leaky window adding to its destruction. He should care more about the missed deadline, about the income he needed for his mother's treatments. Instead, he found himself studying how the water made the ink bleed, creating new patterns that looked like tears.

Tay had offered to stay tonight, worried about Off being alone in the storm. But Off needed this solitude, needed to learn how to exist in a space that felt too empty without Gun's presence. Besides, Tay deserved his happiness with New, deserved to enjoy love that wasn't wrapped in secrets and shame.

A flash of lightning illuminated his trash bin, overflowing with crumpled attempts at work that kept turning into Gun. Each failed sketch was a confession Off couldn't take back – Gun in morning light, Gun lost in thought, Gun wearing that fake smile that Off had learned to hate. He'd drawn Gun's hands so many times he could do it from memory now – elegant fingers that belonged on piano keys instead of corporate contracts.

The rain was becoming deafening, making the studio feel like an island cut off from the world. Off had always loved storms, loved how they transformed familiar scenes into something new. Now he understood them differently – how something could be both beautiful and destructive, how nature's honesty could strip away carefully constructed facades.

Then, cutting through the storm's fury, a sound that stopped Off's heart. Pounding on his door, desperate and uneven. A voice he'd been trying to forget.

"Off! Please... I know you're in there"

Off froze, his heart suddenly louder than the storm. Gun's voice carried even through the rain - slurred, desperate, nothing like his usual corporate precision.

"Off... please. I need... I just need to see you."

"Please," Off whispered to himself, his forehead pressed against the cool wall beside his door. "Don't ruin this for me. Don't make it harder."

The pounding continued, uneven and frantic. Each impact felt like it was breaking something inside Off's chest. He'd been doing so well - three days of forced silence, of learning how to breathe around the Gun-shaped hole in his life.

"I know you hate me. Know I fucked up. But please..." Gun's voice cracked, "everything's falling apart and I can't... I can't breathe..."

"Don't make it harder," Off repeated softly to himself, eyes squeezed shut. His hands trembled with the effort of not reaching for the door handle. "Please, Gun. I'm just learning how to forget you."

Through the rain, he could hear Gun's breathing, heavy and unsteady. The storm seemed to pause between thunderclaps, as if nature itself was holding its breath.

Off slid down the wall beside his door, pulling his knees to his chest. His whispers became a mantra: "Don't ruin this. Don't make me start over. Please, Gun. I can't keep putting myself back together after you."

"Everything's falling apart," Gun's voice broke again, followed by what sounded like his body sliding down the door. 

Off pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to stop the tears. The storm raged outside, but all he could hear was the pain in Gun's voice, the way it cracked on certain words like glass breaking.

"I keep trying to draw," Gun continued, his words slurring slightly. "Did you know that? Keep trying to capture moments like you do. But I can't... I can't make anything beautiful. Can't make anything real. Not like you."

"Don't," Off whispered to himself, but his hand was already on the door handle. "Please don't do this to me."

A particularly loud crack of thunder made the windows rattle. In that flash of lightning, Off could see Gun's shadow through the gap under his door - crumpled, broken, nothing like the perfect heir who'd walked these halls months ago.

I miss you," Gun was saying, his voice raw. 

Off's resolve shattered like the thunder outside. He opened the door, and Gun fell backward, having been leaning against it. He lay there on Off's floor, soaking wet, his perfect suit ruined, looking up at Off with red-rimmed eyes.

"I'm sorry," Gun whispered, not moving from where he'd fallen. "I can't..." Gun's voice cracked, still looking up at Off from the floor. "I can't breathe without you. Can't think. Can't function. And I don't know what that means, I just know everything hurts when you're not there."

Off stood frozen, watching water drip from Gun's usually perfect hair onto his studio floor. The sight of him like this – broken, desperate, stripped of all pretense – made Off's careful defenses crack like ice in spring.

"Please," Gun whispered, making no move to get up. "I know I don't deserve it. Know I hurt you. Know I'm still... still confused about everything. But I need you"

Thunder rolled outside as Off fought his own heart. He should close the door. Should protect himself from this man who could shatter him without even meaning to. This man who was still in love with someone else, who didn't even understand his own feelings.

"I don't know what I feel," Gun admitted, his voice small. "Don't know anything anymore except that without you, everything's grey. Empty. Wrong."

Off closed his eyes, one hand still on the door. "You can't keep doing this to me," he said softly.

"I know," Gun's breath hitched. "I know I'm being selfish. Know I'm asking too much. But please... please just let me stay. Just for tonight. Just until I remember how to breathe again."

Gun stumbled to his feet, swaying slightly from the alcohol and emotion. Off caught his arm automatically, muscle memory refusing to let Gun fall. The contact sent electricity through both of them, familiar and dangerous.

The storm raged outside, but the real tempest was in Off's chest as he made a decision he knew he'd probably regret. Silently, he stepped back, opening the door wider.

Off should let go. Should maintain distance. Should protect his heart from this man who didn't even understand what he was asking for. Instead, his fingers tightened slightly on Gun's arm, anchoring them both in this moment of weakness.

The turned-around sketches on Off's walls stood witness to their surrender. Outside, Bangkok disappeared behind sheets of rain, as if giving them privacy for whatever came next.

Neither moved.

Neither spoke.

They stood in Off's paint-scented studio, dripping water and truth and things that felt too big for words, while the storm raged on.

Some surrenders, after all, felt more like coming home.

Chapter Text

The studio lights painted shadows on Gun's soaking form as he stood trembling in Off's space, water pooling at his feet. He looked lost, smaller somehow without his corporate armor, like a child caught in a lie too big to maintain.

"You're shaking," Off said quietly, artist's eyes catching details he wished he could ignore – the shadows under Gun's eyes, the way his usually perfect hair dripped rainwater, how his hands trembled slightly.

"Everything's shaking," Gun replied, his voice rough with whiskey and truth. "My whole life... it's all falling apart. The company, the merger, Jane in London... all of it. Just... crumbling."

Off moved to his small closet, pulling out the oversized sweater Gun had worn once, months ago. The one Off couldn't bring himself to wash. "Change before you get sick."

Gun stared at the offered clothing like it was both salvation and punishment. "I used to wear this," he said softly. "That morning when we tried to paint together."

"Gun—"

"You kept it."

Off turned away, unable to handle the weight of Gun's realization. "The bathroom's still where it was. You should get out of those wet clothes."

Off busied himself in the small kitchen area while Gun changed, deliberately keeping his back turned. The familiar sounds of Gun moving through his space made his chest tight – the bathroom door closing, the rustle of wet clothes being removed, footsteps he'd memorized despite himself.

He put water on for tea, though he knew Gun preferred coffee. But coffee felt too intimate, too much like their old mornings together. Tea was safer, more temporary, like this moment they were stealing from reality.

The storm continued its assault on Bangkok, lightning occasionally illuminating the studio in harsh flashes. Each burst of light revealed another piece of their shared past Off had failed to pack away – Gun's favorite mug still in its place, the corner of the couch where he used to watch Off work, sketches peeking out from behind their turned faces.

When Gun emerged from the bathroom, Off's sweater hanging loose on his frame, the sight hit Off like a physical blow. Gun looked younger somehow, more vulnerable, like the corporate mask had washed away with the rain. His hair curled slightly as it dried, something Off had forgotten he'd once known.

"I'm sorry," Gun said softly, standing uncertainly in the middle of the studio. "For showing up like this. For breaking down your door. For..." he gestured vaguely at himself, at the puddle his suit had left by the door, at everything.

Off handed him a cup of tea, careful to avoid their fingers touching. "You're drunk."

"Not drunk enough," Gun laughed hollowly. "Still remember everything. Still feel everything." He stared into the tea like it might hold answers. "Did you know we're going bankrupt?"

The question hung in the air between them. Off should say something. Should maintain distance. Instead, he found himself studying Gun – noting how defeat had changed his posture, how vulnerability suited him better than perfection ever had.

"Six months," Gun continued, his voice barely audible over the rain. "That's all we have left before everything collapses. The Atthaphan empire, three generations of business, my father's legacy, desperate lies."

Off watched as Gun's hands shook around the teacup. He wanted to reach out, to steady them like he used to. Instead, he gripped his own cup tighter.

"The merger with Jane's family," Gun's laugh was bitter, "it's not about love or family unity. It's a rescue plan. A last desperate attempt to save us from complete ruin. And Jane..." his voice cracked, "Jane's in London learning to be the perfect corporate wife while I'm here, falling apart in your studio. Again."

Lightning flashed, illuminating the tears Gun was trying to hide. Off's hands itched to draw him like this – broken but somehow more real than he'd ever been in his perfect suits.

"You should hate me," Gun whispered, finally looking up at Off. "After how I treated you, how I used you as an escape. You should have left me out there in the rain."

"I tried," Off admitted quietly. "Tried to hate you. Tried to forget. God knows I tried... I am trying but why are you doing this to me?" He gestured to his overflowing trash bin of failed attempts at work that kept becoming Gun's features.

Gun moved closer to Off's desk, fingers hovering over the crumpled sketches. "Can I...?"

Off nodded, unable to form words as Gun carefully smoothed out one of the drawings. It was supposed to be a family portrait commission, but Gun's eyes had emerged in the father's face, his hands in the way the man held his children.

"You see me everywhere," Gun's voice was rough with realization. "Even when you're trying not to."

"Art doesn't lie," Off said quietly, watching Gun smooth out another failed sketch. "Even when the artist tries to."

Gun's fingers traced the lines of his own face in the ruined drawing. "Like I lie? Perfect son, perfect heir, perfect fraud." His hands were shaking again. "Do you know what's funny? I lost you to maintain this image, this legacy. And now... now there's nothing left to maintain."

Thunder cracked overhead, making the windows rattle. Off moved to check if they were secure, needing distance from Gun's raw honesty. But Gun caught his wrist, the touch burning like a brand.

"I miss you," Gun whispered, not letting go. "Miss how you see the world. Miss how you saw me – not as the Atthaphan heir, not as Jane's perfect match, just... just as Gun."

"Don't," Off's voice cracked. "You're drunk and everything's falling apart and I can't... I can't be your safe harbor again. Not when you'll sail back to her the moment the storm passes."

"She doesn't love me anymore," Gun's grip tightened slightly. "Maybe never did, not really. We were just playing parts in a perfect story our parents wrote. But you..." he looked around the studio, at all the evidence of Off's inability to forget him, "you see all my ugly parts and draw them beautiful anyway."

Off tried to pull away, but Gun's fingers slid down to interlace with his, the gesture achingly familiar. "That's the problem," Off said softly. "I can't stop seeing you. Can't stop drawing you. Can't stop..." he swallowed hard, "can't stop wanting more than you can give."

"Off," Gun breathed his name like a prayer, and then they were crashing together like the storm outside. The kiss tasted of tea and whiskey and desperation, Gun's hands clutching Off's shirt like an anchor in his crumbling world.

Off knew he should stop this. Should maintain boundaries, protect his heart. Instead, he found himself pulling Gun closer, hands tangling in rain-damp hair. Gun made a broken sound against his mouth, something between a sob and a plea.

"I don't know what this is," Gun confessed between kisses, his voice raw. "Don't know what I'm feeling. Just know I can't... can't breathe without you. Can't think. Can't exist properly when you're not there."

Off pressed their foreheads together, trying to catch his breath. "That's not enough," he whispered, even as his hands betrayed him, sliding under his own sweater on Gun's frame. "Not when you're still wearing her ring, still loving her ghost."

"I know," Gun's voice cracked. "Know I'm asking too much. Know I don't deserve..." he cut off as Off's lips found his neck, the familiar touch making him shiver. "But please. Whatever you can give me, whatever I can have... please."

They moved together like muscle memory, like they'd never stopped, like the past three days of silence had been just another storm to weather. Off walked them backward toward his bed, each step an admission of weakness, of surrender.

"I can't give you all of me," Gun whispered against Off's skin. "Not yet. Maybe not ever. But what I can give... it's yours. Only yours."

Off knew he should demand more. Should insist on clarity, on defined feelings, on promises. Instead, he pulled Gun closer, accepting the pieces he could have, understanding that sometimes half a heart was better than none.

Their bodies came together like waves meeting shore – inevitable, natural, yet somehow devastating. Off mapped Gun's skin with artist's hands, relearning territory he'd tried so hard to forget. Gun trembled under his touch, pride and perfection washing away like rain.

"I missed you," Gun breathed against Off's neck, the words barely audible over the storm. "Missed your hands, your eyes, the way you see through every lie I tell myself."

Lightning illuminated the studio in harsh bursts, catching the tears on Gun's cheeks that he'd deny later. Off kissed them away, tasting salt and truth and things they couldn't name. His sweater on Gun's frame became a barrier they both fought to remove, desperate for skin-to-skin contact, for something real in their world of pretense.

The rain provided a rhythm for their movements, desperate yet tender. Off's hands painted passion across Gun's body while Gun's fingers clutched at Off's shoulders, leaving marks that would remind them both of this surrender tomorrow.

"Look at me," Off whispered as they moved together. "Don't close your eyes. Don't pretend I'm—"

"I'm not," Gun's voice broke as he met Off's gaze. "I see you. Only you."

But Off caught the moment Gun's hand touched his own chest, where Jane's couple ring usually hung on its chain. The gesture was unconscious, muscle memory, but it cut through Off's heart like glass.

Still, he pulled Gun closer, accepting what he could have. Their bodies found their familiar rhythm, each touch both healing and hurting. Gun's gasps mixed with the storm's fury, while Off's artist hands drew pleasure across skin that wasn't really his to claim. Gun slowly resting his hand on his chest, secretly pulling the chain until it snapped, enclosed in his hand, buried and leaving marks on his palm. Until it slipped into his grasp... forgotten.

Their kisses traced maps of longing across heated skin, each touch a confession neither could voice. Off's lips followed the elegant line of Gun's throat, tasting rain and expensive cologne and desperation. Gun's hands tangled in Off's hair, holding him close like he feared Off might disappear if he let go.

Lightning painted their bodies in stark relief – Off's artist hands leaving trails of heat across Gun's perfect skin, Gun's corporate mask completely undone as he arched into each touch. The storm provided cover for sounds they couldn't take back: Gun's broken gasps, Off's quiet prayers against trembling flesh.

"Miss how you touch me," Gun breathed, his voice catching as Off's mouth found sensitive spots he'd memorized months ago. "Like I'm something precious. Something worth—" his words dissolved into a moan as Off's teeth grazed his collarbone.

Off wanted to memorize every moment, every sensation. The way Gun's fingers clutched his shoulders when pleasure became too intense. How his perfect composure cracked completely when Off took him apart with careful precision. The soft sounds he made that even the thunder couldn't drown.

Their bodies moved together with practiced ease, muscle memory making up for lost time. Off watched Gun's face as they connected, catching every flicker of emotion that crossed his features. In these moments, Gun couldn't hide – couldn't pretend, couldn't maintain his careful walls.

"Off," Gun gasped his name like salvation, like drowning, like something between prayer and curse. His nails left crescents on Off's back, marking territory he had no right to claim.

Rain drummed against the windows, nature's accompaniment to their symphony of gasps and whispered names. Off caught Gun's wrists, pinning them above his head, needing to see him completely undone. Gun's eyes flew open, meeting Off's gaze with raw vulnerability that hurt to witness.

They moved together like waves in a storm, each surge building higher than the last. Off's mouth traced constellations down Gun's chest, mapping a universe of emotions neither could voice. Every kiss was both claiming and surrender, marking skin that would remember this night in purple blooms tomorrow.

"Please," Gun gasped, the word catching in his throat as Off found particularly sensitive spots. His corporate polish was completely undone now, reduced to breathless pleas and desperate touches. "Off, I need—"

"What do you need?" Off whispered against Gun's racing heart, feeling it thunder beneath his lips. He needed to hear it, needed Gun's honesty even if it was just for tonight.

"You," Gun's voice broke on the word. "Just you. Like this. Real."

Off's control fractured at the raw truth in Gun's voice. He captured Gun's mouth again, swallowing whatever words might have followed. Their bodies found a rhythm that matched the storm outside – wild, uncontrolled, natural as rain.

Gun's hands traced Off's spine, counting vertebrae like prayers. Off's fingers tangled in Gun's hair, holding him steady as pleasure built between them. Each touch was both too much and not enough, every moment precious because they knew it couldn't last.

When release finally claimed them, it felt like lightning striking – brilliant, devastating, illuminating everything in harsh clarity before plunging them back into beautiful darkness. Gun cried out Off's name, the sound nearly lost in a crack of thunder. Off pressed his face into Gun's neck, tasting salt and rain and temporary truths.

They lay tangled in Off's sheets afterward, both pretending not to notice how perfectly they fit together. The storm had gentled somewhat, rain now a soft percussion against the windows. Gun's head rested on Off's chest, his breathing evening out but not quite steady.

Off's fingers traced idle patterns on Gun's back, artist hands unable to stop creating even now. The studio smelled of rain and paint and them, a combination that made his heart ache with familiarity.

"I should go," Gun whispered, though he made no move to leave. His fingers drew meaningless shapes on Off's skin, like he was trying to sketch his own confessions.

"Stay," Off said softly, surprising them both. "Just... just until the rain stops."

Gun's breath hitched slightly. They both knew what this meant – another rule broken, another boundary crossed. But Gun just pressed closer, his body admitting what his words couldn't.

Lightning flickered outside, softer now, painting their entangled forms in gentle flashes. Off could see his sketches on the walls, still turned away like shy witnesses. Could see Gun's ruined suit draped over a chair, his own sweater pooled on the floor. Evidence of their surrender scattered across his studio floor.

"I don't know how to do this," Gun admitted into the quiet, his voice small. "Don't know how to need someone this much when everything else is falling apart."

Off's hand stilled on Gun's back. "hmm"

Off already accepted defeat

Gun pressed his face into Off's neck, hiding from truths too big for words. Off resumed his gentle tracing, drawing feelings he couldn't speak onto Gun's skin.

Chapter Text

The hospital's fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across Off's mother's face as she received her latest treatment. Her skin had taken on a yellowish tinge that the doctors said was "expected progression," their clinical terms doing nothing to soften the reality of her declining health. Her fingers moved constantly over her rosary beads, lips forming silent prayers even as the chemotherapy dripped steadily into her veins.

Off watched those fingers, remembering how they used to bake him cookies before everything changed, before she discovered their family's truth and turned to religion instead of him. Now they only moved in prayer, counting sins and seeking salvation with each bead.

"The lord tests those he loves most," she murmured, not opening her eyes. The words were familiar now, her constant refrain as her body betrayed her. "This is his way of cleansing our sins."

Her 'sins' – being the other woman, though she hadn't known. Raising a son in a house built on lies. Loving someone who belonged to another family. Off's chest tightened at the parallels he tried not to see.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Gun, probably. They'd fallen into a new rhythm since that stormy night – messages throughout the day, stolen moments in the studio, things they couldn't name but couldn't stop. Each message felt like another bead on his own rosary of complicated love.

The treatment room was quiet except for the steady drip of chemotherapy and his mother's whispered prayers. Other patients came and went, their own battles written in their faces, their own loved ones keeping vigil like Off. Some prayed too, but not like his mother – not with this desperate belief that suffering was divine punishment.

"Mae," he said softly, watching another bag of chemicals drain into her system. "The doctors say we should consider increasing the treatment frequency. There are new protocols—"

"Prayer is my medicine," she cut him off, her grip tightening on the rosary until her knuckles went white. "God will decide when I've atoned enough. When we've both atoned enough."

'Both' - In her mind, his sexuality was another sin to atone for, another reason for divine punishment. He wondered what she would say if she knew about Gun, about stolen kisses and complicated love. Would she see those parallels too? Her son falling for someone who belonged to another, just as she had? 

He isn't sure

The morning light struggled through hospital blinds, painting stripes across his sketchbook. Off found himself drawing without conscious thought – his mother's hands on her rosary, but somehow the fingers transformed into Gun's on his last page, elegant and desperate as they'd been that rainy night.

Mai had visited earlier, bringing a bright drawing of flowers growing from hospital machines. It still hung on the wall opposite his mother's bed, a splash of hope in the sterile room. His mother had blessed herself when Mai left, murmuring prayers about innocent children, but Off had caught her looking at the drawing several times.

"The nurses say you're spending more time in the children's ward," his mother said suddenly, her voice thin but observant. "Teaching them to draw their pain away."

Off's pencil stilled on the paper. "Art helps them feel better. Gives them a way to express what they're feeling."

"Like you used to? Before I..." she trailed off, fingers moving faster over her beads. "Before I made you stop."

His phone buzzed again. His mother's eyes flickered to his pocket, something unreadable crossing her face. Off ignored it, though each unanswered message felt like a small wound.

"Phi Off!" A child's voice called from the doorway – Mint, one of his regular patients, peeking in with her IV stand. "I drew the monster eating cancer instead of dreams today!"

Off started to rise, to go to her, but his mother's hand shot out, grabbing his wrist. The touch startled them both – she rarely initiated contact anymore. Her fingers felt like bird bones against his skin.

"Show me," she said softly. "Show me how you help them."

Off hesitated, years of conditioning making him wary. But Mint was already bouncing into the room, her artwork held proudly in front of her like a shield. His mother's grip remained on his wrist, fragile but insistent.

"Look, Phi Off!" Mint held up her drawing. Where once she'd drawn terrifying machines with sharp teeth, now she'd created something different. The monster had a silly smile, chomping on dark clouds she labeled 'cancer.' "I made it funny instead of scary!"

Off felt his mother's fingers tighten slightly on his wrist. "That's amazing, Mint," he said, his voice gentle. "You've made the scary thing smaller, more manageable."

"Like you taught us!" Mint beamed. "Bad things aren't so bad when we can make them look silly." She turned to Off's mother, seemingly unafraid of the gaunt woman with her rosary beads. "Your son is magic with colors. He helps us make pretty things from scary feelings."

His mother's breath caught audibly. Off watched her face, seeing something shift in her expression as she looked at Mint's drawing. "You... you help children face their fears?" she asked Off, her voice uncertain.

"He makes everything less scary," Mint declared before Off could respond. "Even when the machines beep too loud or the medicine hurts. He shows us how to draw it better."

Off's sketchbook slipped from his lap as he reached to steady Mint's IV stand. Pages scattered across the hospital floor – children's art therapy sessions, his mother's treatments, and hidden among them, sketches of Gun. His heart stopped as his mother's eyes followed the falling papers.

Her hand finally released his wrist, moving instead to pick up the nearest sketch. Off's breath caught as he recognized which one – Gun in early morning light, vulnerability raw on his sleeping face, a moment Off shouldn't have captured but couldn't resist.

His mother's fingers traced the lines of the sketch, her rosary beads temporarily forgotten in her other hand. Off watched her face, waiting for the familiar signs of disapproval, for prayers about sin and salvation. But she just kept studying the drawing, something different in her expression.

"The way you've captured the light," she said softly, surprising him. "It's how your father used to look at me. Before..." she swallowed hard, her yellowed skin seeming more sallow in the hospital lights. "Before we knew the truth."

Mint had wandered back to the doorway, distracted by a passing nurse with stickers. Off's hands shook slightly as he gathered the other fallen sketches, trying to hide the evidence of his complicated heart.

"You draw this person often," his mother observed, her voice careful. More sketches had fallen than Off realized – Gun laughing in the studio, Gun lost in thought by the window, Gun's hands on coffee cups and paint brushes. "They appear in so many moments."

Off couldn't speak, couldn't find words to explain or defend. His mother picked up another sketch – Gun sleeping in Off's bed, sheet draped loosely across his back, looking more peaceful than he ever did awake.

"Mae," Off started, his voice tight with fear, but she shook her head.

"I recognize this kind of love," she said quietly, her fingers trembling on the paper. "This desperate need to capture moments, to preserve something you know you might lose." Her eyes met his, bright with tears or fever or both. "Is this why you check your phone so often? Why sometimes you smile at messages when you think I'm sleeping?"

Off's heart thundered in his chest as his mother continued to study the sketches. Her hands moved over them with a gentleness he hadn't seen in years, so different from her desperate clutching of rosary beads. The chemotherapy dripped steadily beside them, marking time in this moment of unexpected honesty.

"There's so much tenderness in these lines," she murmured, touching one where Gun was reading papers in Off's studio, his corporate mask slipping into something softer. "Such careful attention to every detail. The way you've captured the light falling across their face, the small crease between their brows..." She paused, studying closer. "Like you're afraid of missing something, of losing a moment you can't get back."

The parallel to her own lost love hung heavy between them. Off watched as she picked up another sketch – Gun in the rain that first night, looking lost and found simultaneously. Her fingers trembled slightly as they traced the raindrops Off had rendered in careful graphite.

"The way you draw them," she continued, her voice barely above a whisper, "reminds me of how your father used to watch me in our garden. Before everything fell apart. Before I knew I was just..." she swallowed hard, "just a beautiful secret."

"Mae, I—" Off tried again, but his voice failed him. How could he explain Gun? The complexity of loving someone who belonged to another story, another life? The cruel irony of following in his parents' footsteps – becoming another secret, another hidden love?

His phone buzzed again. His mother's eyes flickered to his pocket, understanding dawning in her tired face. The yellow tinge of her skin seemed more pronounced under the harsh hospital lights, making her look frailer than ever.

"Is it them?" she asked softly. "Are they reaching for you?"

Off nodded, unable to lie. Not here, not with the evidence of his heart scattered across her hospital bed in graphite and shadow. His hands shook as he reached for the sketches, but his mother held them closer, unwilling to let go.

"What's their name?" she asked, surprising him. Her fingers hadn't returned to her rosary beads – instead, they kept tracing the lines of Gun's face in different sketches, as if trying to understand something.

Off hesitated, years of conditioning making the truth stick in his throat. His mother had spent so long praying away what she saw as his sins, trying to protect him from following her path of loving wrongly.

"Gun," he finally whispered, the name feeling both like confession and prayer. "His name is Gun."

"His," she repeated softly, no judgment in her voice for the first time. Her eyes found another sketch – Gun laughing at something Off had said, joy captured in quick, confident strokes."And is he... is he like your father was?"

"Mae—"

"I see it in how you draw him," she continued, holding up a sketch where Gun was checking his phone, Jane's couple ring visible on its chain around his neck. "The careful distance in some drawings, the desperate closeness in others. The way you capture him looking at things he thinks he can't have."

Her words stripped Off bare, laying his heart out as clearly as his sketches did. He watched her gather the drawings into a careful pile, her hospital bracelet catching the light as she moved.

"Bring him to me," she said suddenly, her voice stronger than it had been in weeks. "Before this illness takes me, I want to meet the person who makes my son draw love like this."

Later that night, Off sat in his studio, his mother's request echoing in his head. The city lights painted shadows through his windows, reminding him of the storm that had brought Gun back to him weeks ago. His phone felt heavy in his hand as he typed and deleted messages:

"Mae wants to meet you."

Delete.

"My dying mother asked about you today."

Delete.

"I don't know how to ask this..."

Delete.

Gun arrived unannounced, still in his corporate suit, looking drained from another day of pretending his world wasn't crumbling. He paused in the doorway, reading something in Off's posture that made him stop.

"What's wrong?" Gun asked, loosening his tie. The gesture was familiar now – his slow transformation from perfect heir to just Gun, a metamorphosis that only happened in Off's space.

Off couldn't find the words immediately. How do you tell someone who can barely acknowledge what's between you that your dying mother wants to meet them? That she recognized love in sketches before either of them could name it?

"Off?" Gun moved closer, concern replacing exhaustion in his features. "Did something happen with your mother's treatment?"

"She saw my sketches today," Off said quietly, watching Gun freeze mid-motion. "Of you"

Gun's hand went unconsciously to his chest where Jane's ring usually hung, though he'd stopped wearing it to Off's studio. The gesture didn't hurt any less for its absence.

"Your sketches," Gun repeated softly, sinking onto Off's couch. His perfect posture crumbled slightly, the way it only did in this space. "All of them?"

"They fell from my sketchbook," Off explained, still not meeting Gun's eyes.

Gun's breath caught audibly. "What did she... how did she..."

"She recognized something in them," Off said, finally looking at Gun. The city lights painted shadows across his face, highlighting the vulnerability he only showed here.

Gun stood abruptly, moving to the window where Off had countless sketches of him standing in similar moments of crisis.

"She wants to meet you," Off continued, watching Gun's reflection tense. "Before the cancer... before she..."

"Off," Gun's voice cracked slightly. "I can't... I'm not..."

"What? Not mine to introduce? Not ready to be seen outside these walls?" Off's laugh was hollow. "Trust me, I know. Like I know you'll go to another merger meeting tomorrow. Just like I know you still love her."

"Off," Gun's voice was soft, pained. He reached for Off's hand, a gesture that felt too tender for their complicated situation. "It's not about keeping us secret. Not anymore. Not after everything..."

"Then what?" Off let their fingers intertwine, watching as Gun struggled with words.

"How can I meet your mother?" Gun's voice cracked. "How can I face her when I don't even know what this is between us? When I'm still..." he swallowed hard, "still trying to understand why I can't breathe without you but can't stop loving Jane? When everything in my life is falling apart and you're the only solid thing I have?"

Off felt Gun's hand trembling in his. In the dim studio light, Gun looked younger somehow, more vulnerable than even their most intimate moments.

"She's dying," Gun continued softly, "believing love is punishment. And you want me to meet her? Me? Someone who's using her son's heart as a lifeboat while my perfect world drowns?" His laugh was bitter. "What would I even say to her? 'Hello, I'm the man who keeps hurting your son because I'm too broken to love him properly'?"

"Gun—"

"I see how you look at me," Gun's voice was barely a whisper now. "How you draw me. Like I'm something worth keeping. Something whole and real. But I'm not. I'm just... I'm falling apart, Off. The company, my family's legacy, my feelings for Jane, these new feelings for you that I don't understand..." He pressed his forehead against Off's shoulder, seeking comfort even as he explained why he couldn't give it. "How can I meet your mother when I'm such a mess? When I can't even promise you anything real?"

Off held Gun against him, mind racing with all the things he couldn't say. He'd imagined this differently when his mother asked – had let himself dream, for just a moment, of Gun meeting her. Of two broken pieces of his life somehow fitting together. Maybe his mother would see the Gun that Off drew in his sketches – the one who laughed freely in his studio, who cared about Off's young patients' stories, who looked at art like he was discovering color for the first time.

Maybe seeing Gun would help his mother understand that not all love had to be punishment. That sometimes, even complicated love could be beautiful. That her son hadn't grown up wrong, just different. Different enough to fall for someone who was still learning how to be real.

Or so he thought.

Because looking at Gun now, trembling slightly in his arms, Off understood the impossibility of his hope. Gun could barely face his own feelings, barely understand why he kept coming back to Off's studio night after night. How could Off ask him to face a dying woman's judgment? To represent something solid when he felt like he was drowning?

Because even now, with Gun pressed against him seeking comfort, Off could feel the empty space where Jane's ring usually hung against Gun's chest. Could feel how Gun's hands clutched at him like a lifeline, not a choice. Every tender gesture, every remembered detail, every careful attention to Off's world – maybe they weren't signs of love growing. Maybe they were just Gun's perfectionism finding a new outlet, his need to control something when his real life was spinning apart.

Off's mother had recognized love in those sketches because that's what Off's heart had drawn. But maybe he'd been seeing what he wanted to see, just like his mother had with his father. Making beauty out of something that was really just desperation dressed as care.

Gun's breath was warm against his neck, familiar now after so many nights like this. Off had drawn this too – the way Gun sought comfort in his arms while still keeping part of himself distant, unreachable. The part that still belonged to a love story that wasn't about Off at all.

The studio lights caught Gun's profile, creating shadows Off had drawn countless times. Each line, each curve, each fleeting expression – Off had captured them all, thinking he was documenting love's slow growth. But maybe he'd just been recording his own hopeless fall, while Gun remained safely anchored to his other life, his real love.

"I'm sorry," Gun whispered against his neck, not knowing the depth of Off's realizations.

"Just once," Off found himself saying, the words escaping before he could stop them. His fingers tightened slightly in Gun's shirt, betraying desperation he didn't want to show. "She doesn't... she might not have much time left."

Gun pulled back enough to look at Off's face, reading the pain there. The studio felt too quiet suddenly, even the city noise muted as if holding its breath.

"Off," Gun's voice cracked on his name. "I don't know if I can—"

"Please," Off cut him off, hating how his voice shook.

Gun's hands came up to frame Off's face, the gesture achingly tender for someone who couldn't offer anything real. "I'll think about it," he whispered, though they both heard what he wasn't saying.

Off nodded, accepting this half-promise like he accepted everything else Gun could give.

Gun lay awake in his penthouse bedroom, Off's request echoing in his mind. The city sprawled below his window, lights blurring as his thoughts raced. Meet Off's mother. Meet the dying woman who'd seen love in her son's sketches. The thought made his chest tight with something close to panic.

Gun rolled over, facing the wall where he'd hung one of Off's sketches – hidden behind a corporate award plaque where his parents wouldn't see. It was simple, just children's hands holding paintbrushes, but something about Off's style made it feel alive.

What would Off's mother see if Gun met her? Would she recognize the confusion in him? Would she see how her son's art had started to crack Gun's perfect world, letting colors seep into places that used to be safely grey?

His father's voice from the study that night echoed back: "Six months before we declare bankruptcy." Everything was falling apart anyway. The perfect heir, the perfect merger, the perfect life – all of it crumbling like wet paper. Only Off's studio felt solid nowadays, with its paint-stained floors and honest light.

But meeting Off's mother felt like crossing a line. Like making real something Gun still couldn't name. In Off's studio, he could pretend they existed in some beautiful in-between space. But meeting his dying mother... that would make it all too real, too permanent, too much like choosing a path Gun wasn't sure he could walk.

He found himself at his desk, opening the drawer where he kept the sketches Off had given him. Each one felt like evidence of something he couldn't face – moments when he'd let his guard down, when he'd been just Gun instead of the Atthaphan heir. Off saw him differently than anyone ever had, even Jane. Even himself.

The newest sketch was from yesterday – Gun reading reports in Off's studio, but Off had somehow made it look peaceful instead of desperate. Like Gun belonged there, among the paint supplies and children's artwork, instead of in corporate boardrooms planning mergers that couldn't save anyone.

"She recognized love in my sketches," Off had said. The words made Gun's hands shake as he touched the drawing. Love. Such a simple word for something that felt like drowning and breathing at the same time. He loved Jane – had loved her since they were children sharing dreams under summer stars. That love was familiar, comfortable even in its pain.

But what he felt for Off... it wasn't comfortable. It was terrifying. Like standing on the edge of something vast and unknown. Off made him feel real in ways that scared him, made him want things he shouldn't want, made him question everything he'd thought was certain.

Still, Gun found himself in a high-end florist shop the next morning, staring at arrangements that all felt wrong. The perfectly curated bouquets seemed too artificial, too much like his corporate life. Off's mother didn't need another perfect lie.

"Something simple," he told the florist, surprising himself.

He ended up with white lilies – pure but not pretentious, beautiful but honest somehow. His hands shook slightly as he paid, his Atthaphan company card feeling heavy in his wallet. Everything he was about to do felt like crossing lines he couldn't uncross.

The hospital loomed ahead, its windows reflecting morning light like Off's sketches captured hope. Gun's grip tightened on the steering wheel as he pulled into the parking lot. He hadn't told Off he was coming. Hadn't trusted himself not to back out if he did.

"What am I doing?" he whispered to himself, catching his reflection in the rearview mirror.

The hospital corridor stretched endlessly, antiseptic air burning Gun’s throat with every breath. Off had mentioned the number weeks ago, back when their staged relationship still felt like a dark joke.

He knocked, half-hoping she wouldn’t answer.

“Come in,” a voice rasped, softer than he’d imagined.

The room smelled of medicine and the faintest trace of jasmine. Off’s mother sat propped against pillows, her frailty at odds with the sharpness in her eyes—Off’s eyes, Gun realized with a jolt. She smiled, and the monitor beside her beeped faster.

“The flowers,” she interrupted, nodding at the lilies. “You chose well. Off always overcomplicates things—peonies, orchids, roses. Like he’s apologizing for something.” Her chuckle dissolved into a cough. “But you… you brought mourning flowers.”

Gun froze. White lilies—funeral flowers. He hadn’t known. Hadn’t asked.

She reached for his wrist, paper-thin skin warm against his pulse. “It’s alright. We’ve been mourning here for months.” Her thumb brushed his inner wrist, right where Off’s charcoal sketches always lingered during life-drawing sessions.

The woman propped in bed looked nothing like the polished society mother from tabloids. Her shorn head gleamed under harsh lights, but her smile held Off's wicked curve. "Ah," she said, oxygen tube shifting as she tilted her head. "The ghost in my son's phone."

Gun froze. Behind her, a charcoal sketch of Bangkok's skyline hung crookedly - Off's work, unmistakable in its chaotic precision. On the bedside table, between medicine cups, sat the stupid dinosaur mug Gun had bought him as a joke.

"You're shorter in person," She remarked, patting the plastic chair. Her IV line snaked across crisp sheets. "Come. Let me see the eyes that make my boy forget his morning coffee."

 "I didn't plan to—"

"Good." She snatched his wrist, strength belying her frailty. Her thumb found the ink stain he'd tried scrubbing off after last night's strategy session. "Plans are for people who think they have time."

“Are you here to deliver bad news or confess something?” Her voice carried Off’s dry humor despite the oxygen tube. “You’re the first friend he’s brought who isn’t dripping paint or ranting about capitalism,” she said as he sat stiffly beside her IV pole. “Does he still eat pineapple on pizza? The child’s had terrible taste since—”

“Since he was eight,” Gun blurted. “He told me. When we… shared leftovers once.”

“Tell me,” she leaned closer, “when he mixes paints, does his left thumb still twitch? Like he’s keeping rhythm with some silent song?”

The question unlocked a flood Gun couldn’t stop—Off’s concentration-bitten lip, the way he hummed off-key while blending colors, the paint smears on his earlobes he never noticed. Each detail spilled out like water through cracks in a dam.

She listened, peeling a lily petal she picked from the bouquet Gun's still holding “You watch him closely.”

“It’s hard not to,” Gun said before thinking.

Her skeletal finger tapped his wrist. “Does my son know how you stare?”

The heart monitor filled the silence. Somewhere beyond the window, Bangkok’s afternoon traffic blared. Gun’s phone buzzed—a merger update—but he let it die.

“He… deserves someone who sees him clearly,” Gun managed.

“Agreed.” She tucked the lily behind his ear, her touch startlingly warm. “He paints you says it’s ‘practice.’ But you don’t frame practice.”

Gun’s phone buzzed—his father’s twelfth call. He silenced it, the action feeling like severing an anchor chain.

“Do you love my son?”

Gun nearly dropped his heart.

The heart monitor beeped louder. Gun’s polished loafers tapped a frantic rhythm against the linoleum.

“Listen well. When I die—and I will die soon—you’ll have two choices.” Her thumbnail dug into his wrist, right over Off’s doodle of them both laughing. “Cut him loose now, clean. Or let him drown in grief twice over”

Gun’s throat closed. The lilies’ pollen burned his eyes.

“Leave.” She shoved the lilies back at him, petals scattering like torn-up contracts. “If you care even a little, let him mourn me without your… performance complicating things.”

Chapter Text

The elevator ride to Jane's father's office felt like ascending to judgment. Each floor passing was another reminder of who he was supposed to be, of expectations heavier than the couple ring he still couldn't bring himself to stop wearing. Off's mother's words echoed with each floor number: "Don't let fear make your choices like I did."

Mr. Jiranorraphat's office commanded a view of Bangkok's skyline – the same view Gun had grown up seeing, the same city that looked so different through Off's artist eyes. The office itself hadn't changed in twenty years: dark wood, leather chairs, success wrapped in tradition.

"Gun," Mr. Jiranorraphat greeted him, standing behind his imposing desk. His smile was practiced, but something in his eyes was different. "We need to discuss some concerning reports."

On his desk lay two sets of documents. One, Gun recognized as the Atthaphan company's financial crisis laid bare in stark numbers. The other – surveillance photos that made his heart stop. Him entering Off's studio. Him at the hospital with flowers. Him and Off in various moments they'd thought were private.

"Sit," Mr. Jiranorraphat said softly, not unkindly. "We need to talk about the future of both our families."

Gun's legs felt wooden as he lowered himself into the familiar leather chair. The same chair where he'd sat as a child, playing with Jane while their fathers discussed business. Where he'd later sat holding Jane's hand as they agreed to their arranged future. Where he now sat alone, his carefully constructed world crumbling around him.

"Sir, I—" Gun started, but Mr. Jiranorraphat raised a hand.

"Let me speak first," he said, settling into his own chair. "I've known you since you were born, Gun. Watched you grow up with my daughter. Saw how you loved her, protected her, became exactly who we all needed you to be."

Gun doesn't know where to look at

"How long have you been seeing him?" Mr. Jiranorraphat asked casually, sliding the surveillance photos across his desk. His tone was light, almost friendly, but Gun knew this man too well. Twenty years of family dinners had taught him to recognize the shark hiding behind that smile.

"It's not what you think," Gun started, but his voice sounded weak even to himself.

"No?" Mr. Jiranorraphat picked up one photo – Gun entering Off's studio late at night. "Looks pretty clear to me. The perfect Gun Atthaphan, sneaking around with some artist." He leaned back in his chair, studying Gun like he was an interesting business proposition. "Though I have to admit, I'm impressed you kept it hidden this long."

Gun's hand unconsciously went to his chest where Jane's ring usually hung. The gesture didn't go unnoticed.

"Ah yes, the ring." Mr. Jiranorraphat's smile turned sharp. "My daughter's barely been gone two months and you've already found... what should we call him? A distraction? A rebellion against daddy's plans?"

"Sir, please—"

"You know what's funny?" He pulled out another stack of papers – financial reports Gun recognized with dread. "I was having second thoughts about this merger. The Atthaphan name isn't what it used to be, is it? Six months from bankruptcy, if my sources are correct."

Gun felt the blood drain from his face. Of course Jane's father knew. He probably knew before anyone else, had probably been watching their company crumble with calculated interest.

"But then I remembered something," he continued, standing to look out over his empire. "You, Gun. How you think, how you work, how perfectly you fit into our world. Even now, trying to find freedom in some artist's arms, you're still wearing my daughter's ring."

Gun would like to pull the ring dangling on his chest as it feels like he's being suffocated.

"I'll make this simple," Mr. Jiranorraphat turned back to Gun, all pretense of warmth gone. "The merger goes ahead. You marry Jane as planned. Your family's company survives, and your little... artistic phase remains our secret."

Gun felt sick. The photos seemed to stare at him from the desk – moments with Off that had felt so private, so real, now turned into ammunition.

"And if I refuse?" The words came out steadier than Gun felt.

Mr. Jiranorraphat actually laughed. "Refuse? Look at these numbers, Gun. Your father's already taken loans he can't repay. Three hundred employees who'll lose everything. Your mother's social standing, your father's legacy – all of it gone." He paused, letting that sink in. "And for what? Some paint-stained dreamer who probably doesn't even know you still wear my daughter's ring?"

Each word hit like a perfectly aimed bullet. Because he was right – Gun still wore the ring. Still loved Jane. Still couldn't imagine a world where he wasn't the perfect son his parents needed him to be.

"You're not just the best option anymore, Gun. You're the only option." Mr. Jiranorraphat's voice softened slightly, almost fatherly. "I could have exposed this months ago. Could have ruined everything. But I've watched you grow up. Seen your potential. You think like us, move like us, understand this world in a way my daughter never will."

He picked up one of the photos – Gun laughing at something Off had said, looking freer than he'd ever looked in a boardroom. "This? This isn't you. It's a fantasy. A beautiful break from reality. But you and I both know where you belong."

"Jane doesn't love me anymore," Gun said quietly, the truth he'd been avoiding for months.

"Love?" Mr. Jiranorraphat snorted. "You think this business was built on love? You think any of this," he gestured to the skyline outside, "came from following our hearts?" He sat back down, pulling out a contract. "Jane will learn, just like you're going to learn. Some things are bigger than personal feelings."

Gun stared at the contract, its fancy letterhead mocking him. A fresh merger agreement, with terms that would save his family's company. Save everything his father had built. Save three hundred families from unemployment.

"One month," Mr. Jiranorraphat said, his voice businesslike now. "You have one month to end whatever this is with your artist. Clean break, no loose ends. The engagement announcement happens at the charity gala next month." He smiled, all teeth. "Jane returns next week. I expect you both to play your parts perfectly."

"And if these photos accidentally leak?" Gun asked, already knowing the answer.

"Then the merger's off. Your family's company collapses. And your little artist friend? Well, let's just say the hospital board might find his... lifestyle choices unsuitable for working with children."

The threat hung in the air like poison. Gun thought of Off's young patients, of Mai's dinosaur drawings, of the healing Off brought to scared kids. The idea of that being taken away because of him...

"You're a smart boy, Gun," Mr. Jiranorraphat stood, meaning the meeting was over. "You understand how this works. Sometimes we have to sacrifice small happinesses for bigger responsibilities."

Gun left Mr. Jiranorraphat's office feeling hollow. The city sprawled below as his driver navigated through traffic, but all Gun could see were those photos. Off looking at him with such honesty, such open affection. Moments that had felt sacred now turned into weapons.

His phone buzzed - Off sending a photo from the hospital. His mother was looking worse, the chemotherapy taking its toll. "She asked about you today," the message read. Gun's hands shook as he remembered her words: "Don't let fear make your choices like I did."

But this wasn't just fear anymore. This was Off's career, his ability to help children, his whole life at stake. This was three hundred families depending on the merger. This was his father's legacy, his mother's social standing, everything they'd built.

Another message from Off: "Mae's not doing well. Could you... could you come by later?"

Before Gun could respond, another message came through - this one from Jane: "Landing tomorrow. Earlier than planned. We need to talk."

The timing wasn't coincidental. Her father had planned this perfectly, like every business deal he'd ever made. Jane coming home just as Gun was cornered, just as everything was falling apart.

The airport wasn't crowded when Jane's flight landed. Gun stood with a driver's sign, though they both knew she would've found him anyway. Twenty years of knowing someone left its mark.

She looked different. London had changed her. Her hair was shorter, more artistic than corporate. Her clothes were still expensive but less structured, like she'd started shedding her perfect heiress skin.

"You look tired," were her first words, studying his face with too much understanding. No hello, no pretense. They were past that now.

"Long week," Gun managed, taking her luggage automatically. Old habits.

"I heard." Her voice was careful. "About the company. About father's... solution."

They walked in silence to the car, both hyperaware of watching eyes. The perfect couple reuniting - it would be in the society pages tomorrow. Mr. Jiranorraphat's plan in motion.

It wasn't until they were in the car, privacy screen up, that Jane really looked at him. "I saw you, you know. At the hospital."

Gun's heart stopped. "What?"

"I came back last month, just for a day. Didn't tell anyone." She pulled out her phone, showing him a photo he hadn't seen in Mr. Jiranorraphat's collection. Gun bringing flowers to Off's mother's room. "You looked... different. Real."

"Jane—"

"You love him," she said quietly. Not a question. Not an accusation. Just a truth neither of them was ready for.

"I love you," Gun replied automatically, the words familiar as breathing.

"Yes," Jane's smile was sad. "You do. That's what makes this so tragic, isn't it? You're using him to avoid losing me, just like I used art to avoid losing myself."

Gun stared out the car window, watching Bangkok blur past. Jane's words hit too close to home, cutting through defenses he'd carefully built.

"He draws you," Jane continued softly. "I saw the sketches through the studio window that day. The way he sees you... it's different from how anyone's ever seen you. Even me."

"Don't," Gun's voice cracked. "Please."

"You're so gentle with him," she pressed on. "In all the moments I saw. Like you're afraid of breaking something precious. I've never seen you like that, Gun. Not even with me."

The car stopped at a red light, and for a moment, Gun caught sight of their reflection in the window - the perfect couple, the perfect lie, twenty years of history sitting between them like a wall.

"Father's going to destroy him," Jane said, her voice harder now. "You know that, right? He'll ruin his career, his life, everything he's built. Father doesn't make empty threats."

"I know." Gun's hands clenched in his lap. "Why do you think I'm here?"

"Because you're choosing safety," Jane's words were gentle but firm. "Just like I did, going to London. Just like his mother did, turning to religion. We're all so afraid of choosing wrong that we forget how to choose at all."

Gun's phone buzzed - another message from Off

Jane saw the message, saw how Gun's hand trembled slightly as he read it. "He doesn't know yet, does he? About what's coming? About how you're going to break his heart to save him?"

"His mother's dying," Gun said quietly, still staring at Off's message.

The city traffic moved around them in its usual chaos, but inside the car, time felt frozen. Gun thought about Off's mother, about how she'd looked at him with such knowing eyes. "You're going to hurt him," she'd said. "Just make sure it's for the right reasons."

"I don't have a choice," Gun's voice was rough. "Your father made that clear."

"We always have choices, Gun." Jane touched his hand lightly. "We're just too scared to make the hard ones."

His phone buzzed again. Off had sent a photo - his mother asleep in her hospital bed, looking smaller than ever. The sketchbook on her lap showed her hands on the rosary beads, drawn with Off's signature care. Each line spoke of holding on and letting go.

"You should go to him," Jane said suddenly. "Before..."

"Before what? Before I break his heart? Before I destroy everything to save it?" Gun laughed bitterly. "How do I face him knowing what I'm about to do?"

"The same way I faced you when I fell out of love," Jane's voice was soft. "With truth. With respect for what we had. With understanding that sometimes love isn't enough against reality."

"I'm staying," Gun said finally, his voice steadier than he felt. "With you. With this life. With everything we built."

Jane pulled back slightly, studying his face. "Even knowing it will destroy him?"

"It'll destroy him more if I don't," Gun's laugh was hollow. "Your father will make sure of that. At least this way... this way he gets to keep his work. His patients. His life."

"And what about your life? Our life?" Jane's voice cracked slightly. "We'll just pretend? Keep playing these parts until we forget they're not real?"

Gun turned to face her fully, twenty years of shared history making his next words possible: "They were real once. Maybe they can be again."

"Gun—"

"I love him," Gun admitted for the first time, the words feeling like glass in his throat. "But I loved you first. Love you still. And this... this is who I'm supposed to be. Who I need to be."

His phone buzzed again. Off's mother was asking for him. The weight of her impending death, of Off's trust, of everything he was about to destroy sat heavy in his chest.

"You're choosing wrong," Jane said quietly. "For all the right reasons, but still wrong."

"Maybe," Gun slipped Jane's ring back onto his finger, where it had always belonged. "But it's my choice to make."

Jane stared at the ring on Gun's finger, something shifting in her expression. She'd come back ready to fight, to end this charade once and for all. But looking at Gun now, seeing the weight of his choice in every line of his face, she recognized something familiar.

"We don't have a choice, do we?" she said finally, her voice small. "Not really. Not when father's involved."

"No," Gun agreed softly.

"And Off?" The name hung between them like smoke.

"Will heal. Move on. Keep helping children draw their fears into something beautiful." Gun's voice cracked slightly. "While we do what we've always done - be exactly who we're supposed to be."

Jane leaned back in her seat, feeling the weight of expectations settle back onto her shoulders. "Maybe father's right. Maybe this is what growing up means - choosing responsibility over dreams."

The city lights painted shadows across their faces as they drove home - two perfect heirs heading toward their perfect future, both understanding now that sometimes the hardest choice was accepting you had none at all.

"At least we understand each other," Jane said quietly, watching Bangkok pass by. "No more pretending to be in love. Just... partners. In whatever this is."

Gun nodded, his phone heavy in his pocket with Off's unanswered messages.

"We'll learn," Gun's voice was firm, like he was trying to convince himself more than her. "Like we learned everything else. How to sit in board meetings, how to smile at charity galas, how to be exactly who they need us to be."

"We should practice," Jane said, straightening in her seat. "Being... whatever we're going to be now. Father will expect a perfect show at the gala."

Gun watched her transform - shoulders squaring, chin lifting, the London freedom draining from her posture. He recognized the change, felt it happening in himself too. Like putting on old, uncomfortable clothes that still fit perfectly.

"The press will want a story," he said, slipping into business mode. "About London, about our reunion."

"I've learned so much about international business," Jane recited, her voice taking on that practiced warmth. "But I've missed home. Missed my family." She paused, looking at him sideways. "Missed my fiancé."

The word hung between them like a ghost. His phone buzzed again - Off, still waiting for a response about his mother. Gun turned it face down.

"We should be seen together," Jane continued, both of them pretending not to notice how his hands shook. "Lunch tomorrow? Somewhere public. Start building the narrative before the gala."

"The usual place?" Gun asked, thinking of their old café, where they used to share dreams before they learned to stop dreaming.

"No," Jane's voice was soft. "Somewhere new. If we're going to build something real from this mess, let's not taint old memories."

They sat in silence for a moment, two people who'd loved each other once, now planning how to perform that love for an audience that would never understand the cost.

"Gun?" Jane's voice was barely a whisper. "I'm sorry. That it has to be like this."

"Jane," Gun caught her hand before she could exit the car. "Are we terrible people? Doing this to ourselves? 

She looked at their joined hands - a gesture that used to mean love, now representing something more complicated. "No," she said finally. "We're just our parents' children after all. Doing what we were raised to do."

Chapter Text

The French restaurant buzzed with Bangkok's elite during lunch hour. Gun pulled out Jane's chair - a gesture he'd performed countless times since they were teens. Her cream dress caught the light, making her look exactly like the successful heiress who'd just returned from London.

"God, I missed real Thai coffee," Jane sighed, wrapping her hands around her cup. "London has amazing tea, but nothing beats this."

"Still taking it with too much sugar?" Gun teased, falling into their old rhythm easily.

"Says the man who drinks his black like some corporate masochist," she shot back, her laugh carrying just enough for nearby tables to notice. Perfect couple, perfect reunion.

A society photographer lingered nearby, pretending to be interested in his own lunch. Gun reached across the table, taking Jane's hand. She squeezed back, both of them knowing their picture would be in tomorrow's social pages.

"More merger details came through this morning," Gun said, keeping his voice light. Business as usual. "Your father's lawyers are efficient."

"Always are," Jane stirred her coffee. "Speaking of efficiency... you never told me how it happened."

"How what happened?"

"Off," she said. "Last night, you dropped that bomb about loving him and then changed the subject to London weather." She smiled, and a camera click followed. "You haven't finished your coffee," Jane said sweetly, playing with his fingers on the table. To anyone watching, it looked like lovers catching up.

"Just thinking," Gun matched her tone, squeezing her hand gently. A photographer snapped a photo from across the room - the perfect reunion shot.

"London has amazing cafés," Jane said brightly, for the benefit of nearby tables. "But nothing beats Bangkok coffee with you."

Gun smiled, the expression not quite reaching his eyes. "Remember that little place near your university? Where we used to plan our future?"

Jane caught the shift in his voice, saw something breaking behind his perfect mask. She waited, playing her part of the attentive fiancée while Gun struggled with words.

"His mother," Gun said finally, so quietly Jane had to lean forward to hear. To onlookers, it would appear intimate, romantic. "She told me to leave. Said..." his voice caught slightly, but his public smile never wavered, "said he shouldn't have to watch both of us leave him."

The waiter arrived with their main course. They paused, arranging their faces into appropriate appreciation. Jane's hand remained in Gun's, steady, anchoring.

"You didn't tell me that part yesterday," she said softly, cutting her fish into perfect pieces.

"Because..." Gun replied, his corporate mask firmly in place though his voice shook slightly. "It's not necessary"

"We should visit that new gallery opening next week," Jane said loudly, her public voice carrying just enough. "Everyone's talking about it."

Gun nodded, playing along while his heart felt like lead. "Anything you want, sweetheart."

The restaurant hummed around them, other diners pretending not to watch Bangkok's perfect couple reunite. Jane took another sip of her coffee, giving Gun time to collect himself.

"She's dying," Gun said finally, his voice barely a whisper. His face remained pleasant, practiced. "And her last wish is for me to let him go before..." He stopped and took a careful sip of water. "Before he has to lose both of us."

Jane's hand tightened on his imperceptibly. She didn't speak, didn't need to. Twenty years of friendship let her understand the weight of this.

"The merger announcement is in three weeks," Gun continued, his voice steady though his fingers trembled slightly against his water glass. "Your father's timeline isn't accidental, is it?"

"No," Jane admitted quietly. Then, louder: "Darling, you must try the dessert here. It's divine."

Gun played his part, offering her a bite from his fork, their synchronized movements speaking of years of practice. Under the performance, his chest felt tight with unspoken words.

"I have to end it," he whispered, face arranged in perfect contentment for their audience. "Before the gala. Before..." he swallowed hard, "before she dies thinking she saved him from more pain."

The dessert arrived - something French and elaborate that they'd pretend to care about. Gun watched Jane take a delicate bite, remembering how they used to share desserts as kids, before everything got so complicated.

"I saw the venue plans for the gala," Jane said brightly, navigating them back to safer topics. Her eyes held understanding - some conversations weren't meant for public places. "Mother's outdone herself this time."

"Doesn't she always?" Gun played along, his corporate smile firmly in place. His phone lay face down beside his plate, still silent. He'd turned it off after the fifteenth message from Off about his mother asking for him.

A society columnist passed their table, nodding in greeting. Jane leaned forward, touching Gun's cheek affectionately - a perfect photo opportunity. "Three weeks," she whispered, her smile never wavering. "Are you ready?"

Gun caught her hand, kissed her palm like he used to. To anyone watching, it looked like love. "Does it matter if I'm not?"

The afternoon light painted shadows across their table, reminding Gun of how Off captured light in his sketches. He pushed the thought away, focusing on the role he needed to play.

"Car's waiting," he said, signaling for the check. "Board meeting at three."

As they stood, his hand automatically finding the small of Jane's back, he felt the weight of every eye in the restaurant. Tomorrow's society pages would declare the perfect couple's reunion. No one would see the cost hidden behind their practiced smiles.

Off sprawled on Tay and New's couch, staring at his phone for the hundredth time. His feet were propped on their coffee table, surrounded by half-eaten takeout containers and empty beer cans.

"Dude, you're going to wear out your screen," Tay said from the kitchen, grabbing more beers from the fridge.

"He hasn't answered in two days," Off muttered, running a hand through his already messy hair. "Not even about Mae asking for him."

New looked up from where he was sorting through Netflix options. "Maybe he's just busy with work?"

"Yeah, busy having lunch with Jane at that fancy French place," Off's laugh was bitter. He turned his phone to show them the social media post everyone was sharing - Gun and Jane looking perfect together, her hand on his cheek, his smile soft and familiar.

"Shit," Tay dropped onto the couch beside Off, handing him another beer. "You okay?"

"No," Off took a long drink. "Mae's getting worse, Gun's ghosting me, and I just spent thirty minutes drawing the same fucking line over and over because I can't focus."

"Want me to punch him?" Tay offered, making New snort from his spot on the floor.

"You'd have to get past his security detail first," Off said, but his lips twitched slightly. "Besides, he's... he's not doing anything wrong. They were engaged first. I'm just..."

"Don't," New cut him off. "Don't do that thing where you make yourself smaller to fit someone else's story." He picked up the remote, "Want shitty horror movies?" New asked, still scrolling through Netflix. "The kind where you can yell at people making dumb decisions?"

"Nah," Off slumped further into the couch. "Might punch the TV when someone runs upstairs instead of out the front door."

"Like you running back to Gun every time he calls?" Tay muttered, earning an elbow from New. "What? Someone had to say it."

Off stared at his beer, picking at the label. The social media post was still open on his phone - Gun looking at Jane like he used to look at Off in the studio. Maybe still did, when Off wasn't paying attention.

"We tried to warn you," Tay said, slumping back onto the couch. "Month ago, watching you write messages he never answers. Now you're just sitting here staring at some fake-ass lunch photo like it's gonna tell you something new."

"I can't just..." Off gestured vaguely, frustrated. "Mae's asking for him. She's getting worse and she keeps asking and I don't know what to tell her anymore."

"Tell her the truth," New said quietly. "That he's busy playing perfect heir with his perfect fiancée while you're dealing with real life shit."

Off's phone lit up with another article - some society columnist gushing about Gun and Jane's "romantic reunion" after her London studies. The photos showed them leaving the restaurant, his hand on the small of her back, both of them smiling like they'd never stopped.

"You know what pisses me off?" Tay grabbed another beer. "He knows Mae's sick. Knows how bad it is. But he can't even send a fucking text? Just disappears when some society magazine needs their power couple back?"

"Maybe something happened," Off said, but his voice lacked conviction. "Maybe—"

"Maybe he's exactly who we said he was," New cut in. "Someone who plays with art and freedom until reality calls him back."

"Two days," Off stared at his phone. "Not even a 'sorry, busy' or 'can't talk.' Just... nothing. After everything..."

"After you let him into every part of your life," Tay finished. "Your art, your patients, your mom..."

"He's different when we're alone," Off defended weakly. "When he's not trying to be perfect—"

"That's bullshit and you know it," New cut in, surprising them both. New rarely got angry. "He's always trying to be perfect. That's the problem. Even the way he messes up is calculated."

"Did you see that photo?" Tay grabbed Off's phone, pointing at Gun and Jane. "Look at how perfectly casual they look. How carefully candid. Everything about him is a performance, Off. Even the parts you think are real."

Off snatched his phone back, but he couldn't stop staring at the picture. At Gun's hand covering Jane's, at the soft look in his eyes that used to be reserved for quiet moments in the studio.

"You deserve better," New said quietly.

"Remember when he first started coming around?" Tay grabbed a pizza box, finding one cold slice left. "You were all 'he's different' and 'you don't see him like I do.'"

"Shut up," Off muttered, but there wasn't any heat in it. His eyes were still fixed on his phone, on that perfect photo of Gun and Jane.

"And now look at you," Tay continued, talking around his pizza. "Sitting in our apartment on a Friday night, looking like someone killed your dog, while he's out there doing fancy lunch dates."

New threw a cushion at his boyfriend. "You're not helping."

"Not trying to help," Tay caught the cushion. "Trying to make him angry. Better than this... whatever this is."

Off slumped further into the couch, running his hands through his hair until it stood up in messy spikes. "You don't get it"

 "The fancy restaurants, the business meetings, the perfect fiancée. Everything else is just... a break from reality." New said softly.

"Fuck," Off breathed out, letting his head fall back against the couch. "You know what's really pathetic?" Off said, staring at the ceiling. "I tried to end it once. After that night he came to my studio smelling like her perfume."

"The night you were supposed to be 'done with him'?" Tay made air quotes, remembering how that had turned out. "Then he showed up in the rain and you just..."

"Let him back in," Off finished. "Yeah. Like I always do." He laughed, but it sounded painful. "Said all these big words about not being someone's secret anymore, about deserving better. Then he looked at me with those eyes and I just... forgot everything I was supposed to be standing up for."

New shifted closer, shoulder bumping Off's leg. "That's because you actually care about him. While he..."

"While he runs back to Jane the minute she calls," Off pulled up another photo someone had tagged him in - Gun helping Jane into their car, everything about them screaming old money and perfect love. "God, look at them. They even move the same way. Like they've been practicing this their whole lives."

"They probably have," Tay muttered. "Rich people shit. Bet they had etiquette classes for getting in and out of cars." Tay groaned, throwing his hands up. "If I have to hear about how 'different' he is in your studio one more time, I'm gonna lose it."

"Seriously," New added, surprising them both with his frustration. "It's like a broken record. 'He's real with me' and 'You don't see him like I do,' and then boom - he disappears for days, and you're back on our couch looking like someone died."

"I know, I know," Off rubbed his face. "I sound like an idiot."

"You sound like the same idiot from months ago," Tay corrected. "When you said you were done with him. And last month when—"

"Okay, I get it!" Off threw a cushion at him. "I'm pathetic."

"No, you're stuck," New said, his voice gentler but still firm. "In this cycle where he comes to you when his perfect world gets too heavy, uses your studio like some kind of therapy session, then disappears back to his real life."

"And we're stuck watching you mope," Tay added. "Over and over and over. Man, even our Netflix queue is depressing now. All these sad artistic movies because you're in your 'he'll understand me through my art' phase again."

Off looked at their TV screen where some pretentious French film was paused. "That's... that's not why I picked that."

"Sure," Tay snorted. "Just like you didn't pick that depressing playlist last week hoping he'd 'get the message' through song lyrics."

Bangkok was still alive at 3 AM, lights blinking up at Off from Tay and New's balcony. They'd passed out inside, tangled on the couch like puppies, leaving him alone with his thoughts and his stupid phone that wouldn't stop showing him photos of Gun and Jane's "perfect lunch date."

"This is so fucked up," Off muttered to himself, taking another swig of his beer. It was warm now, gross, but he couldn't be bothered to get another one.

Below, some couple was stumbling home, probably drunk, holding onto each other and laughing. Off couldn't help but think about those nights with Gun - walking back from his studio, both of them riding that high of being together, before reality would kick in and Gun would straighten his tie, check his phone, remember who he was supposed to be.

"God, I'm such a mess," Off laughed at himself, but it came out sounding kind of broken. His reflection in the glass door looked like shit - hair all over the place, yesterday's paint still on his shirt, dark circles under his eyes from checking his phone like some lovesick teenager.

Two days of silence. Not even a "hey, busy" text. Just... nothing. Like all those months of them together meant nothing. Like Off's mom wasn't in the hospital asking for him. Like Off hadn't let him into every fucking part of his life.

"Should've known better," he told the city lights. But even now, beer-sad and hurt, he couldn't make himself regret it. Couldn't pretend those moments in his studio weren't real. The way Gun would look at him sometimes, like he was seeing something no one else could see...

That had to be real.

Didn't it?

His phone buzzed - probably another notification about Gun and Jane. The whole internet seemed determined to shove their perfect reunion in his face. Off took another sip of his warm beer, scrolling through older messages instead.

Gun, three weeks ago: "Your light is on. Can I come up?" Gun, two weeks ago: "The kids' drawings made me smile today." Gun, last week: "I miss you"

"Fuck," Off muttered, letting his head rest against the cool railing. Even the old messages hurt now.

Behind him, Tay snored loudly from the couch, mumbling something about New hogging the blanket. Off envied them sometimes - how simple they made love look. No hiding, no pretending, just two people who chose each other every day.

His phone showed 3:47 AM. The time they usually ended up texting, Gun unable to sleep in his perfect penthouse, Off too busy sketching to rest. Now the early morning hours just felt empty.

"Should draw something," Off said to nobody, his sketchbook heavy in his back pocket. But he knew what would happen - every line would become Gun's profile, and every shadow would hold memories of nights in his studio.

A car pulled up below - the same model as Gun's. For a second, Off's heart stopped. But it was just some random rich guy helping his girlfriend out with practiced grace. Not Gun. Never Gun, not anymore.

"Get it together, Off," Off told himself, finishing his beer. "He's probably not even thinking about you."

The empty can join others on the small table, evidence of trying to drink away thoughts of Gun. Off pulled out his sketchbook anyway - a habit he couldn't break, like checking his phone for messages that wouldn't come.

His pencil moved automatically, muscle memory betraying him. Gun's eyes emerged on the paper, the way they looked in early morning light. That soft, unguarded expression he only showed in Off's studio, when the world outside couldn't touch them.

"This is so stupid," Off muttered, but he kept drawing. Added the slight curl in Gun's hair after sleeping on Off's couch. The way his expensive shirts would wrinkle, making him look human instead of perfect.

His phone lit up - another article about Bangkok's "dream couple." Off ignored it, focusing on his sketch instead. But even that betrayed him, the lines capturing everything he was trying to forget.

A message finally came through, making his heart jump. But it was just the hospital - a reminder about his mom's next treatment. She'd asked about Gun again today and watched Off try to explain why he wasn't there. The look in her eyes had been too understanding like she knew something Off didn't want to face.

"Should've listened to Tay," Off said to the city below. "Rich boys don't leave their perfect lives for guys like me."

His phone battery died around 4 AM, the screen going black mid-scroll through old messages. Off stared at his reflection in the dark glass, at the mess he'd become over someone who probably wasn't even awake, probably wasn't thinking about him at all.

The sketchbook in his lap was full of Gun - like every sketchbook he'd filled these past months. Each page a confession Off couldn't take back. He likes Gun: but loves him worst. His fingers traced the latest drawing, careful not to smudge the lines. Gun looking lost, looking found, looking like everything Off wanted and couldn't keep.

"Time to go in," he told himself, but he stayed there, watching Bangkok's lights blur through eyes that definitely weren't tearing up. Just tired. Just drunk. Just...

The morning would come soon. He'd have to face his mom at the hospital and make up more excuses about why Gun wasn't visiting. He has to see more photos of a perfect date. He pretended his studio didn't feel empty without someone who was never really his, to begin with.

But for now, in these quiet hours before dawn, Off let himself be honest. Let himself miss Gun's laugh in his studio, his questions about art, the way he made the world make sense just by being in it. Let himself be the fool who fell for someone who had a whole other life waiting.

Let himself admit that maybe everyone was right - maybe he'd just been someone to escape to until reality called Gun home.

Chapter Text

Off had been staring at the same fucking canvas for three hours, trying to finish a commission that was already late. Every time he picked up a brush, his hand would betray him - turning simple landscapes into memories he was trying to forget.

His studio felt weird tonight. Too quiet maybe, or too empty. Like those moments before a storm hits, when the air gets heavy and everything goes still.

He'd been scrolling through social media like an idiot earlier, torturing himself with photos of Gun and Jane checking out fancy venues for their engagement gala. They looked exactly like what they were - Bangkok's golden couple, perfect and polished and completely out of Off's league.

Five days. No messages, no calls, not even a bullshit excuse about being busy. Just silence and social media posts about happy reunions and perfect love stories.

When the knock came, it wasn't Gun's usual confident rhythm. This was softer, almost hesitant. Like whoever was on the other side wasn't sure they should be there.

Off knew who it was anyway. Could probably guess what designer suit Gun was wearing, how his hair would be slightly messy from running his fingers through it - a habit he only had when something was eating at him.

"Fuck," Off muttered, staring at his door. Another knock, even softer this time.

"It's open," Off called out, hating how his voice caught. He didn't turn around, kept pretending to work on his canvas even as he heard the door open, heard expensive shoes on his paint-splattered floor.

The silence stretched, heavy with five days of unanswered messages and social media announcements. Off could feel Gun standing there, probably looking perfect and put-together while Off sat here in yesterday's clothes with paint in his hair.

"You changed things around," Gun said finally. His voice sounded rough, like he hadn't slept.

Off's hand tightened on his brush. The studio had been Gun's second home for months - of course he'd notice the turned-around paintings, the missing sketches, the spaces where memories used to hang.

"Yeah well," Off kept his eyes on his canvas. "Needed a change."

More silence. Off could hear Gun shifting, could picture him standing there in one of those suits that cost more than Off made in a month, trying to find words for whatever he came here to say.

"I saw the venue photos," Off said when the quiet became too much. "You and Jane looked good together. Like you never stopped."

"Off—"

"Five days," Off cut him off, finally turning around. "Five fucking days of nothing. And now you show up at midnight looking like..."

He stopped, the words dying in his throat. Because Gun didn't look perfect at all. He looked wrecked, like he hadn't slept in days, like his expensive suit was the only thing holding him together.

"How is your mom?" Gun said quietly, like each word hurt. "I'm sorry I haven't—"

"Don't," Off stood up, needing to move, to do something with his hands. "Don't pretend you care about that now. Not when you've been playing perfect reunion with Jane all week."

"It's not—"

"Not what? Not what it looks like?" Off laughed, the sound harsh in the quiet studio. "Cause it looks pretty clear from here. Golden couple back together, engagement gala venues, society papers eating it up..."

"Can you just..." Gun stepped closer, then stopped like he wasn't sure he had the right anymore. "Can you let me explain?"

"Explain what?" Off moved to his workbench, started organizing brushes that didn't need organizing. "How you disappeared for five days? How you couldn't even send a fucking text while my mom..." he stopped, swallowed hard. "Or maybe explain those photos? You and Jane looking so perfect together, like the last few months never happened?"

"The last few months happened," Gun's voice cracked slightly.

"Real?" Off turned to face him. "Which part? The part where you came here when you needed to forget her? Or the part where you ran back the minute she called?"

Gun flinched like Off had hit him. Good. At least one of them wasn't hiding their pain behind practiced smiles.

"That's not fair," Gun said, but his voice lacked conviction. He looked lost in Off's studio now, like he didn't fit here anymore.

"No? Then tell me what's fair," Off moved closer, anger finally breaking through his hurt. "You ghost me for days, parade around with Jane like we never happened, then show up here looking like that, expecting what exactly?"

Gun's hand went to his tie, loosening it like he couldn't breathe. "I didn't come to fight."

"Then why did you come?" Off was close enough now to smell Gun's expensive cologne, to see the shadows under his eyes that makeup couldn't quite hide. "To ease your conscience? To give me some bullshit explanation about duty and family expectations?"

"I came because..." Gun's voice broke, his perfect facade cracking. "Because I needed to see you. Because everything's moving so fast and I can't..."

"Can't what? Can't send a text? Can't let me know you're choosing her? Can't—"

"I can't breathe!" Gun's outburst echoed in the studio. "I can't fucking breathe, okay? The gala's in two weeks, the merger papers are signed, Jane's back, and I just... I needed..."

"Needed what?" Off's voice was quieter now, dangerous. "Another escape? Another night of pretending you're not leaving me tomorrow?"

"Just tonight," Gun whispered, all pretense falling away. "I know I don't have the right to ask. Know I've been... Just give me tonight."

Off felt the fight drain out of him. Because Gun wasn't wearing his corporate mask anymore. Wasn't trying to explain or defend. He just looked tired, broken in a way Off had never seen before.

"You can't keep doing this," Off said softly, but he was already giving in. Had probably been giving in since he heard that first knock.

"I know." Gun's hands were shaking slightly as he reached for Off. "I know, and I'm sorry, and tomorrow... but tonight, please. Just..."

Off let Gun pull him closer, let himself be weak one last time. Something about this felt different - final, like Gun was memorizing every detail. But Off was too tired to question it, too used to taking whatever pieces of Gun he could get.

"Your suit's going to get paint on it," Off murmured against Gun's neck.

Gun's laugh was wet, almost like a sob. "I don't care. I just need... need to remember how this feels. How you feel."

They stood there in Off's paint-scented studio, holding onto something they both knew was ending. Outside, Bangkok kept moving, unaware of hearts breaking in quiet spaces.

They ended up on Off's couch, Gun's perfect suit wrinkled, Off's paint-stained clothes probably ruining the expensive fabric. Neither of them spoke - what was there to say when every word felt like goodbye?

Gun's fingers traced patterns on Off's arm, like he was trying to draw his own memories. His other hand kept touching things within reach - Off's sketchbook, a loose paintbrush, the fabric of the couch - like he was cataloging every detail.

"You turned all the sketches around," Gun said finally, his voice quiet in the dim studio.

"Yeah." Off didn't elaborate. Didn't need to explain why he couldn't look at drawings of Gun anymore, not with social media full of engagement venue tours.

Gun's hand tightened slightly on Off's arm. "Can I... can I see what you're working on now?"

It was such a normal request - something Gun used to ask all the time, genuinely interested in Off's art. But tonight it felt heavier, like Gun was asking for one last glimpse into Off's world before...

Before what?

Off wanted to ask, wanted to demand answers about the past five days, about the gala plans, about everything. But Gun's eyes held something close to desperation, and Off was too tired to fight anymore.

"Yeah," he said instead. "Come here."

They ended up at Off's workspace, the commission piece still sitting there unfinished. It was supposed to be some boring landscape for an office lobby, but Off had somehow managed to make it tell their story without meaning to.

Gun stood close, not touching the canvas but studying it like he was trying to burn it into his memory. His expensive suit was wrinkled now, probably ruined from Off's paint-stained clothes, but for once he didn't seem to care.

"You always do this," Gun said quietly. "Take something simple and make it... fuck, I don't know. Make it mean something."

Off watched him, trying not to think about how this felt like the last time Gun would stand in his studio like this. The last time he'd get to see Gun without his perfect mask, just being himself.

"Stay tonight," Off said before he could stop himself. "Just..."

Gun turned and practically collapsed against him, face pressed into Off's neck. His hands gripped Off's shirt like he was drowning. "Thanks," he whispered, and somehow Off knew he wasn't just talking about staying the night.

They stood there in the quiet, holding onto each other while the city moved on outside. Neither of them mentioned the engagement gala plans, or the five days of silence, or how this felt way too much like an ending.

Off woke up alone, sunlight streaming through his studio windows. Gun's side of the bed was cold, but his expensive suit jacket still hung on Off's chair. A note sat on the easel: "Had early meeting. Didn't want to wake you."

Like everything was normal. Like they hadn't spent last night holding onto each other like something was ending.

Off's phone buzzed - another society page update. Gun and Jane at some fancy breakfast place, her hand in his, both of them smiling for cameras. He was wearing a different suit, probably had it ready in his car. Always prepared, always perfect.

"Fuck this," Off muttered, grabbing his brushes. He had work to do, deadlines to meet. Couldn't keep sitting around waiting for someone who was obviously choosing their life over his paint-stained floors.

Off's phone lit up with a message. His heart jumped before he could stop it.

But it wasn't Gun.

A new email notification popped up just as Off was about to throw his phone across the room. The sender made him freeze:

FROM: K. Jiranorraphat SUBJECT: Commission Request - Urgent

Off stared at it, his stomach dropping. Jane's father. The same guy who'd been plastered all over business news talking about the merger, about his daughter's perfect reunion with Gun.

"What the fuck?"

His hand shook slightly as he opened it. The message was brief, corporate:

"Need landscape piece for new office. Your work came highly recommended. Generous compensation. Time sensitive - must be completed before the gala. Details attached."

Off laughed, the sound hollow in his empty studio. Of course. Of fucking course Gun's future father-in-law would want his art. Probably some power move, some rich person's way of...

The attached price made him stop laughing. It was more than he made in three months. The kind of money that could help with hospital bills, with his mom's treatment.

His phone buzzed with another message from Tay: "You okay? Been weird since last night."

Off stared at the email again, at the Jiranorraphat company logo at the bottom. At the deadline that perfectly matched the gala date.

Nothing about this felt like coincidence.

Off's cursor hovered over 'reply.' The money could help with a lot of things, but something about this felt wrong. Like being bought off, maybe. Or worse - like being warned.

Another email popped up, this time from Mr. Jiranorraphat's assistant: "Meeting requested to discuss commission details. Today, 2 PM. The Peninsula Hotel lobby."

"This is such bullshit," Off muttered, but he found himself checking the time anyway. 11:30. He looked down at his paint-stained clothes, at the mess his studio had become. The Peninsula was the kind of place where even the air probably cost more than his monthly rent.

His phone buzzed - just Tay again: "Dude, you've been MIA since last night. You good?"

Off stared at the email, at the Jiranorraphat company logo, at the meeting time that felt more like a summons than a request. The price quoted in the first email could cover months of hospital bills. Could give his mom better treatment options.

But the timing was too perfect. Two weeks before the gala. Right after Gun spent the night acting like he was memorizing Off's studio. Right after five days of silence and perfect photos with Jane.

"Fuck," Off muttered, running his hands through his hair. The universe really had a sick sense of humor sometimes.

Off found himself in his only decent shirt at 1:45, feeling like an imposter in The Peninsula's glossy lobby. Everything sparkled - the floors, the chandeliers, the people in business suits who definitely could tell he didn't belong.

His portfolio felt heavy under his arm. He'd grabbed his most "corporate-friendly" pieces, the ones without hidden meanings or traces of Gun in the brushstrokes. Not that it mattered - this whole thing reeked of something else entirely.

"Khun Off?" A woman in a sharp suit approached him. "Mr. Jiranorraphat is ready for you. This way."

She led him past the main lobby to a private meeting room. Everything about this felt wrong - from the formal setup to the way security guards stood outside the door. This wasn't a normal commission meeting.

Mr. Jiranorraphat sat at a large table, looking exactly like the kind of person who could destroy lives with a phone call. He smiled when Off entered, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"Ah, the artist I've heard so much about," he said, gesturing to a chair. "Please, sit. We have much to discuss."

Off's stomach dropped. Because this definitely wasn't about a painting.

"Your work is quite... interesting," Mr. Jiranorraphat said, spreading out printouts of Off's pieces. But mixed in with the art were other photos - Off and Gun outside the studio, at the hospital, moments they thought were private. "You have a way of capturing emotions in simple scenes."

Off's hands clenched under the table. Every instinct told him to walk out, but the security guards outside made that feel less like an option.

"I'm not really taking new commissions right now," Off started, trying to keep his voice steady. "Too many deadlines—"

"Three million baht," Mr. Jiranorraphat cut him off casually, like he was discussing the weather. "For one piece. Simple landscape, nothing too... personal."

Off stared at him. That kind of money could cover his mom's treatment for a year. Could give her better options, private rooms, specialized care...

"Why me?" Off asked, though he already knew.

Mr. Jiranorraphat's smile turned sharp. "Let's not play games. You're talented, certainly. But we both know that's not why you're here." He pulled out another photo - Gun leaving Off's studio this morning, looking wrecked. "My daughter returns from London, ready to fulfill her duties. The merger papers are signed. Everything is proceeding perfectly. And then I find these..."

He spread more photos across the table. Months of moments Off thought were just theirs, now laid out like evidence.

"Sir—"

"Three million baht," Mr. Jiranorraphat repeated. "For a painting. And your... discretion. The gala is in two weeks. After that, what you do with the money is your choice. Hospital bills, perhaps? I hear cancer treatment is quite expensive."

Off felt ice in his veins. "You've been watching us."

"I watch everything that might affect my family's interests," Mr. Jiranorraphat said smoothly, sliding another photo forward - Off's mom in her hospital room. "Just as I watch everyone who might become... complications."

The threat was clear. Off stared at the photo of his mother, at the casual way this man had investigated their lives, found their weaknesses.

"The commission is simple," Mr. Jiranorraphat continued, pulling out a contract. "One landscape piece. Delivered before the gala. No hidden meanings, no personal touches. Just... corporate art." His smile never wavered. "Consider it a generous severance package."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then certain board members at the hospital might question the appropriateness of your... lifestyle choices. Working with children requires such careful screening these days."

Off felt sick. Not just the threat to his job, but the casual way this man wielded power. Like ruining lives was just another business transaction.

"Gun doesn't know about this meeting," Mr. Jiranorraphat added, reading Off's expression. "And he won't. Just as these photos won't find their way to certain newspapers. Three million baht buys a lot of silence."

The contract sat between them like a loaded gun. Off thought about his mom's treatment, about his young patients, about Gun's face this morning - like he was already saying goodbye.

"You really think money can fix everything," Off said quietly, staring at the contract. "That you can just buy people off and make problems disappear."

"Oh no," Mr. Jiranorraphat's smile turned almost pitying. "Money doesn't fix everything. But it does make choices clearer. Like your choice right now - take the commission, help your mother, keep your career. Or..." he gestured at the photos, "watch everything you care about disappear."

The meeting room felt too small suddenly, too polished, too far from Off's studio where things made sense.

"He'll figure it out," Off said, but his voice lacked conviction. "Gun's not stupid."

"Gun," Mr. Jiranorraphat said the name like it amused him, "is exactly who he was raised to be. He's playing at rebellion with you But when it matters? He'll choose what he's supposed to choose. He always has."

Off thought about last night - how Gun had touched everything in the studio like he was saying goodbye, how desperate he'd been to stay, how he'd disappeared by morning. Maybe Gun had already made his choice.

"The contract is simple," Mr. Jiranorraphat pushed it forward. "Sign now, deliver the piece before the gala. Your mother's treatment will be covered for a year. Your job stays secure. And everyone gets what they need."

"Let me think first," Off said, standing up. His voice came out steadier than he felt.

"Think?" Mr. Jiranorraphat raised an eyebrow, looking almost amused. "What's there to think about? The terms are quite clear."

"Maybe to you," Off grabbed his portfolio, needing to get out of this suffocating room. "But I don't make rushed decisions about my art. Or my life."

"Admirable," Mr. Jiranorraphat's voice turned cold. "But you have until tomorrow. After that, the offer expires. And other... options will need to be explored."

Off headed for the door, his legs somehow working despite feeling like jelly. But Mr. Jiranorraphat's voice stopped him.

"You know what's funny?" The man didn't wait for an answer. "Gun said almost the exact same thing when we first arranged his engagement to Jane. That he needed to think. But in the end..." He smiled, all teeth. "Well, you've seen the photos. Some people always choose what they're supposed to choose."

Off didn't respond, just walked out. Past the security guards, through the fancy lobby where he didn't belong, into Bangkok's humid afternoon. His phone showed three missed calls from Tay, but all he could see was Gun's face from this morning - gone before sunrise, back to his perfect world. He pushed through the heavy doors, past the security guards, desperate for air. The hotel lobby felt like it was closing in on him, all that polished marble and money suffocating him.

Then he saw them.

Gun and Jane were stepping out of the elevator, both looking perfect in matching navy suits. Some kind of business lunch probably. Gun's hand rested on Jane's back - a gesture Off had seen in all their recent photos.

Off froze, partially hidden behind a massive flower arrangement. Gun was laughing at something Jane said, the sound carrying across the lobby. He looked... he looked happy. Comfortable. Like he belonged in this world.

Last night felt like a dream suddenly. Gun in Off's paint-stained studio, holding onto him like he was drowning, seemed impossible compared to this version - the heir, the perfect fiancé, the man who had everything planned out.

Off should have moved, should have hidden better behind the flowers. But he stood frozen, watching them walk toward the exit. Then Gun looked up.

Their eyes met across the lobby. For a split second, Gun's smile was not fading, but something raw and painful was flashing across his face. His step faltered slightly, hand dropping from Jane's back.

But then Jane said something, touching his arm, and Gun... Gun just turned away. He straightened his shoulders, smiled even wider at whatever Jane was saying, and walked out like he hadn't seen Off at all. Like last night never happened. Like Off was just another stranger in a hotel lobby where he didn't belong.

The automatic doors closed behind them, leaving Off standing there like an idiot in his one decent shirt, holding his portfolio of paintings that suddenly felt childish in Gun's world.

His phone buzzed - probably Tay again. But all Off could think about was how easily Gun had looked away. How smoothly he'd slipped back into his role, leaving Off standing there with a three-million-baht contract and photos that proved nothing was ever really theirs to keep.

Some choices were already made.

Mr. Jiranorraphat was right. Some people always choose what they're supposed to choose.

Off's studio felt wrong when he got back. The contract in his bag weighed a ton, those photos burning in his memory. Everything here reminded him of last night - Gun touching things like he was memorizing them, holding Off like he was afraid to let go. Now, after seeing him with Jane, those memories felt like someone else's story.

His phone rang - the hospital. His mom's condition had taken a turn. They needed him there. He was grabbing his keys when the knock came.

Not the hesitant knock from last night. This was Gun's regular knock - confident, familiar, the sound of someone who used to belong here. Off stood there, keys in hand, knowing what was coming. Could feel it in the air, in the way his stomach dropped.

When he opened the door, Gun stood there in that same navy suit from the hotel. Perfect hair, perfect posture, but something was cracking behind his eyes.

"You saw me," Gun said quietly. "At the hotel."

"Yeah," Off's laugh was bitter. "Saw you choose real quick there. Didn't even hesitate."

"Let me explain—"

"Your father-in-law already did plenty of explaining today." Off stepped back, letting Gun in one last time. "Three million baht for a painting. And my silence, of course. Quite the generous offer, don't you think?"

Gun went pale, "What are you talking about?"

"The commission," Off pulled out the contract, threw it on his work table. "Due before the gala, of course. Very specific deadline. Comes with some interesting conditions too - like keeping quiet about certain photos he has."

"Photos?" Gun's voice cracked. "What photos?"

Off grabbed his portfolio, pulling out what Mr. Jiranorraphat had given him. Scattered them across his paint-stained table - months of their story laid out like evidence. Them outside the studio. At the hospital. Moments they thought were just theirs.

"Quite thorough, your future father-in-law," Off's voice was steady despite how his hands shook. "Even has shots of my mom's hospital room. Nice touch, using that as leverage."

Gun picked up one photo - them walking back from the studio late at night, Gun laughing at something Off had said. His fingers traced the image like he was trying to touch that moment again.

"I didn't know," Gun whispered. "Off, I swear I didn't—"

"Know what? That he was watching? That he'd try to buy me off?" Off moved away, needing distance. "Or that you'd walk right past me today like I was nothing?"

"That's not—"

"Fair?" Off turned back to him. "No, what's not fair is you showing up last night, acting like you needed me so badly, then playing perfect couple with Jane twelve hours later."

"I did need you," Gun's voice broke. "I still—"

"Need what?" Off cut him off. "An escape? A pretty distraction until reality calls you back? Well congratulations, your father-in-law just put a price tag on it. Three million baht to forget everything. Paint something nice and corporate for your perfect world."

"Stop," Gun stepped closer, desperation cracking through his corporate veneer. "Just let me explain—"

"Explain what?" Off yanked away from Gun's reaching hand. "How you disappeared for five days? How you showed up last night acting like you were memorizing everything? Or maybe explain how easily you looked away today, like I was just some stranger who didn't belong in your fancy hotel?"

"I had to!" Gun's voice rose, something finally breaking. "You think I had a choice? You think any of this is what I want?"

"Seems pretty clear what you want," Off gestured to the photos. "Perfect life, perfect fiancée, perfect merger. Can't have some paint-stained mess ruining that, right?"

"You don't understand—"

"No, I do understand. Finally." Off picked up the contract. "Your father-in-law made everything really clear. How this was just temporary, just you playing at rebellion"

"That's not—"

"Then tell me I'm wrong," Off stepped into Gun's space. "Tell me you're not going through with the engagement. Tell me you're choosing something different than what they planned for you." Off tried so hard not to sob, "Tell me you're choosing me the same way I'd choose you."

Gun's silence was answer enough. His eyes filled with tears, but his mouth stayed firmly shut, and Off felt something final break inside his chest.

"You'll never choose me," Off said quietly, all the fight draining out of him. It wasn't even an accusation - just a truth they'd both been avoiding.

Gun flinched like Off had hit him. His hands reached out, caught Off's paint-stained shirt, holding on like he used to. But this time Off stepped back, breaking the contact.

"I can't," Gun's voice cracked. "Off, please understand. My family's company, the merger, everything—"

"Stop." Off turned away, couldn't bear to see Gun breaking in his studio one last time. "Just... stop pretending this was ever going to end differently."

He heard Gun move toward the door, heard him pause. Could picture him standing there, probably wanting to say something meaningful, something to make this hurt less.

"I'm sorry," Gun finally whispered. "For making you think... for letting myself think..."

"Just go," Off's voice cracked despite himself. "Please. Just... go."

The door closed softly behind Gun, nothing like how he used to leave - with laughter, with promises to return, with kisses that tasted like possibility. Off waited until he heard Gun's expensive shoes fade down the hallway before he let himself break.

As soon as Gun's footsteps faded, Off's legs gave out. He slid down against his work table, paint tubes and brushes scattering around him. His hands shook as he picked up one of the photos - him and Gun walking back from some late-night convenience store run, both laughing about something stupid.

"Fuck," Off choked out, tears finally breaking through. "Fuck fuck fuck."

His phone lay forgotten where he'd dropped it earlier, the missed call from the hospital blinking silently. But Off couldn't move, couldn't do anything except sit there surrounded by evidence of everything he'd lost.

He'd known this was coming. Had seen it in Gun's eyes last night, in how desperately he'd held on, in how he'd touched everything in the studio like he was saying goodbye. But knowing hadn't made it hurt any less.

The tears came harder now, ugly sobs that echoed in his empty studio. Off pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to stop them, but all he could see was Gun looking away in that hotel lobby. Gun choosing his perfect world. Gun walking out of his studio for the last time.

His phone lit up again - another hospital call. But Off's vision was too blurred to read it, his hands shaking too hard to reach for it. The message notification blinked urgently:

"Emergency contact needed... DNR forms... immediate response required..."

The words blurred together as Off sat there in his paint-splattered sanctuary, everything crumbling around him at once.

Chapter Text

Hospitals had their own smell, Off thought. Disinfectant and fear and that underlying scent of human bodies fighting to stay alive. He'd been sitting in the same uncomfortable chair for six hours now, watching monitors beep and nurses come and go.

His mom looked smaller than ever in her hospital bed. The doctors had used words like "critical" and "DNR options" and "quality of life decisions." Off had nodded at appropriate moments, signed papers, done everything they asked. But his mind kept drifting back to his studio, to Gun walking away, to everything falling apart at once.

"She's stabilized for now," the doctor had said an hour ago. "But you should prepare yourself. These episodes will become more frequent."

Off's phone sat silent in his pocket. No messages from Gun. No more photos of the perfect couple. Just silence where their story used to be.

The contract from Mr. Jiranorraphat lay crumpled in his bag. Three million baht. Enough for better care, private rooms, specialized treatments. All for the price of his silence. All for painting something empty and corporate, pretending the last few months never happened.

"You should rest," a nurse told him, touching his shoulder gently. "She'll sleep through the night now."

But Off couldn't leave. Couldn't face his empty studio, the paint supplies Gun had touched, the spaces still holding echoes of last night. So he stayed, watching his mother breathe, wondering how many more breaths she had left.

Dawn crept through the hospital blinds, painting stripes across Off's mother's sleeping form. He hadn't moved from the uncomfortable chair all night, had watched each hour tick by on the wall clock, had memorized the rhythm of her breathing like it might disappear any moment.

The DNR forms sat on the side table, his signature still fresh. The doctor had explained everything in that careful voice they must teach in medical school - gentle but firm, compassionate but realistic. His mother's cancer had spread. Her body was shutting down. These episodes would become more frequent, more severe.

"You're making the compassionate choice," the doctor had said, squeezing Off's shoulder. "Letting her go peacefully when the time comes."

But it felt like failure. Like giving up. Like one more person slipping through his fingers when he should have been able to hold on tighter.

His phone screen showed another article about Gun and Jane's upcoming gala. Society columnists gushing about Bangkok's golden couple, about perfect matches and bright futures. Off closed it before he could torture himself further.

A nurse brought him coffee in a paper cup - hospital coffee, which tasted like warmth and nothing else. "She had a good night," the nurse said kindly. "You should go home, change clothes. We'll call if anything changes."

Off knew he should. Could feel the grime of yesterday's panic still on his skin, the emptiness of having not eaten since... when? He couldn't remember. But leaving felt impossible. What if his mother woke up alone? What if this was the day she...

"Someone was asking for you at the desk," the nurse added. "Your friend? Dark hair, expensive suit?"

Off's heart stopped for a moment before logic kicked in. Not Gun. Couldn't be Gun. Probably Tay or New, worried after he hadn't answered their calls.

"Tell them I'm not up for visitors," Off said, his voice rough from lack of sleep.

The nurse nodded, left him alone with beeping machines and his mother's too-small form under hospital blankets. Outside, Bangkok was waking up, people going about their lives unaware of how quickly everything could fall apart.

His mother stirred around mid-morning, eyes fluttering open. Off moved closer, taking her thin hand in his.

"You're still here," she whispered, voice barely audible over the machines. "You shouldn't... stay all night."

"Where else would I be?" Off tried to smile, but it felt wrong on his face. Everything felt wrong lately.

She studied him with those too-knowing eyes. Even with cancer eating away at her, she could still see through him like glass. "Something happened," she said, not a question.

Off shook his head. "Don't worry about that. How are you feeling?"

Her fingers tightened slightly on his. "Where is he? Your Gun?"

The name hit like a physical blow. Off looked away, couldn't bear his mother seeing the truth. "He's not... he's not mine, Mae. Never was."

Her breath caught, a small sound of understanding. Off wondered if she was thinking about his father, about another love story that ended with someone choosing their real life over what could have been.

"I signed the DNR," Off said, changing the subject. "The doctor explained everything. If your heart stops again, they won't..." His voice caught. "They'll let you go peacefully."

She nodded, no surprise in her expression. She'd probably known this was coming long before the doctors said it out loud. "Good," she said simply. "I'm tired of fighting."

Off's eyes burned. He'd been so afraid of her reaction, of her thinking he was giving up on her. But maybe she'd been ready longer than he knew.

"I have a commission," he heard himself saying. "Big one. Corporate piece. It would... it would pay for better care. Private room. Anything you need."

His mother's eyes sharpened, seeing too much as always. "What kind of commission makes you look so sad?"

Off laughed, the sound hollow. "That obvious?"

"To me," she squeezed his hand weakly. "Always could read your drawings. Even before I understood them."

Off thought about the contract crumpled in his bag. About Mr. Jiranorraphat's cold smile as he spread those photos across the table. About three million baht in exchange for his silence, for painting something that meant nothing.

"It's from Gun's future father-in-law," he admitted quietly. "Big money. Comes with... conditions."

She nodded, no judgment in her expression. Just that familiar patient waiting that had been part of their relationship for years.

"He wants me to paint something for their office," Off continued, filling the silence. "Deliver it before the gala. Before Gun and Jane officially announce their engagement."

His mother watched him, letting him talk. Not pushing, not questioning - just being there while he worked through it himself.

"Three million baht," Off said, the number still unreal to him. "Enough for better care, private rooms, specialists..."

She nodded again, her fingers light against his. "You've decided?" she asked simply.

Off looked away, shame burning in his chest. "I don't know," he admitted. "I just... I don't know anything anymore."

"I won't have you selling your heart," she cut him off, voice stronger than it had been in weeks. "Not for me. Not for treatments that won't save me anyway."

His mother closed her eyes, either from tiredness or to give Off privacy with his thoughts. The machines kept their steady rhythm, marking time in a room where time suddenly felt very limited.

"I met him, you know," she said after a while, voice thin but clear. "Your Gun. He brought flowers."

Off nodded, remembered the lilies. Remembered Gun standing awkwardly in this very room, trying to be perfect even here.

"He looks at you the way your father looked at me," she continued softly. "When he thought no one could see."

Off's chest tightened. "Mae—"

"I'm not asking questions," she assured him, eyes still closed. "Just saying what I saw."

They sat in silence again, the hospital bustling around them. Nurses changing shifts, visitors coming and going, life continuing its messy, complicated dance while they sat suspended in this quiet bubble.

"Whatever you decide," his mother finally said, "about the commission. About everything. Make sure it's for the right reasons." Her fingers tightened slightly on his. "Some regrets... you carry them a long time."

Off nodded, though she couldn't see him. He understood regrets. Was collecting new ones by the hour lately.

His phone buzzed in his pocket - probably Tay or New checking on him again. He ignored it, focusing instead on the slight rise and fall of his mother's chest. On the monitors showing numbers he'd learned to read over these long hospital months. On the DNR forms sitting like a surrender on the bedside table.

Everything was ending all at once, it seemed. His mother's fight. His time with Gun. The life he'd thought he was building.

Now he just had to figure out how to keep breathing through it all.

Across Bangkok, in a penthouse that should have felt like home, Gun sat staring at his phone. The message thread with Off showed their last exchange - Gun's failed explanations, Off's final goodbye. The society pages still buzzed with photos of him and Jane touring gala venues, looking perfect together.

His father's voice carried from the study - another call about the merger, about final contract details and corporate futures. Jane was out with her mother, finalizing dress details for the gala. Everyone playing their parts perfectly.

Everyone except Gun, who couldn't stop seeing Off's face when he'd walked away. The hurt there, the resignation, the final understanding that Gun would never choose him.

"I can't," Gun had said in Off's studio. The truth that had cost him everything.

He hadn't known about his father-in-law's "commission." Hadn't known about the surveillance, the photos, the threats. But that didn't matter now. He'd still chosen Jane in that hotel lobby. Still walked away like Off meant nothing. Still let their story end because he was too afraid to choose differently.

"The venue's confirmed," his father called from the doorway. "Final arrangements for the gala are set. The announcement will be the highlight of the evening."

Gun nodded, the perfect son responding as expected. But inside, he was drowning, caught between the weight of family expectations and the memory of Off's paint-stained studio where he'd felt, for a brief moment, like someone worth more than his last name.

"Your suit fitting is tomorrow," his father continued, not noticing Gun's distant expression. "The Jiranorraphats expect us at dinner tonight to finalize the announcement details."

Gun nodded again, mechanical. "I'll be ready."

His father lingered in the doorway, something almost like concern crossing his face. "You look tired. The merger stress getting to you?"

If only it were that simple. Gun forced a smile, the one he'd perfected over years of board meetings and society events. "Just some last-minute details. Nothing to worry about."

His father seemed satisfied with the lie, disappeared back to his study calls. Gun stared at his phone again, thumb hovering over Off's contact. What would he even say now? Sorry my future father-in-law threatened you? Sorry I couldn't choose you? Sorry I'm not brave enough to walk away from everything I was raised to be?

The penthouse felt suffocating suddenly. Gun grabbed his keys, needing to get out, to breathe, to think somewhere that didn't feel like a prison of expectations.

Bangkok rushed past his car windows as he drove without destination. The city looked different now, charged with memories he couldn't escape. That café where he'd first met Off in the rain. The hospital where Off's mother was fighting for her life. The studio where Gun had finally admitted he couldn't choose differently, couldn't be brave enough to walk away from everything he was supposed to want.

His phone rang - Jane. Gun let it go to voicemail.

Gun found himself driving past Off's studio, slowing down like he'd done countless times before. The light was off, the windows dark. Off was probably at the hospital with his mother, dealing with real problems while Gun drove around feeling sorry for himself.

His phone kept buzzing - Jane again, then his father, then Mr. Jiranorraphat. The perfect trinity of expectations closing in. Gun turned it off, couldn't handle their voices right now.

Without meaning to, he found himself at the children's hospital. The place where he'd watched Off work with young patients, where he'd seen a different kind of strength than what his father had taught him to value.

Gun sat in his car, watching doctors and nurses come and go. Watching families enter with worried faces, exit with either relief or devastation. Real people dealing with real problems, not worrying about society page announcements or merger contracts.

He thought about Off's mother, about her terminal diagnosis, about how Off kept showing up for her despite everything. About how Off faced reality instead of hiding behind suits.

Then Gun thought about his own reality - the failing company hidden behind press releases about expansion, the loveless engagement, the entire life built on appearances rather than truths.

The gala was in twelve days. Twelve days until he stood beside Jane and officially announced their engagement. Twelve days until the merger was finalized. Twelve days until any other choice became impossible.

His father's words from months ago echoed in his head: "Without the merger? Six months before we declare bankruptcy." 

His mother's social standing, his father's legacy – all of it riding on Gun playing his part perfectly.

Against that, what did his own happiness matter?

A family exited the hospital – parents supporting a small girl wearing a brave smile despite her obvious weakness. Gun watched them help her into their car, saw how gently they handled her, how love made them strong in ways money couldn't touch.

Off would have drawn them, Gun thought.

Would have captured that quiet strength, the beauty in their struggle. Would have seen the story behind their careful movements, the love behind their worried eyes.

Gun had never seen the world that way until Off. Had never noticed the beauty in broken things, the strength in vulnerability, the truth hidden behind practiced smiles.

His phone remained off in his pocket, the world of expectations temporarily silenced.

But right now, sitting outside a hospital watching real people face real struggles, Gun couldn't make himself care about table settings or guest lists or society page headlines.

All he could think about was Off's face when he'd walked away. The resigned understanding, like Off had always known this was how their story would end.

Gun started his car again, driving aimlessly through evening traffic. Bangkok lit up around him, neon signs and office windows creating a landscape Off would have wanted to sketch.

His phone stayed off.

His world could wait a little longer.

Without conscious decision, Gun found himself parking near the temple where his grandmother used to take him as a child. Before business meetings replaced family outings, before corporate strategy became more important than personal peace.

The temple was quiet at this hour, just a few devoted worshippers and orange-robed monks moving through evening prayers. Gun sat on a stone bench, watching incense smoke curl toward the ceiling. His grandmother had taught him to pray here, to ask for guidance when life felt overwhelming.

He wasn't sure he remembered how anymore. Wasn't sure any divine wisdom could solve the mess he'd created.

A monk passed by, offering Gun a small nod. "Troubled heart?" he asked simply, his aged face kind.

Gun wanted to laugh. Troubled heart didn't begin to cover it. But he just nodded, respect for the sacred space keeping his bitterness in check.

"What troubles the heart most," the monk said, "is knowing the right path but lacking courage to walk it."

Gun watched him continue on his way, orange robes swaying gently as he moved deeper into the temple.

Knowing the right path but lacking courage to walk it.

Wasn't that exactly his problem?

He knew what made him happy.

But knowledge wasn't enough. 

Gun sat in the temple until darkness fell completely, city lights filtering through ancient windows. When he finally turned his phone back on, the notifications flooded in - missed calls, angry messages, demands for his whereabouts.

The perfect heir had gone off-script, and no one knew quite how to handle it.

With precision, Gun typed responses. Apologies for missing dinner. Promises to be at tomorrow's meetings. Assurances that everything was fine, he just needed some air.

The lies came easily after years of practice. Everyone believed him because no one could imagine Gun Atthaphan being anything other than perfectly controlled, perfectly focused on his family.

Jane stood in front of the mirror in her childhood bedroom, stylists buzzing around her with fabric swatches and jewelry options. The gala dress fitting had been scheduled for months.

"The pearl accents complement the engagement ring beautifully," her mother was saying, examining the design sketches. "Gun's suit will have matching elements, of course."

Jane nodded, the perfect daughter responding as expected. But her eyes kept drifting to her phone, to the message from Gun explaining his absence at tonight's dinner. Something about needing air, about last-minute details to handle.

She knew better. Had seen the shadows under his makeup at their venue tour yesterday. Had felt his distance growing with each passing day, each perfect photo opportunity, each step closer to the gala that would lock them both into futures they hadn't chosen.

"Jane?" Her mother's voice cut through her thoughts. "Are you listening? The final guest list needs your approval."

"Sorry," Jane smiled automatically. "Just thinking about some details."

The stylists continued their work, pinning and measuring and discussing her as if she weren't there. Just another perfect element in the perfect gala, the perfect merger, the perfect life her father had engineered.

When they finally left, Jane sank onto her bed, kicking off the uncomfortably high heels they'd selected. Her room looked the same as it had before London - perfectly decorated, perfectly maintained, not a trace of the art books she'd hidden under her mattress or the gallery sketches she'd tucked between economics textbooks.

Her phone rang - her father. Jane let it go to voicemail. She couldn't handle his questions about Gun's absence tonight, his thinly veiled commands disguised as fatherly concern.

Instead, she pulled out her sketchbook from its hiding place behind her dresser. Flipped through design concepts for gallery spaces that would never exist, exhibition layouts that would never see light. Dreams she'd been taught to fold away like unwanted laundry.

Jane traced her finger over her gallery designs, comparing them to the gala layouts spread across her bed. Two different versions of her future, side by side. One vibrant with passion, the other perfect but hollow.

Marriage to Gun. The thought still felt surreal, even after all these years of expectation. They'd grown up with their futures mapped out.

 Jane had once thought it would be easy. After all, she'd loved Gun once and really loved him, with all the intensity of first love and childhood promises.

But that was before. 

Jane moved to her window, looking out at the manicured gardens where she and Gun used to sneak away during family dinners. She could almost see their younger selves there - making plans under summer stars, dreaming of futures that somehow always included their families' expectations, but with small rebellions they thought would be enough.

They'd been so naive.

Her phone buzzed again - photos from the society pages. Her and Gun touring venues, both looking perfect in matching navy. The headlines gushed about their reunion, about how London had only strengthened their bond.

Jane wondered what these columnists would say if they knew the truth. That she'd seen Gun in a studio from her cab one night. Had watched him with Off through the window, had seen the way Gun smiled there - free, unguarded, real in a way he never was with her anymore.

That she'd recognized love on both their faces, the kind of love that made her own arrangement with Gun feel like a shadow puppet show in comparison.

Jane picked up a framed photo from her nightstand – her and Gun smiling at graduation, still believing they could have it all. His arm around her waist felt natural then, comfortable. They'd grown up together, learned to dance together, shared first kisses and secrets and dreams.

She did love him, still. Not the passionate, consuming love of teenagers, but something deeper, more complicated.

Gun was her best friend before he was ever her fiancé. The person who'd held her when she first realized she wanted more than what her parents had planned. The one who'd encouraged her art in secret, who'd hung her first designs in his bedroom where no one else would see.

She remembered his face when she told him she didn't love him that way anymore. The pain there, but also something else – a flicker of recognition, like he'd been feeling the same shift but couldn't admit it.

Now he was in love with someone else. Jane had seen it happening for months – in his distraction during meetings, in how he checked his phone more often, in that new light in his eyes that faded whenever he had to return to their perfect charade.

She didn't feel jealous. That surprised her at first, but made sense now. How could she begrudge Gun finding what she herself had been seeking? Someone who saw him completely.

What she felt instead was sadness. For both of them. For the cage they were walking back into with open eyes, knowing what they were giving up.

Jane closed her sketchbook, pressing her hand against the cover as if holding onto the dreams inside. Could she really do this? Walk down that gala staircase in twelve days, smile for the cameras, promise her life to someone who loved another? Watch Gun slowly fade into just the corporate mask, all his real smiles reserved for memories of Off?

The question hung in the air of her perfect bedroom, unanswered.

Maybe they could make it work. They'd been friends first, after all. Maybe friendship could be enough. They could have a marriage built on mutual understanding, on caring if not passion. Raise children who would carry both their names, build the empire their parents had sacrificed everything for.

It wouldn't be the worst life.

Comfortable, privileged, secure.

Just... not real.

Jane moved to her window again, looking up at the night sky. The same stars she and Gun had made promises under as teenagers. The same moon that probably shone on Off's studio right now, on the hospital where his mother fought for her life, on all the messy, complicated realities their perfect world tried to ignore.

"Maybe," she whispered to the empty room, the word feeling dangerous even without an audience. Maybe there was another way. Maybe something would change in these twelve days. Maybe Gun would find his courage, or she would find hers. Maybe her father's iron will would bend, just once.

It was a foolish hope. Jane knew her father too well to really believe it. Knew how he operated, how he eliminated problems, how he always got exactly what he wanted.

But still. Maybe.

The word felt like a tiny flame in the dark, fragile but refusing to die. 

Maybe miracles could happen, even to people who had stopped believing in them.

Chapter Text

One week till the gala. Off stared at the blank canvas like it might bite him. Three days of trying to start this stupid commission, and still nothing but white space staring back at him. The contract sat on his desk, first payment already in his account - blood money that was paying for his mom's private room and specialists who actually treated her like a person instead of just another terminal case.

"Just paint the damn thing," Off muttered to himself, picking up a brush for the hundredth time. Mr. Jiranorraphat wanted something corporate and boring. Something that wouldn't remind anyone of messy feelings or complicated truths. Something as fake as those perfect photos of Gun and Jane that kept showing up in Off's social feed no matter how many times he tried to block the tags.

His phone buzzed - probably Tay or New checking if he'd eaten today. They'd been taking shifts babysitting him like he might fall apart completely if left alone too long. Which was fair, honestly. The past week had been a blur of hospital rooms and sleepless nights and trying not to check if Gun had unblocked his number (he hadn't).

"Focus," Off told himself, forcing the brush to touch canvas. One simple landscape. One corporate-friendly piece with no hidden meanings, no traces of broken hearts. Just paint something, get paid, keep his mom comfortable for whatever time she had left.

But his hand betrayed him, the line coming out all wrong. Too much emotion, too much truth seeping through. Off threw the brush down, paint splattering across his floor.

"Dude, that bad?" Tay's voice came from the doorway. He was holding takeout bags, looking at Off like he might shatter any second.

"Can't even paint a simple fucking landscape anymore," Off admitted, dropping onto his couch. "Everything keeps turning into..."

"Him?" Tay finished, setting down the food.

Off nodded, too tired to deny it. A week since Gun had walked out of his studio for the last time. A week of pretending he was fine, of focusing on his mom, of ignoring the deadline that was coming for both the commission and whatever was left of his heart.

"Eat something," Tay pushed a container toward him. "New's at the hospital with your mom. Said she's having a good day."

Off took the food automatically, not really tasting it. Good days were rare now. His mom slept more, spoke less, drifted away little by little while Off sat beside her, holding her hand and trying to be strong enough for both of them.

"You seen the latest?" Tay asked cautiously, nodding at Off's phone. "They released the gala guest list yesterday. Half of Bangkok's elite got invites."

"Don't care," Off lied. He'd seen it. Had scrolled through names, recognizing business leaders and society figures who would witness Gun and Jane's perfect engagement. Had imagined Gun in his perfect suit, playing his perfect part, while Off sat in a hospital room watching his mother fade away.

"You should get out," Tay said, watching Off push food around. "See something besides these walls and the hospital. New's got tickets to that new exhibit you wanted to see—"

"Can't," Off cut him off. "Commission's due in a week. And Mae..."

"Your mom would want you to breathe sometimes," Tay said gently.

Off stood abruptly, couldn't handle the kindness. "I'm fine. Just need to focus."

But as he turned back to the blank canvas, his phone lit up with another society page update. Gun and Jane at their final fitting, both looking flawless. Gun's smile perfect for the cameras, not reaching his eyes.

Off grabbed his jacket. "Actually, maybe you're right. Let's go somewhere. Anywhere."

Anywhere but here,

Gun adjusted his tie for the third time, listening to the photographer's directions. Jane stood beside him, her hand in his, both of them smiling like they'd practiced their whole lives. Which they had.

"Perfect," the photographer announced. "These will be wonderful for the gala program."

Gun nodded, the perfect heir responding as expected. But inside, he was counting seconds until he could escape. Seven days until the gala. Seven days until he officially became everything he was supposed to be, while giving up everything that had started to matter.

"You look tired," Jane murmured as the photographer checked his equipment. "Still not sleeping?"

Gun shook his head slightly. No point lying to Jane - she saw through him better than anyone. They'd been playing these roles side by side for too long.

"Have you..." Jane hesitated. "Have you tried to contact him?"

Gun's jaw tightened. They didn't talk about Off directly. Had developed this careful language of hints and vague references, like saying his name might break whatever fragile truce they'd built.

"He blocked my number," Gun admitted quietly. "After your father's... commission offer."

Jane's eyes widened slightly. "What commission?"

Gun looked at her sharply. "Your father didn't tell you? He offered Off three million baht to paint something for the new office. Due the day of the gala."

"How generous," Jane's voice was carefully neutral, but Gun could see understanding dawning in her eyes. Her father's methods were never subtle when examined closely.

"Alright, just a few more," the photographer called, positioning them again. "Look at each other like you're in love."

They both laughed at that, the sound surprisingly genuine. Because if there was one thing Gun and Jane understood completely, it was the absurdity of their situation. Playing perfect love for cameras while their real feelings lay elsewhere, buried under family expectations and corporate demands.

"We could still..." Jane whispered as they posed, her smile never wavering. "Find another way."

Gun's heart twisted. A week ago, he might have believed that. Might have thought there was still a choice to be made, a different path to walk. But after seeing Off's face when he walked away, after understanding exactly what Mr. Jiranorraphat was capable of... what choice was there, really?

The gallery was crowded, but Off barely noticed the art. Tay and New walked beside him, carrying most of the conversation while Off nodded at appropriate moments, pretending he wasn't thinking about his blank canvas or his mother's hospital room or Gun's perfect gala photos.

"This reminds me of your style," New said, pointing to a landscape. "The way light and shadow play together."

Off looked at it properly for the first time. It was good - honest in a way most corporate art wasn't. The artist had captured something real about Bangkok's skyline, something beyond just buildings and lights.

"Gun would like this one," Off said before he could stop himself.

Tay and New exchanged glances but didn't comment. Just another moment in the minefield of Off's broken heart, another reminder they had to navigate carefully.

"Sorry," Off muttered, moving away from the painting. "Shouldn't have said that."

"It's okay to miss him," New said quietly. "Even if he didn't choose you in the end."

Off laughed, the sound hollow. "That's the thing though. It's not about him not choosing me. It's about him not choosing himself."

He stopped in front of another painting - this one darker, more complex. A figure standing at a crossroads, one path bright but arduous, the other smooth but shadowed.

"Gun knows who he really is," Off continued, surprising himself with the words. "Knows what would make him happy. But he can't choose it because the weight of everything else is too heavy."

"And you?" Tay asked gently. "What are you choosing?"

Off thought about the blank canvas waiting in his studio. About Mr. Jiranorraphat's contract and threats. About his mother's hospital bills and fading strength.

"I'm choosing to survive," Off said finally. "Maybe that's all any of us can do."

The bass thumped so loud Off could feel it in his chest, like a second heartbeat. After the quiet gallery that had only reminded him of Gun's thoughtful questions about art, he'd insisted they go somewhere loud, somewhere crowded, somewhere he could disappear into noise and bodies and maybe, just maybe, find a few hours of forgetting.

"You sure about this?" Tay shouted over the music, eyeing Off's already empty glass. "Getting wasted and hooking up with randoms isn't exactly your style."

"Maybe it should be," Off signaled the bartender for another drink. "Better than sitting in my studio staring at blank canvases all night."

New and Tay exchanged that look again – the one that said they were worried but trying not to show it. Off was getting tired of that look.

"That guy's been checking you out," New nodded toward the dance floor, where a tall guy in a black t-shirt had been glancing their way. Good-looking, confident, nothing like Gun's careful corporate polish.

Perfect.

Off knocked back his second drink, the alcohol burning a path to his empty stomach. "Maybe I'll go say hi."

"Off," Tay caught his arm. "This isn't you. You don't do casual hookups or drunk rebounds."

"Maybe I'm tired of being me," Off pulled away. "Maybe I'm tired of caring too much about people who leave anyway."

The dance floor was packed with bodies moving to music Off couldn't even name. The guy in the black shirt smiled as Off approached, made room in his circle of friends. Up close, he was even better looking – strong jaw, easy smile, eyes that held none of the complex shadows that Gun's did.

"Haven't seen you here before," the guy leaned in to be heard over the music. His hand found Off's waist, casual, confident.

"First time," Off replied, letting himself be pulled closer. The guy smelled like expensive cologne and simple intentions. Nothing like Gun's complexity, nothing like the paint and coffee and midnight conversations.

They danced, bodies pressed close in the crowd. The guy's – Mike, he'd said his name was – hands were sure on Off's hips. It should have felt good. Should have been exactly the distraction he needed.

But all Off could think about was how different these hands felt from Gun's. How this stranger's casual confidence felt nothing like Gun's careful vulnerability in the studio. How even the way this guy looked at him – appreciative but simple – paled compared to how Gun had seen him, really seen him..

"Want to get out of here?" Mike asked, lips brushing Off's ear. "My place is close."

It would be so easy. So simple. A night of forgetting with someone who wanted nothing but the physical, who carried none of the complications that had left Off's heart in pieces.

Off's eyes caught Tay watching him from the bar, concern written all over his face. For a second, Gun's image flashed in Off's mind – probably at some gala planning meeting right now, perfect suit, perfect smile, perfect fiancée by his side.

"Screw it," Off turned back to Mike, anger fueling his decision. "Yeah, let's go."

Mike's smile was easy, uncomplicated. He took Off's hand, leading him toward the exit. Off stopped briefly by Tay and New.

"Don't wait up," he told them, ignoring their worried looks. "I'm good."

"Off—" Tay started.

"I'm a grown man," Off cut him off. "And I'm tired of hurting over someone who chose everything else over me."

Mike's apartment was exactly what Off expected – stylish, minimal, nothing like Off's paint-splattered studio. Nothing to remind him of memory-filled spaces or meaningful art. Just clean lines and simple intentions.

"Drink?" Mike offered, but Off shook his head.

"No more thinking," he said, stepping closer. "That's the whole point of this."

Mike's kiss was skilled, confident. His hands knew what they were doing as they pushed Off's jacket off his shoulders. It felt good in a straightforward way – physical, unambiguous, no complex emotions lurking beneath the surface.

But even as Off let himself be pulled toward the bedroom, his mind betrayed him. The stranger's touch kept transforming into memories of Gun – how Gun's hands had trembled the first time, how his eyes had held questions and wonder, how every touch between them had felt weighted with meaning neither could fully express.

Off pushed those thoughts away violently, focusing on the present. On Mike's hands, Mike's mouth, Mike's uncomplicated desire. This was about forgetting. About proving he could move on. About finding a few hours where Gun's ghost didn't haunt every corner of his life.

No strings attached. No complex feelings. No heartbreak waiting at the end.

Just a night of filling the void, even if he already knew it wouldn't work.

Chapter Text

Off's studio looked like some kind of artistic crime scene. Paint splatters marked walls that had never been intended as canvas, brushes lay abandoned in corners, half-finished attempts at Mr. Jiranorraphat's commission stacked against the wall like evidence of repeated failure.

In the center stood Off, staring at yet another blank canvas. The gala was approaching fast, the deadline for the commission looming over him like a guillotine. He hadn't slept properly in days, splitting his time between the hospital and futile attempts to create something meaningless enough to satisfy Gun's future father-in-law.

His phone buzzed - another message from Tay checking if he was still alive. After the night with Mike (which had ended more awkwardly than anything else, with Off unable to stay present, unable to stop comparing every touch to memories he was trying to forget), his friends had been watching him more carefully than ever.

Off ignored the message, picking up a brush for what felt like the hundredth time. Just a simple landscape. Just buildings and sky and nothing that meant anything to anyone. Just something corporate and empty that would earn him the final payment to cover his mother's care.

But his hand betrayed him again, lines forming that reminded him too much of Gun's profile, shadows taking shapes that held too many memories. Off threw the brush across the studio, paint splattering the wall like blood.

"Fuck this," he muttered, grabbing his keys. He couldn't be here anymore, surrounded by failed attempts at forgetting. Couldn't keep pretending he could create something meaningless when his entire being rebelled against it.

The hospital corridors had become more familiar than his own studio lately. Off nodded to nurses who knew him by name now, who sometimes saved him decent coffee or left extra blankets in his mother's room for his overnight stays.

"She's been asking for you," the head nurse said quietly as Off approached his mother's room. "Having a difficult morning."

Off braced himself before entering. Each day brought new losses - his mother's voice growing softer, her moments of clarity becoming shorter, her body surrendering bit by bit despite her spirit's resistance.

She looked smaller today, almost disappearing among the hospital blankets. Her rosary beads still moved between her fingers, but slower now, with less purpose. When she saw Off, her smile was ghost-like, there and not there at once.

"My son," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the machines. "You look tired."

Off managed a smile, taking her free hand in his. "Just working late, Mae. How are you feeling today?"

"Ready," she said simply.

The word hung in the room like smoke, impossible to wave away. Off squeezed her hand, not trusting his voice. He'd known this was coming - had signed the DNR forms, had listened to doctors explain the progression, had watched her decline day by day. But hearing her acceptance made it suddenly, terrifyingly real.

"The commission?" she asked, her eyes clearer for a moment, focused on his face with that mother's perception that saw too much.

"Coming along," Off lied, thumb tracing the prominent veins on her thin hand. "Don't worry about that."

"You hate it," she observed, not fooled. "Creating something empty."

Off looked away, couldn't bear her seeing the truth - that he'd tried and failed repeatedly, that something in him refused to create art without meaning, especially for the man who'd threatened everything he cared about.

"It pays for this room," he said instead. "For the specialists. It's worth it."

His mother's fingers tightened slightly on his. "No art is worth your soul," she whispered. "I should have told you that... years ago."

Off's eyes burned. After a lifetime of pushing him away from his art, of prayers and disapproval, these words felt like a gift he hadn't known he needed.

"Mae—"

Off couldn't speak, throat tight with everything he'd been trying not to feel. His mother's hand squeezed his again, summoning strength from somewhere beyond her frail body.

"Don't... make my mistakes," she whispered. "Don't push away love because you're afraid. Don't create without meaning because someone... pays you to."

Her words hung in the air between them, more honest than they'd been with each other in years. Off leaned forward, pressing his forehead against their joined hands, finally letting tears come after holding them back for so long.

"I don't know how to let him go," he admitted into the quiet room. "Don't know how to paint something that means nothing. Don't know how to watch you..."

His voice broke completely. His mother's free hand came to rest on his head, gentle as if he's a child.

"Then don't," she said simply.

They sat like that for a long time, the silence between them more honest than years of stilted conversations and careful distance. The beeping machines kept time like strange metronomes, marking moments that felt increasingly precious.

"I have something for you," his mother said after a while, voice regaining strength for a moment. She gestured weakly to the small drawer beside her bed. "In there."

Off opened it, finding a small, worn sketchbook he didn't recognize. The cover was faded blue, the pages yellowed with age.

"Your father's," she explained, seeing his confusion. "I didn't burn everything, after all."

Off's hands trembled as he opened it. Inside were sketches - his mother as a young woman, laughing in sunlight. A small house with a garden. And baby drawings, a child with familiar eyes - himself, caught in loving lines by a father he barely remembered.

"He had real talent," his mother continued softly. "Like you. I was... so afraid when I saw it in you. Afraid you'd become like him."

Off turned pages carefully, discovering a family he'd never known he had - moments of happiness before truth shattered everything. His father's art was good, showing the same attention to emotional detail that marked Off's own work.

"But I was wrong," she whispered. "Art wasn't his sin. Lying was. Your art... your art is honest. Always has been."

Off couldn't speak, throat tight with decades of misunderstanding finally clearing. His mother watched him with eyes that held more clarity than they had in weeks, like she'd been saving strength for this moment.

"The commission," she said, each word clearly costing effort now. "Don't paint lies for him. Not even for me."

"Mae—"

"Promise me." Her fingers tightened on his with surprising strength.

Before Off could respond, the monitors changed their rhythm, nurses rushing in as his mother's eyes fluttered closed. He found himself pushed to the corner of the room, watching professionals work with practiced efficiency, hearing phrases like "episode" and "stabilizing" but understanding that another piece of his mother had just slipped away.

When they finally left, she was sleeping, her face peaceful in a way it hadn't been in years. The head nurse touched Off's shoulder gently.

"She's stable, but..." she hesitated. "These episodes are coming closer together. You should prepare yourself."

Off nodded, numb with too many emotions to process. The sketchbook sat heavy in his hands, a gift and a burden all at once.

"Call me if anything changes," he said, voice rough. "I need to... I need to take care of something."

The studio felt different when he returned, his mother's words echoing in the space. Off moved through it slowly, looking at turned-around sketches, at failed attempts at meaningless art, at the blank canvas still waiting like an accusation.

He picked up the sketchbook his mother had given him, studying his father's art more carefully now. Despite everything - the lies, the double life, the pain he'd caused - there was undeniable truth in how he'd captured his secret family. Love in every line, every shadow, every moment preserved.

Off's gaze fell on Mr. Jiranorraphat's contract, pristine on his desk despite the chaos around it. Three million baht for a lie. For silence. For betraying everything art had ever meant to him.

His phone buzzed - a society page update about tomorrow's gala. Another perfect photo of Gun and Jane, another reminder of choices made and unmade. Off couldn't avoid it forever, couldn't keep pretending this deadline wasn't approaching like an inevitable storm.

Off picked up a brush, mixing colors with newfound purpose. If he was going to paint something for the man who'd threatened everything he loved, it wouldn't be the meaningless corporate piece he'd ordered.

Off's hand moved across the canvas with certainty for the first time in weeks, lines forming that came from somewhere deeper than conscious thought. As the image emerged, he felt something unlock in his chest - not healing exactly, but release. The kind that comes with finally letting go of pretense, of fear, of trying to be anything other than exactly who you are.

His phone lit up with another hospital notification, but Off kept painting. The piece was taking shape now, impossible to stop, impossible to deny. Like his mother said - no art was worth his soul. Certainly not art created to please someone who thought money could buy silence and compliance.

Off worked through the night, colors and shapes flowing from some place beyond thought, beyond planning. As dawn broke over Bangkok, he stood back, looking at what he'd created.

It showed two figures intertwined on rumpled sheets, bare skin painted in soft morning light. Gun's face turned toward the viewer, eyes half-closed in that vulnerable space between sleep and waking. Off's back to the viewer, protective arm draped across Gun's chest. Their bodies were a study in contrasts - Gun's perfect smoothness against Off's artist's calluses, corporate heir and paint-stained dreamer finding brief connection in honest light.

The details would be unmistakable to anyone who knew Gun - the small scar near his collarbone from a childhood fall, the couple ring he'd removed but left on the bedside table, the conflict in his expression even in private moments of peace. Off had captured every line with the precision of memory and the honesty of heartbreak.

It wasn't obscene - Off was too much of an artist for that. It was intimate, emotional, devastatingly real. The kind of painting that revealed souls, not just bodies.

His phone lit up again - the hospital. Off knew he should answer, should go back to his mother's bedside. But something in him needed to finish this first, needed to complete this act of defiance and then release.

The letter had arrived yesterday, tucked in a plain envelope that Off had almost thrown away with junk mail. An offer from a children's arts program in Japan, seeking someone with his specific experience in art therapy. Six months minimum, starting immediately.

Far from haunting memories in every street corner, every café in the rain, every morning light that reminded him of Gun's sleeping face.

Off had placed the letter on his desk, not ready to think about it yet. But now, looking at the painting drying before him - his final statement, his last word in a conversation being ended for him - the offer felt like timing too perfect to ignore.

His hands were steady as he prepared the canvas for transport, wrapping it carefully despite knowing it would cause an uproar. That was the point, after all. One final act of artistic honesty before letting go completely.

The hospital message still waited on his phone. Off took a deep breath, reading it with the strange calm that comes after making irrevocable decisions.

His mother had taken another turn. The doctors were making her comfortable. It was time to come back.

Off looked around his studio one last time - at turned-around sketches, at memories preserved in graphite and shadow, at the space where he'd found and lost something he hadn't known he needed. The painting stood ready by the door, his truth made visible. The letter of escape lay waiting on his desk.

It was time to deliver both his final commission and his final goodbye.

Staff moved efficiently through rooms decorated in cream and gold, placing floral arrangements and checking table settings with military precision. Mr. Jiranorraphat supervised from the center, checking details against his list, ensuring everything would be perfect for tonight's announcement.

Upstairs, in a room that felt more like a staging area than a bedroom, Gun stood motionless as tailors made final adjustments to his suit. Custom-made in London, the dark blue fabric caught light in subtle ways, making him look like the perfect groom-to-be. Like the perfect heir. Like everything he was supposed to be.

Jane sat at her vanity nearby, stylists working on her hair while she scrolled through her phone. They'd been getting ready for hours already, the announcement requiring perfect presentation from both of them.

"The photographer wants more couple shots before guests arrive," Jane said, not looking up from her screen. "Something about golden hour lighting."

Gun made a non-committal sound. Words felt difficult lately, like they stuck in his throat alongside all the things he couldn't say.

The tailors finished their adjustments, backing away with respectful bows. Gun studied his reflection - perfect suit, perfect hair, perfect smile that didn't reach his eyes. A stranger stared back at him, one he barely recognized anymore.

"You look like you're attending a funeral, not an engagement announcement," Jane observed once they were alone, meeting his eyes in the mirror.

Gun's laugh was hollow. "Aren't I? The death of... whatever might have been different."

Jane turned to face him directly, her half-finished hairstyle making her look unusually vulnerable. "We can still—"

"Don't," Gun cut her off gently. "Please, Jane. Not today."

She studied him for a long moment, seeing too much as always. "Have you heard from him?"

Gun shook his head. The silence from Off had become its own kind of pain - a constant absence he felt like a phantom limb. His number was still blocked, his social media darkened. Like Off had disappeared completely from his world, leaving only memories trapped in perfect suits and corporate smiles.

"Your father's commission is due today," Gun said instead. "He was quite... specific about the deadline."

Jane's expression darkened. "I still can't believe he did that. Threatening Off's career, his mother's care..."

"That's business," Gun replied, the bitterness in his voice surprising them both. "Everything has a price. Even silence."

One of Jane's stylists returned, ending their moment of honesty. They both seamlessly slipped back into their roles - the perfect couple preparing for their announcement. But Gun caught Jane watching him in the mirror, her eyes holding the same resignation he felt in his bones.

Off waited in the reception area, canvas carefully propped beside him, ignoring the curious glances from the executive assistant. He'd purposely worn his most paint-stained clothes, a silent rebellion against the pristine corporate environment.

"He'll see you now," the assistant finally said, gesturing toward heavy double doors.

"Ah, the artist," he said, his smile not reaching his eyes. "Right on deadline. I appreciate punctuality."

Off said nothing, just placed the wrapped canvas carefully against the desk. The letter from Japan felt heavy in his pocket, a reminder that after this, he was free. To leave, to start over, to stop letting fear make his choices.

"I trust you followed the specifications?" Mr. Jiranorraphat continued, reaching for the commission contract. "Something appropriate for our corporate environment?"

"Like artists do."

Something in his tone made Mr. Jiranorraphat look up sharply. "The agreement was quite specific—"

"The agreement was for a painting," Off cut him off. "That's what I delivered. The final payment can be sent to my account for my mother's care." He moved toward the door. "Or not. Your choice."

"Wait," Mr. Jiranorraphat stood. "Don't you want to unwrap it? Explain your... "

Off paused at the door, looking back at the man who had threatened everything he cared about. "Some art doesn't need explanation. Just honest eyes."

With that, he left, not waiting to see the reaction, not wanting to watch this man discover the truth he'd tried to buy away. The elevator carried him back to the lobby, each floor marking distance between who he used to be and who he was choosing to become.

Mr. Jiranorraphat stared at the wrapped canvas with growing unease. Something in the artist's tone, in his casual dismissal of their agreement, triggered warning bells honed by decades of business negotiations.

"Sir?" his assistant hovered in the doorway. "The car is waiting to take you to the gala."

"A moment," he waved her away, reaching for the wrapped package.

He removed the paper carefully, methodically, his movements precise and controlled like everything else in his life. As the last piece fell away, he went completely still, staring at what was revealed.

"That little..." Mr. Jiranorraphat's carefully maintained control slipped, anger rising as he took in every damning detail.

The small scar near Gun's collarbone, visible only to someone who had seen him intimate. The couple ring removed but placed on the bedside table - a detail so specific it could only come from real memory. The conflict in Gun's expression even in this private moment, captured with devastating accuracy.

His eyes caught the artist's bold signature in the corner, along with a title that made his jaw tighten: "What Might Have Been"

Off found himself walking toward the venue. He told himself he just wanted a glimpse, a final image to take with him.

One last memory before letting go completely.

The exterior was already transformed and decorated with lights and cream and gold flowers. Staff rushed about, making final preparations as evening fell. Security was visible but discreet, checking guest lists and keeping curious onlookers nearby.

Off found a spot across the street, partly hidden by decorative trees. From here, he could see the entrance, the arriving guests in formal wear, the photographers capturing Bangkok's elite for tomorrow's society pages.

And then he saw them.

Gun and Jane, arriving together like the perfect couple they were raised to be. Her in a cream gown that caught the light, him in that custom blue suit that Off knew would bring out his eyes. They moved with practiced grace, smiling for cameras, accepting congratulations from arriving guests.

Off should leave. Should walk away, go back to the hospital, focus on his mother and his imminent departure. But his feet refused to move, his heart refused to stop watching this final scene play out.

The moment came without warning. As if choreographed for maximum impact, Gun went down on one knee in front of the gathered crowd, pulling out a ring box that caught the evening lights. Jane's hand went to her mouth in perfect surprise, though Off imagined she'd known this was coming, had probably rehearsed her reaction.

Cameras flashed, capturing the perfect proposal for perfect society pages. Applause rippled through the gathering crowd. The fairy tale was proceeding exactly as written.

Off felt something break inside his chest – not his heart, which had already been broken. Something deeper, more fundamental. The last thread of hope he hadn't even realized he'd been holding onto.

Some fairy tales don't get happy endings. Some choices, once made, can't be unmade.

Off walked away from the lights and cameras, from the perfect couple and their perfect moment, from the life he'd briefly touched but never really been part of. His phone continued to vibrate – the hospital, his mother, reality, calling him back.

He then hailed a taxi, leaving the place, choosing a different path.

Chapter Text

The hospital room was too quiet.

Off sat beside the empty bed, staring at the space his mother had occupied for months. The sheets were already changed, the machines disconnected and wheeled away, the room sterilized and prepared for its next occupant. Like his mother had never been there at all.

He'd made it back just in time. Had rushed from the gala, heart pounding with too many endings happening at once. The nurse's face had told him everything before she even spoke - that look of gentle sympathy reserved for those about to face what cannot be changed.

His mother had opened her eyes one last time when he took her hand. Had smiled, just slightly, before the monitors fell into that single, unbroken tone that meant everything was over.

Now, hours later, he still hadn't moved. The nurses had been kind enough to let him stay, understanding the strange suspended reality of fresh grief. Outside, Bangkok continued as always - traffic and noise and life moving forward while Off sat perfectly still, caught in the aftershock of loss.

His phone had died at some point. He hadn't bothered to charge it. What was the point? Who would he call? What would he say? "My mother died, and I saw the man I love propose to someone else, and I'm leaving for Japan in two weeks, and I don't know how to breathe through any of this."

The sketchbook his mother had given him sat heavy in his lap - his father's drawings, his secret family, moments of happiness preserved in graphite and shadow. Off's fingers traced the edges, feeling connections across time, across misunderstandings and mistakes and love that couldn't survive reality.

"Mr. Atthaphon?" A doctor stood in the doorway, clipboard in hand. "We need to discuss arrangements."

Off nodded, standing on legs that felt disconnected from his body. Arrangements. Forms. Decisions. The administrative aspects of death that somehow felt both trivial and monumentally difficult.

The doctor led him to an office, speaking gently about options, about cremation, about death certificates and personal effects. Off nodded at appropriate moments, signed when asked, made choices he would not remember making later.

"She didn't suffer," the doctor said, as if this might provide comfort. "She was ready."

Off nodded again, wondering how anyone could possibly understand the magnitude of what was breaking inside him. It wasn't just about his mother's passing. It was about everything ending at once - his mother, his love for Gun, his life in Bangkok, his past and present colliding in one impossible day.

When he finally left the hospital, early morning light was breaking over the city. Off stood on the steps, suddenly directionless. Go home? To his empty studio with its paint-stained floors and memories? Go where?

His feet carried him through awakening streets, past vendors setting up for the day, past workers heading to early shifts, past the normal rhythm of a city that hadn't stopped just because Off's world had. He walked without destination, without purpose, just needing to move when everything inside him felt frozen.

The studio felt both familiar and foreign when he returned, like visiting a place you once lived but no longer belong. Off moved through it slowly, seeing evidence of his fractured state everywhere - the blank canvases he'd failed to fill, the turned-around sketches he couldn't bear to look at, the coffee cup Gun had used still sitting unwashed by the sink.

The Japan letter sat on his desk where he'd left it, confirmation email already sent, future already decided. Two weeks until he would leave this place, these memories, this version of himself behind.

Off collapsed onto his couch, exhaustion finally overtaking him. When had he last slept? Before delivering the painting? Before the gala? Before watching Gun kneel before Jane with a ring that represented everything Off would never have?

Sleep came in jagged pieces, broken by dreams of hospital monitors and his mother's hand going limp in his. Of Gun smiling for cameras, looking happy and devastated at the same time. Of paint that wouldn't stay on canvas, that kept bleeding through attempts at corporate meaninglessness.

When he woke, afternoon light streamed through his windows. His phone had somehow charged enough to function, buzzing with messages he couldn't bring himself to check. Probably Tay and New, wondering where he was. Probably the hospital with more forms to sign, more arrangements to finalize.

Not Gun. Never Gun. That chapter was closed now, sealed with a diamond ring and society page headlines.

Off dragged himself to the bathroom, catching his reflection in the mirror. He looked like hell - eyes hollow, face pale, hair sticking up at odd angles. His mother would have clicked her tongue, handed him a comb, told him to pull himself together.

But she was gone now. And he was alone in ways he'd never experienced before.

The thought hit him with sudden clarity: he was completely alone. No mother praying for his redemption. No Gun seeking escape in his studio. No one to answer to, to be responsible for, to shape his choices around.

It was terrifying. And somehow liberating.

Off turned on the shower, letting hot water wash away hospital smells and dried tears. As steam filled the small bathroom, he tried to imagine Japan. New language, new children to help, new streets to learn. A place where no one knew him as the gay son his mother had prayed for, or the artist who'd fallen for someone he couldn't have.

Just... Off. Whoever that might turn out to be.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of necessary actions. Off checked his messages just long enough to let Tay and New know what had happened, to postpone their worried visits with promises he was okay, just needed space. Just long enough to confirm funeral arrangements, to transfer funds, to begin the administrative dismantling of his mother's life.

Not long enough to see if there was anything from Gun. Not brave enough to check if his number was still blocked, if the painting had caused any ripples in that perfect world.

Evening found Off sitting on his studio floor, surrounded by half-packed boxes. The systematic disassembly of his life felt appropriate somehow - matching his grief's thoroughness, his heart's careful compartmentalization.

Art supplies in one box. Clothes in another. Children's drawings from the hospital in a third.

Memories of Gun... those he wasn't sure what to do with. The sketches still lined his walls, most turned to face inward but some forgotten in his haste to hide them. Gun laughing, Gun thinking, Gun in all the moments Off had thought were building toward something real.

Off stood, moving methodically around his studio. Each sketch came down, each memory carefully placed in a separate box. Not to take to Japan - he wasn't that masochistic. But not to destroy either. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

His phone rang, startling him in the quiet studio. Tay, probably, or New. Or the hospital with more questions about arrangements.

Off let it go to voicemail. Whatever it was could wait. This careful dismantling of his heart couldn't be rushed.

As night fell over Bangkok, Off continued his methodical packing. Box by box, memory by memory, separating what would go to Japan from what would stay behind. What belonged to his future from what was firmly, irrevocably past.

The society pages would be covering the gala now, publishing perfect photos of the perfect couple, sharing details of the perfect proposal Off had watched from across the street. Perhaps even mentioning the merger, the business alliance being cemented by this personal union.

Off didn't look. Didn't torture himself with glimpses of a world that had never really been his to share.

His mother's favorite shawl sat folded on his desk, brought from the hospital along with her few personal effects. Off touched it gently, remembering how she'd wrap it around herself during therapy sessions, finding comfort in its familiar weight.

"I'm sorry," he told it quietly, not sure what exactly he was apologizing for. For not understanding her fears sooner? For not being the son she had prayed for? For being unable to save her in the end?

For all of it, maybe. And for none of it. Grief made no sense, followed no rules, obeyed no timeline.

Off continued packing until exhaustion claimed him again, sleep finding him curled on his couch with his mother's shawl clutched against his chest. This time, dreams were merciful - just darkness, just rest, just temporary respite from the weight of too many endings at once.

Morning came too soon, sunlight insistent through windows Off had forgotten to cover. Another day of arrangements, of packing, of putting one foot in front of the other when all he wanted was to stay still until the pain became manageable.

But life continued with relentless persistence. Funeral homes needed decisions. Japan needed paperwork. His studio needed clearing. The world kept spinning despite Off's desperate wish for just a moment to catch his breath.

Days blurred together, marked only by boxes filled and emptied, by forms signed, by the systematic dismantling of a life in preparation for whatever came next. Tay and New visited briefly, bringing food Off barely touched, offering help he gently refused, understanding his need for space even as they worried about his isolation.

The society pages continued their breathless coverage of Gun and Jane's engagement, the merger, the perfect Bangkok power couple. Off stopped looking, finally blocking the tags completely, refusing to torture himself with glimpses of what might have been.

Gun never called. Never texted. Never appeared at Off's door with explanations or apologies or goodbyes. The painting had apparently caused no miracle, changed no minds, altered no perfect plans.

Or if it had, Off would never know.

His mother's funeral was small, quiet, attended by a few nurses who had cared for her, by Tay and New who came to support Off, by distant relatives who barely knew either of them but felt obligated to appear. Off moved through the rituals like a sleepwalker, saying appropriate words, accepting condolences, playing his part without feeling connected to any of it.

The painting payment arrived in his account the day after the funeral - three million baht, as promised, despite everything. Off stared at the notification, trying to understand what it meant. A final payoff? A gesture of unexpected integrity? A way to ensure Off would actually leave Bangkok as planned?

It didn't matter. The money would help with Japan, with starting over, with creating something new from the ashes of everything that had ended.

On his last night in Bangkok, Off sat on his nearly empty studio floor, a single lamp casting shadows across the space. His final sketch captured the empty studio itself - the light, the shadows, the absence that somehow contained everything that had happened there.

He signed it carefully, dated it, then left it propped against the wall. A goodbye letter in graphite and shadow, addressed to no one, or perhaps to everyone he was leaving behind.

As dawn broke over his last day in Bangkok, Off took one last look around the space that had held so many versions of himself. The artist, the son, the lover, the dreamer - all of them packing up, moving on, choosing to become someone new from the pieces that remained.

Gun was gone from his life now, just like his mother. Both losses acute in different ways, both leaving spaces that couldn't be filled, only carried forward into whatever came next.

He closed the door behind him, stepping into morning light that held no promises but offered a new page, blank and waiting. For whatever truth he would choose to create next.

Tokyo in autumn looked nothing like Bangkok. The colors were sharper, the air cooler, the light different in ways Off was still learning to capture in his sketches. 

His apartment was small but sufficient - a bedroom, a compact kitchen, a living area he'd converted into a workspace. Art supplies covered most surfaces, sketches and paintings taped to walls, evidence of his attempts to process everything through the only language that had ever made sense to him.

The children's art therapy program kept him busy during the day. Japanese kids were different from Thai ones - more reserved initially, more precise in their drawings, but just as hungry for ways to express what they couldn't say in words. Off was learning their language slowly, relying more on art than conversation, finding connection in the universal language of color and line.

At night, grief found him. Three months hadn't dulled its edges much. It came in waves, unexpected and overwhelming, triggered by small things - a woman in the market with his mother's favorite shawl, a man on the train with Gun's profile, a child drawing something that reminded him of Mai's dinosaurs back in Bangkok.

Tonight, rain tapped against his windows, creating patterns that reminded him of that first meeting in the café. Off sat cross-legged on his floor, sketchbook open but untouched, letting himself remember.

He'd gotten better at this - at allowing memories to come without drowning in them, at acknowledging pain without letting it consume him. Progress measured in tiny increments, in breaths that came easier, in days when art flowed instead of sticking in his throat.

Off picked up his pencil finally, letting his hand move across paper without conscious direction. This was his therapy now - drawing whatever emerged from the quiet spaces between thoughts, between heartbeats. Sometimes his mother appeared, sometimes Gun, sometimes just abstract emotions given shape and shadow.

Tonight, it was Tokyo's skyline from his window, rain blurring lights into soft halos. Different from Bangkok's familiar chaos, but beautiful in its own way. New, but not unwelcome.

The sketch took shape slowly, Tokyo transforming from unfamiliar city to something that might, someday, feel like home. Not yet, but possibly. Eventually.

His exhibition was scheduled for next month - small but significant, his first in Japan. Children's art therapy pieces alongside his own work, telling parallel stories of healing and expression. His new colleagues were impressed with his technique, with his ability to connect with even the most withdrawn children, with the emotion he brought to simple lines.

They didn't know about his mother, about Gun, about the painting he'd delivered as both defiance and farewell. Didn't need to. His art spoke for him, told the parts of his story he was ready to share.

Off added rain to his Tokyo skyline, drops catching light as they fell. Some griefs were like that - visible only when they caught the light just right, otherwise invisible but always present.

He missed his mother every day. Missed the chance to finally build the relationship they might have had, after that moment of honest understanding in her hospital room. Missed the opportunity to show her that art could heal as well as reveal, that the talent she'd feared in him was actually his salvation.

He missed Gun differently - a sharper pain, edged with anger and confusion and lingering questions.

Off signed the drawing, dated it, and added it to the collection growing on his walls. 

Tomorrow would bring more therapy sessions.

Chapter Text

Four months in Tokyo and the seasons were starting to shift again. The sharp autumn had softened into early winter, bringing shorter days and a chill that seeped through Off's thin apartment walls. He'd bought a space heater last week, placed it near his worktable where he spent most evenings sketching or preparing materials for his therapy sessions.

His exhibition had gone well - better than expected for an unknown Thai artist in Tokyo. Several pieces had sold, and the director of the children's program had been pleased with the attention it brought to their work. A small write-up in a local arts magazine mentioned his "evocative use of shadow and light to convey emotional transitions," words that made Off smile grimly when he translated them. If only they knew what transitions those shadows truly represented.

Tonight, he sat cross-legged on his floor cushion, a cup of green tea cooling beside him as he sorted through sketches for his next series. The therapy center had asked him to consider another exhibition in spring, focusing on the children's progress. Off had agreed, though spring felt impossibly far away, a season he couldn't imagine reaching sometimes.

Denial had been his constant companion those first weeks in Japan. Even as he set up his small apartment, even as he began work at the children's center, even as he navigated foreign grocery stores and train systems, some part of him had refused to believe this was his life now. He'd wake disoriented, expecting Bangkok's familiar sounds and smells, expecting to need to visit his mother at the hospital, expecting... everything that was no longer his reality.

The denial had extended to Gun as well - refusing to acknowledge the pain, pretending it was just another breakup, just another romantic disappointment to move past. He'd told himself stories: that it hadn't been real, that it had just been physical, that two people from such different worlds could never have found lasting connection anyway. Lies that got him through those first lonely nights in a strange country.

His phone buzzed - Tay again. After months of sporadic responses, his friend had developed a persistence that bordered on aggression. Off picked up the phone, scanning the message:

"Just checking if you're still alive. New made your favorite kaeng som yesterday and we both got sad. Please at least send an emoji so we know you haven't been murdered by Japanese ghosts."

Off smiled despite himself. Tay's humor had always been like that - blunt, slightly bizarre, but effective. He sent back a simple ghost emoji, enough to satisfy his friend's concern without inviting more questions he didn't want to answer.

The anger had come later, in his second month. Fierce, unexpected surges that would hit him in the middle of art therapy sessions, watching Japanese children express their pain so differently from how Thai children did. Anger at his mother for leaving just as they'd begun to understand each other. Anger at himself for running away. But mostly, anger at Gun - for not fighting harder, for choosing security over love, for letting his father dictate the terms of their ending.

Off had channeled that anger into a series of paintings so raw he never showed them at the exhibition. Canvases of red and black, of torn paper and jagged lines, of faces half-formed and then violently obscured. His apartment had felt too small to contain the fury those nights, his body too fragile to hold the storm raging inside it.

He reached for a fresh sheet of paper now, hand moving almost unconsciously as he sketched the Tokyo skyline from memory. His work had softened again lately, edges less sharp, colors returning gradually. Progress, his therapist would say - the one he'd finally started seeing after a particularly bad week when he couldn't get out of bed to go to work.

The bargaining stage had been quiet but persistent. If he worked hard enough at the center, if he helped enough children find their voices through art, perhaps he could earn back some of what he'd lost. If he stopped checking Gun's social media (which he'd unblocked in a moment of weakness), perhaps the universe would send him someone new to love. If he sent enough money back to maintain his mother's grave, perhaps she would forgive him for not being there in her final moments.

Bargains made with ghosts and fate, whispered prayers to a God he wasn't sure he believed in anymore.

Outside, snow had begun to fall - Tokyo's first of the season. Off moved to the window, watching white flakes catch in streetlights. So different from Bangkok's eternal summer, this cycle of death and renewal played out in changing leaves and falling snow and the promise of spring flowers. Nature's grief process, he thought - nothing truly lost, just transformed.

Depression had settled in by the third month, heavy and familiar as an old blanket. Not the sharp agony of fresh grief but something deeper, quieter - a constant companion that colored everything in muted tones. Some days better than others, some days barely able to function. His colleagues noticed but didn't pry, respecting the private nature of whatever had brought him to Tokyo with shadows in his eyes.

The children helped most. Their uncomplicated need for his attention, their honest expressions of pain and joy, their art that cared nothing for technique or audience but existed purely as emotional truth. Off found himself learning from them, from their resilience and their willingness to keep trying even when their pictures didn't match the visions in their heads.

His phone buzzed again. This time it wasn't Tay but New:

"The hospital named their new children's art room after your mother. Thought you'd want to know. The money from that last commission... it did something good after all."

Off's breath caught. The commission. The painting. He hadn't allowed himself to think about it since leaving Bangkok, had never asked what happened after he delivered his final act of defiance to Mr. Jiranorraphat. Had Gun seen it? Had Jane? Had it caused the scandal he'd half-intended, half-feared? Or had it simply been destroyed, truth painted over like so many inconvenient realities in that world?

He set his phone down without responding, not ready to open that door to questions he still couldn't face. Instead, he returned to his sketch, adding detail to Tokyo Tower in the distance, trying to capture the way snow changed its familiar silhouette.

Acceptance came in small moments, unexpected and fleeting. In successfully navigating a conversation in broken Japanese with his elderly neighbor. In finding a Thai restaurant that made tom yum that tasted almost like home. In realizing he'd gone a whole day without thinking about Gun, then a whole week without checking his social media. In catching himself humming while preparing materials for his therapy sessions.

Not happiness, not yet. But something like peace, something like the quiet that comes after a storm passes, leaving damage to be assessed and repaired but also clear skies and the knowledge of having survived.

His apartment was starting to feel like his now. He'd added small touches - a plant by the window, a colorful throw blanket, children's drawings pinned alongside his own work. Evidence of a life continuing, rebuilding itself from fragments of what remained after loss.

Off finished his sketch, signed it with the date, and added it to the growing collection. He'd started keeping track of time this way - one skyline sketch each week, marking subtle changes in the city and in himself. Tonight's showed Tokyo under first snow, buildings softened by white, lights blurring into gentle halos in the winter air.

His exhibition pieces would be different - more structured, more focused on the therapeutic process. But these skyline sketches were just for him, a private record of healing measured in pencil lines and changing perspectives.

Tomorrow would bring another day of therapy sessions, another Japanese lesson, another small step forward. Tonight was for quiet reflection, for acknowledging both absence and presence, for the gentle practice of continuing.

Off made himself another cup of tea, watching snow accumulate on his small balcony. Bangkok felt both impossibly distant and achingly close tonight - carried in the taste of the Thai tea he'd splurged on at the international market, in the familiar weight of his mother's rosary beads that he kept beside his bed, in memories that surfaced without the sharp pain they'd once brought.

Gun would be married by now. The thought came unexpectedly, but without the stabbing agony it would have caused months ago. Just a fact, a reality existing parallel to Off's new life. Gun and Jane, merged companies and society pages, the perfect couple created by family expectations and business interests. Off hoped, in a distant way, that they'd found some measure of happiness within their gilded constraints. Everyone deserved that much, even those who made choices that hurt others.

His phone lit up with a notification - the weather app warning of continued snowfall overnight. Off closed his curtains against the darkening sky, against a world going quiet under snow, against memories that no longer belonged in this small Tokyo apartment he was slowly making his own.

Five months, and Tokyo's winter had deepened. Snow piled in corners of streets, melted and refroze into treacherous patches that Off was learning to navigate with careful steps. His vocabulary had expanded to include Japanese words for ice and sleet and the particular stillness of air before snow falls.

The children's art therapy center had closed for a week-long holiday, giving Off unexpected free time. He'd filled it with exploring neighborhoods he hadn't visited yet, sketching in small cafés where staff now recognized him and brought his usual order without asking, working on pieces for his spring exhibition.

He was starting to recognize himself again in mirrors - not quite the same person who had left Bangkok in grief and defiance, but someone he could live with. Someone who carried scars but wasn't defined by them. Someone learning to look forward instead of back.

New had sent him photos of the newly dedicated art room at his mother's hospital - walls painted in soft colors, art supplies organized in labeled bins, children's creations already adorning bulletin boards. Off had cried, alone in his apartment, something breaking loose inside him at the sight of his mother's name on a simple plaque by the door.

Perhaps that was the beginning of acceptance - seeing that something good had come from the pain after all. That the money from the commission that had cost him so much had created a space where other children could find their voices through color and line, just as he had once done.

He'd called New after that, their first real conversation since he'd left Thailand. Awkward at first, then easier as they fell back into old rhythms. New had been careful, mentioning Bangkok, the hospital, mutual friends, but never Gun. That subject remained untouched, though its absence shaped their conversation like negative space in a drawing.

Today, Off had ventured further than usual, taking a train to a neighborhood known for its art supply stores. He needed special paper for a technique he was teaching the children, something about the texture helping hesitant hands feel more confident with unfamiliar media.

The district buzzed with creative energy - small galleries nestled between cafés, art students carrying portfolios, shop windows displaying brushes and paints and papers in dizzying variety. Off felt at home here in a way he rarely did in Tokyo, surrounded by the universal language of artistic creation.

He found what he needed in a shop run by an elderly man who spoke no English but recognized a fellow artist in Off. They communicated through gestures and nods, the shopkeeper showing Off different papers, Off demonstrating what he wanted to accomplish with each. He left with more supplies than he'd intended to buy but also with an invitation, conveyed through pantomime, to return.

Connections forming slowly, tentatively. Not friendship yet, but recognition. Belonging, of a sort.

Off stopped at a small restaurant for lunch, ordering by pointing at pictures on the menu. The warm noodles were perfect against the winter chill, the quiet atmosphere soothing after the sensory stimulation of the art district. He sketched as he ate - something he'd never done in Bangkok but had become a habit here, where no one knew him as anything other than the foreign artist who kept to himself.

His phone remained silent. Tay had finally eased up on his barrage of messages, accepting that Off would respond when he could, when he was ready. Their friendship had shifted into something that accommodated distance and change - less immediate but still present, still caring.

Off finished his meal and headed back toward the train station, packages of art supplies tucked under his arm. The sky had darkened, threatening more snow before evening. He hurried his steps, not wanting to be caught in bad weather far from his apartment.

Near the station entrance, a gallery caught his eye - small, modern, displaying what looked like photography in the front window. Off paused, drawn by something familiar in the composition of the central piece. Black and white urban landscapes, Tokyo seen through a foreigner's eye, perspectives that reminded him of his own weekly skyline sketches.

He hesitated, checking the time, then decided he could spare a few minutes to look closer. Art always centered him, reminded him of why he'd chosen this path despite everything it had cost him. The gallery door chimed softly as he entered, warm air enveloping him after the winter cold.

Off moved quietly through the space, studying the photographs. They were good - technically proficient but also emotionally resonant, capturing Tokyo's contradictions of ancient and modern, crowded and lonely, familiar and foreign. He found himself nodding in appreciation, recognizing a kindred spirit in whoever had created these images.

When he reached the final wall, he froze, blood rushing in his ears. There, larger than the others, was a photograph of Bangkok at sunset. The familiar skyline he'd grown up with, left behind, still dreamed about sometimes. The recognition hit him like physical pain - homesickness and grief and longing all at once.

Off stood transfixed, staring at this unexpected piece of home in a Tokyo gallery, feeling the careful balance he'd constructed these past months threatening to topple. He'd been doing better, had been moving forward, had almost convinced himself that Bangkok was becoming just a place he'd once lived rather than a wound that wouldn't heal.

Then movement in his peripheral vision - another visitor entering the gallery, stamping snow from boots, unwinding a scarf. Off didn't turn, still caught in the emotional undertow of seeing Bangkok unexpectedly, unprepared.

"The evening light in Bangkok is unlike anywhere else, isn't it?" The gallery attendant was speaking to the new arrival in English, her voice soft in the quiet space. "The photographer spent several months there before coming to Tokyo."

Off should leave. Should gather his art supplies and go back to his apartment, back to the life he was carefully building from broken pieces. But his feet wouldn't move, his eyes still fixed on that golden Bangkok sky.

"Yes," a voice replied in English touched with a Thai accent so painfully familiar that Off's heart stopped. "There's nothing quite like it."

The voice he'd tried so hard to forget. The voice that had whispered against his skin in darkened rooms. The voice that had never said goodbye.

Off turned slowly, disbelief warring with certainty, past colliding with present in a Tokyo gallery as snow began to fall outside.

Gun stood just inside the entrance, elegant in a black wool coat, snowflakes melting in his hair. Their eyes met across the gallery space, across five months of silence, across choices made and unmade and consequences lived with.

Off stood perfectly still, art supplies clutched against his chest like armor, feeling as if he were seeing a ghost - or becoming one, all color and substance draining from the world until there was nothing but this impossible moment, this impossible person, standing where he could not possibly be.

Gun's lips parted slightly, eyes widening in shock or recognition or something Off couldn't name. For an eternal second, neither moved, the gallery suspended in perfect stillness around them.

Outside, snow continued to fall on Tokyo, covering everything in transformative white.

Chapter Text

Off left the gallery without a word, without a backward glance, moving as if in a trance. His feet carried him automatically toward the train station, art supplies clutched so tightly against his chest that his knuckles turned white. The snowfall had intensified, flakes swirling around him in a disorienting dance that matched his internal chaos.

It couldn't have been Gun. Tokyo was home to millions of people; the statistical probability of encountering one specific Thai man in a random art gallery was virtually nonexistent. His mind was playing tricks, projecting familiar features onto a stranger because he'd been caught off guard by that photograph of Bangkok. That was the logical explanation.

Yet Gun's voice had been unmistakable. That particular cadence, the slight hesitation before certain English words, the soft tone that had once whispered against Off's skin in darkened rooms. Five months hadn't erased that memory from Off's body, from the part of his brain that recognized Gun's presence before conscious thought could catch up.

Off barely registered boarding the train, finding a seat, watching Tokyo blur past through snow-streaked windows. His mind replayed those few seconds in the gallery on endless loop, searching for evidence that it had been a hallucination, a manifestation of unresolved grief.

The man's hair had been styled differently. Gun always wore his in that carefully disheveled way that looked effortless but required expensive products and skilled hands. This man's hair had been longer, falling across his forehead in a way Gun's father would never have approved of for business meetings or society events.

But those eyes... Off closed his own, leaning his head against the cold train window. Five months of therapy hadn't prepared him for this moment, for the sudden collapse of carefully constructed walls between his past and present.

By the time he reached his apartment, night had fallen completely, Tokyo transformed into a darker, quieter version of itself under continuing snowfall. Off's fingers felt numb as he fumbled with his keys, finally managing to unlock his door and stumble inside.

He dropped his art supplies unceremoniously on the floor, not bothering with lights as he made his way to his futon and collapsed. The dark apartment offered no distractions, no escape from the circular thoughts chasing each other through his mind.

If it was Gun—and it could not possibly be Gun—what was he doing in Tokyo? Had he come looking for Off? Impossible. No one knew where Off had gone except Tay and New, and they had promised to keep his location private. Besides, why would Gun search for him now, five months later, married to Jane, living the life that had been planned for him since birth?

Unless he wasn't married to Jane.

Off sat up abruptly, reaching for his phone with shaking hands. He hadn't checked Gun's social media in weeks, a small victory in his ongoing recovery that now felt meaningless. His thumb hovered over the screen, heart pounding in his ears.

No. He couldn't go back down that rabbit hole, couldn't undo months of painful progress because of one possible sighting that was most likely his imagination conjuring ghosts from photographs of Bangkok.

Off set his phone aside without unlocking it, wrapping his arms around his knees in the darkness. Tomorrow, he would go back to the gallery. Not to look for Gun—that would be absurd, self-destructive—but to see the photographs again in daylight, with a clearer mind. To confirm that he had simply been overwhelmed by homesickness, by unexpected reminders of everything he'd left behind.

Sleep evaded him that night, consciousness slipping in and out of dreams where Gun stood in snowy Tokyo streets, in Off's apartment, in the therapy center where Off worked, always just out of reach, always turning away before Off could speak.

Morning found Off exhausted but determined, making coffee stronger than usual as he prepared for the day. The school was still closed for the holiday, giving him time to return to the gallery without rushing. He dressed carefully, telling himself it was because of the cold and not because of any absurd hope of seeing Gun again.

The gallery opened at ten. Off arrived at ten-thirty, heart racing as he pushed open the door, hearing the same soft chime that had announced his entrance yesterday. The same attendant smiled in recognition, and Off nodded politely, turning immediately toward the back wall where the Bangkok photograph had been displayed.

It was gone.

Off stood blinking at the empty space, wondering briefly if he had imagined not just Gun but the entire photograph as well. But no—the wall now held a different image, something urban and stark that Off barely registered as his mind tried to process this new development.

"You're looking for the Bangkok sunset?" the attendant asked, approaching with a kind smile. "It sold yesterday afternoon. The photographer was quite pleased; it was one of his favorites."

Off forced himself to respond normally, to ask about the artist as if it were simple curiosity rather than desperate need. The attendant seemed happy to share information about the photographer, a Korean man who had traveled extensively through Southeast Asia before settling temporarily in Tokyo.

Not Gun, then. Not even Thai. Off's shoulders sagged with relief or disappointment—he wasn't sure which emotion predominated as he thanked the attendant and turned to leave.

"Oh," she called after him, "if you're interested in his work, he's doing a small talk at Sakura Café tomorrow evening. Just down the street. His English is quite good."

Off nodded absently, stepping back into the snow-covered street. So it had been his imagination after all, his mind playing tricks because he'd been caught off guard by seeing Bangkok unexpectedly. The logical explanation he'd known all along.

Then why did disappointment sit so heavily in his chest? Why did the confirmation that Gun was not in Tokyo, was not seeking him out, feel like losing him all over again?

Off walked slowly through falling snow, no destination in mind, just movement to match the restlessness inside him. Five months of therapy had taught him not to run from difficult emotions but to acknowledge them, examine them, let them pass through rather than pushing them away.

So he acknowledged: part of him had hoped it was Gun yesterday. Had hoped that everything had somehow changed, that impossible barriers had fallen, that the fairy tale might have a different ending after all.

Foolish, after everything. After Gun's silence, after the proposal Off had witnessed with his own eyes, after months of trying to rebuild a life that didn't revolve around what could never be.

Off found himself in a small park, sitting on a snow-dusted bench as Tokyo continued its business around him. He pulled out his pocket sketchbook—a habit now, drawing whatever he needed to process—and began sketching the man he thought he'd seen yesterday. Not Gun as Off remembered him from those intimate moments together, but Gun as he might look now: hair slightly longer, perhaps less perfectly styled, still heartbreakingly familiar.

The sketch took shape slowly, Off's fingers stiff with cold as snow continued to fall around him. When he finished, he studied it critically. A good likeness, but only of the Gun who lived in Off's memory, not whoever he might have become in these months since Off left Bangkok.

Off closed the sketchbook, tucking it back into his pocket. Tomorrow he would return to his regular routine—prepare materials for when the therapy center reopened, continue work on pieces for his spring exhibition, practice his Japanese with the elderly neighbor who had taken a grandmotherly interest in him. He would not go to Sakura Café to hear a Korean photographer talk about travels through countries Off already knew intimately.

The proposal happened exactly as planned. Under crystal chandeliers and the approving eyes of Bangkok's elite, Gun went down on one knee before Jane, ring box open to catch the light. Cameras flashed, capturing the perfect moment for tomorrow's society pages. Jane's practiced surprise, Gun's rehearsed smile, the audience's appreciative applause—everything perfectly choreographed, perfectly hollow.

They moved through the rest of the evening like actors in a well-rehearsed play—accepting congratulations, posing for photographs, sharing the obligatory celebratory dance. Jane's father, Mr. Jiranorraphat, watched from the sidelines with satisfaction.

The gala ended at midnight. By one in the morning, Gun and Jane had disappeared.

No warning, no note, no trace of where they'd gone. Their phones went straight to voicemail. Their personal assistants claimed no knowledge. Security footage showed them leaving together in a taxi rather than the company car—already unusual enough to raise eyebrows.

By morning, both families were in crisis mode. By afternoon, the business world was buzzing with rumors. By evening, what was meant to be celebratory coverage of their engagement had transformed into scandalous speculation about their disappearance.

Three days. That's how long Gun and Jane stayed gone, how long they left both powerful families scrambling for explanations, how long Bangkok society feasted on rumors ranging from elopement to kidnapping.

Three days in which Gun finally saw Off's painting.

It happened the first night, when they were hiding at Jane's university friend's vacation home on the outskirts of Bangkok. After the initial rush of adrenaline from their impulsive escape had faded, Jane had fallen asleep, emotionally exhausted. Gun sat alone on the porch, staring at his phone—not to answer the dozens of missed calls, but to look at the photograph his assistant had reluctantly sent.

"Sir, Mr. Jiranorraphat received a commission from that artist today. I thought... you might want to see it before it disappears."

The image filled Gun's screen, stopping his breath. Two figures intertwined on rumpled sheets, morning light softening bare skin. His own face turned toward the viewer, eyes half-closed in that vulnerable space between sleep and waking. Off's back to the viewer, protective arm draped across Gun's chest. Every detail captured with devastating accuracy—the small scar near Gun's collarbone, the couple ring removed but visible on the bedside table, the conflict evident even in this most intimate moment.

Gun stared at it for hours, every brushstroke like a physical touch he would never feel again. The title burned into his consciousness: "What Might Have Been."

"Is that it?" Jane asked softly, appearing in the doorway wrapped in a blanket. "The commission Off delivered?"

Gun nodded, unable to speak past the tightness in his throat.

Jane sat beside him, leaning to see the screen. "It's beautiful," she said after a moment. "Honest in a way nothing in our lives has been allowed to be."

Gun finally found his voice. "Your father will destroy it."

"Probably," Jane agreed. "That's what our families do with inconvenient truths."

They sat in silence, the weight of expectation and tradition heavy between them despite their momentary escape.

"I can't marry you," Gun said finally. "Not even for the merger. Not even for our families."

Jane's smile held a sadness Gun had never noticed before. "I know. I've known for months." She pulled her knees to her chest, suddenly looking younger than he'd seen her in years. "Can I tell you something I've never told anyone?"

Gun nodded, sensing the importance of whatever confession was coming.

"Her name is Lin," Jane said quietly. Understanding bloomed slowly. "The girls' weekends"

Jane nodded. "I tried to end it when our engagement became official. Tried to do my duty, be who everyone expected. But seeing you these past months, watching you struggle with the same impossible choice... it made me realize we can't keep living lies just to make our families richer."

Gun stared at her, this woman he'd known since childhood suddenly revealing depths he'd never suspected. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"The same reason you didn't tell me about Off," she replied simply. "Fear. Duty. The weight of expectations so heavy we stopped questioning them."

Gun looked back at the painting on his phone. "What do we do now? We can't hide forever."

"No," Jane agreed. "But we can use these three days to make a plan. Something better than running away in the middle of the night like teenagers."

They strategized, they researched contract law, they made calls to carefully selected allies. Jane reached out to her father's business rival, who was more than happy to provide background ammunition. 

On the fourth day, they returned to face the music.

The meeting took place in Mr. Jiranorraphat's office—neutral ground for neither of them, but tactical advantage for Jane. Her father sat behind his massive desk, Gun's parents flanking him in a united front of parental disapproval.

"I hope you've enjoyed your little rebellion," Mr. Jiranorraphat began, voice cold with controlled fury. "The damage to both your reputations is considerable, but not irreparable if we move quickly. We've prepared a statement about pre-wedding jitters and a private celebration in Phuket."

Gun and Jane exchanged glances, a silent confirmation of their resolve.

"That won't be necessary," Jane replied, her professional voice a stark contrast to her father's emotional one. "We've prepared our own statement."

She placed a folder on the desk, sliding it toward the three stunned parents.

"What is this?" Gun's father demanded, not reaching for it.

"A new proposal," Gun explained. "For a business alliance that doesn't require marriage."

Mr. Jiranorraphat's laugh was dismissive. "The contracts are signed. The merger—"

"The merger can proceed exactly as planned," Jane interrupted smoothly. "But our personal lives will no longer be business assets to be traded."

"This is absurd," Gun's mother interjected. "The marriage has been announced. Society expects—"

"Society will adjust," Gun said with newfound confidence. "As they always do when money is involved."

Jane leaned forward slightly. "The proposal outlines a business partnership that achieves every financial goal of the original merger. The only difference is that Gun and I won't be sacrificing our personal happiness for corporate strategy."

"And if we refuse?" Mr. Jiranorraphat asked, eyes narrowed dangerously.

Jane smiled, the expression not reaching her eyes. "Then I walk away completely. The merger dies. Both companies suffer significant losses. And for what? Pride? Tradition?"

Gun's father reached for the folder, skimming its contents with growing alarm. "You can't be serious. This would require restructuring the entire deal."

"Which we've already started," Gun confirmed. "We've spent three days consulting with experts who assure us this approach is not only viable but potentially more profitable in the long run."

The silence that followed was heavy with shifting power dynamics. These parents had controlled their children's lives completely for decades, had never faced serious resistance. Now they were confronted with a united front they hadn't anticipated.

"And the... personal reasons for this sudden rebellion?" Mr. Jiranorraphat asked, gaze fixed on his daughter.

Jane met his eyes without flinching. "Are personal. And will remain so."

Another tense silence. Then Gun's father sighed heavily. "This will take time to renegotiate. The board will need convincing."

"We've already spoken to key board members," Gun replied. "They're receptive, especially when shown the financial projections."

The shock on the parents' faces would have been comical in another context. These children they thought they controlled completely had been moving pieces on the board without their knowledge.

"You went behind our backs," Mr. Jiranorraphat stated, voice dangerously quiet.

"We learned from the best," Jane replied with a pointed look at her father.

The meeting continued for hours, moving from shock to anger to reluctant negotiation. By evening, a tentative agreement had been reached—the merger would proceed with restructured terms, the engagement would be quietly dissolved, and both families would save face through carefully crafted public statements about "evolving business strategies."

It was only as they were leaving that Gun remembered to ask about the painting.

"Where is it?" he asked Mr. Jiranorraphat directly. "Off's commission."

Jane's father's expression darkened. "That provocative display has been dealt with."

"Meaning what?" Gun pressed, heart sinking.

"Meaning it no longer exists," Mr. Jiranorraphat replied coldly. "Such things have no place in our world."

Gun felt physical pain at the confirmation, as if something irreplaceable had been torn from him. Not just a painting but the last connection to Off, evidence that what they'd shared had been real.

Jane touched his arm gently as they left the building. "I'm sorry," she said simply.

Gun nodded, unable to speak past the tightness in his throat. They'd won a kind of freedom today, but the victory felt hollow knowing that Off was gone, the painting destroyed, and the truth they'd shared erased as thoroughly as Bangkok's elite could manage.

The weeks that followed were a whirlwind of restructured contracts, carefully managed press statements, and the gradual untangling of wedding plans that had been months in the making. Gun and Jane maintained a united front throughout, their friendship stronger than it had ever been during their engagement.

"Have you tried to find him?" Jane asked one evening as they reviewed press coverage of their "mutual decision to pursue independent paths while maintaining business relations."

Gun didn't pretend not to know who she meant. "His phone's disconnected. His apartment's been rented to someone else. His friends won't tell me anything."

"They're protecting him," Jane observed. "That says something important about what kind of friend you were to him."

The words stung with their truth. Gun had been selfish, had taken what Off offered without giving enough in return, had hidden their relationship like something shameful when it had been the most honest part of his life.

"I wouldn't tell me where he is either," Gun admitted.

Jane studied him thoughtfully. "You really love him."

It wasn't a question, but Gun answered anyway. "Yes. More than I realized until it was too late."

"Then find him"

Chapter Text

Gun stood at the back of the funeral, hidden behind a pillar, watching as strangers and family paid their respects to Off's mother. He wore plain clothes, nothing that would mark him as the heir to one of Thailand's largest conglomerates, nothing that would draw attention. The dark circles under his eyes spoke of sleepless nights, of a grief he had no right to claim but felt nonetheless.

He had learned of her passing through business connections, through the careful monitoring of hospital records he'd initiated after Off disappeared. Gun knew he shouldn't be here - knew his presence would only cause pain if discovered - but he couldn't stay away. This woman had raised the man Gun loved, had shaped him into the artist whose honesty had ultimately freed them both. Gun owed her a debt he could never repay.

The funeral was modest but beautiful, flowers arranged with an artist's eye - Off's influence evident even in his absence. Gun caught glimpses of people who must be relatives, noticed the hospital staff who attended in surprising numbers. He listened to stories of a complicated woman who had found peace and understanding with her son in her final days.

But Off wasn't there.

Gun waited until the last mourners had left before approaching the altar, placing the simple white chrysanthemum he'd brought among more elaborate arrangements. He bowed his head, offering silent gratitude to the woman whose final gift to her son had been the freedom to create truth rather than comfort.

"You shouldn't be here."

Gun turned to find a young man watching him with undisguised hostility. It took a moment to place him - Tay, Off's friend. They'd met before, briefly, months ago.

"I needed to pay my respects," Gun replied quietly.

Tay's laugh was bitter. "Respect? Is that what you call it? Where was your respect when your family threatened his career? When your father-in-law made his mother's care contingent on painting corporate lies?"

Gun flinched at "father-in-law," at the reminder of what Off must believe had happened after he left. "Jane isn't my wife. The wedding never happened."

Tay's expression didn't change. "Doesn't matter now, does it? He's gone."

"Where?" Gun couldn't stop himself from asking, desperation breaking through carefully maintained composure. "Please, I need to—"

"Need?" Tay stepped closer, voice low with controlled anger. "You don't get to talk about need. He needed someone to choose him for once. He needed someone to stand up for what they had together. He needed you, and you weren't there."

Each word landed like a physical blow. Gun didn't defend himself - couldn't, against such simple truth.

"Just tell me he's alright," Gun finally said. "That's all. I won't bother you again."

Something in his voice must have reached Tay, some genuine remorse or pain that transcended the social gulf between them. Tay studied him for a long moment, judgment warring with reluctant compassion.

"He's alive," Tay conceded finally. "That's all you get. Now leave before someone else recognizes you."

Gun nodded, knowing he'd been granted more than he deserved. He took one last look at the funeral altar, at the evidence of a life completed if not entirely fulfilled, then slipped away as quietly as he'd come.

The search began in earnest after that.

Gun had resources most people couldn't imagine - private investigators, international connections, access to records that should have been private. He deployed them all with single-minded focus, to the concern of business associates who noticed his distraction, his increasing absence from board meetings and social events.

He started with the obvious - Off's apartment, now occupied by a young family who knew nothing of the previous tenant. The art therapy program where Off had worked, where administrators cited "privacy policies" rather than answering Gun's increasingly desperate questions. Off's university connections, who either genuinely didn't know his whereabouts or were impressively loyal in their ignorance.

Dead ends, all of them.

Gun retreated to his penthouse each night to compile what little information he'd gathered, pinning notes and threads on a board that gradually covered an entire wall. Whenever the search seemed hopeless, he'd stand before Off's painting - the one object he'd fought his family to keep, the truth that had changed everything.

Three weeks after the funeral, Gun tried a different approach. New and Tay both worked at the same center where Off had once been employed. He waited outside one evening, catching them just as they were leaving after shift.

Tay noticed him first, nudging New who was arranging supplies on a workbench. Both froze, exchanging glances that communicated volumes without words—the kind of silent conversation that came from being not just colleagues but partners in life.

"You've got some nerve coming here," New said, setting down a box of brushes with controlled precision. His voice was sharp with barely contained anger.

Gun removed his cap, a gesture of respect rather than concealment now. "I need to talk to you. About Off."

"There's nothing to discuss," Tay said, moving slightly in front of New as if to shield his partner from Gun's presence. "Off is gone. Building a new life. Leave it alone."

"I know he's gone," Gun replied quietly. "I know I'm the reason why."

"Not just you," New corrected, stepping around Tay to confront Gun directly. "Your whole world. Your inability to stand up for what matters. Your passive acceptance while Jane was the only one actually trying to fix things."

Gun flinched at the assessment. "What do you mean?"

New's laugh was sharp, humorless. "We know more than you think, Phunsawat. Jane came here. After Off left. Told us everything—how she had to do all the work, research contract laws, approach her father's business rivals for leverage, create the entire alternative merger strategy. While you just stood there looking pretty, accepting whatever fate your families decided."

The words hit like physical blows, each one exposing truths Gun hadn't fully acknowledged even to himself. "She did that?"

"She did that," New confirmed, disgust evident in his voice. "And now you show up, what—expecting us to tell you where Off is? After you didn't have the balls to fight for him when it actually mattered? After you let him believe you married her?"

Shame washed through Gun, hot and undeniable. "I didn't know how to fight them back then," he admitted. "I'd never gone against my family before Off. I didn't know I could."

"And now?" Tay asked, his tone less hostile than New's but equally skeptical.

Gun met his gaze directly. "Now I'm here. Looking for someone I have no right to find. Hoping for a chance I don't deserve. But trying anyway, because he deserves the truth even if he never forgives me for it."

"You're not wearing a wedding ring," Tay observed unexpectedly.

"There was no wedding."

"But the proposal—"

"Was for show," Gun confirmed. "To satisfy family expectations while we renegotiated the merger on different terms. Jane has someone else too. Has for years."

The partners exchanged another loaded glance. New's anger remained, but something in Tay's expression had shifted slightly.

"Off doesn't know that," New said finally. "He left thinking you chose her. Thinking the painting was his last statement before disappearing."

The confirmation that Off believed him married sent pain through Gun's chest. "I've been trying to find him. To explain. To apologize."

"For what, exactly?" Tay asked, his tone genuinely curious rather than accusatory.

Gun let out a breath, unprepared for the question despite months of rehearsing what he'd say if given the chance. "For being a coward. For not fighting for him when it mattered. For letting him believe he meant less to me than family expectations or business contracts. For letting Jane do the work I should have been doing."

New studied him intently, arms crossed, still radiating skepticism. "And if you found him? What then?"

"I don't know," Gun admitted. "That would be his choice. But he deserves to know the truth, even if he never wants to see me again afterward."

Silence fell between them, the partners clearly having another of their wordless conversations. Finally, Tay pulled out his phone, typed something quickly, and showed it to New. After a moment of obvious internal struggle, New gave a slight nod.

"We're not telling you where he is," Tay said, turning back to Gun. "But we're not going to actively block you either. Off deserves to make his own choices with all the information, not just what we think is best for him."

Hope flared in Gun's chest, quickly tempered by caution. "What does that mean?"

"It means you're going to leave now," New stated firmly. "But leave your number first. And if—if—we think it might help Off rather than hurt him, we might eventually share something useful."

It was more than Gun had dared hope for. He wrote his number on a spare sketchbook page, tore it out, and handed it to Tay. "Thank you."

New pocketed it without comment. "He loved you, you know. Really loved you. Not the heir, not the society figure. You."

The past tense wasn't lost on Gun. "I know. I loved him too. Still do."

"Then prove it," New said simply, standing to signal the end of their conversation. "Not to me. To him."

Right then, Gun left.

He threw himself into proving his commitment, into earning whatever small chance New and Tay might eventually grant him. His approach shifted, became less about finding Off directly and more about becoming someone worthy of finding him.

Gun arranged anonymous funding for the hospital children's art room named after Off's mother, ensuring it would have supplies and staff for years to come. He used his business connections to secure gallery space for emerging artists, focusing on those using art for healing and social change.

None of it was to impress New or Tay—they wouldn't even know about most of it. It was about honoring what mattered to Off, about understanding the world Gun had been too self-absorbed to truly see when they were together.

Two months passed this way. Gun balanced his business responsibilities with his private mission, learned to function on less sleep, ignored his parents' increasing concerns about his "distracted state" and "concerning priorities."

Then, finally, a text from New: "Art therapy program in Tokyo. Children's center in Shibuya ward. That's all I know."

Gun stared at the message for a full minute, heart racing with possibilities. Japan. Off had gone to Japan. The distance was both geographical and symbolic—as far from Gun's world, from Thailand's suffocating social hierarchies, as Off could reasonably go.

The research shifted into high gear. Gun hired translators, consulted with Japanese business associates, compiled lists of every children's center in Shibuya that might offer art therapy. He considered sending investigators but decided against it—this part of the journey needed to be his alone, not delegated to professionals who couldn't understand what was at stake.

His parents objected strenuously when he announced a "business research trip" to Tokyo with no clear return date.

"This is about that artist, isn't it?" his mother asked during a tense family dinner. "The one from the painting your almost-father-in-law commissioned."

Gun didn't bother denying it. "Yes."

His father set down his utensils with careful precision. "Son, you've indulged this... distraction for months now. Your work is suffering. The board is noticing. This has to stop."

"It's not a distraction," Gun replied evenly. "It's my life."

"Your life is here," his mother insisted. "Your responsibilities, your position, your future."

Gun looked between them, these parents who had planned every aspect of his existence since birth, who had never asked what he wanted, only assumed it aligned with family expectations.

"My future is whatever I choose to make it," he said finally. "With or without your support."

There was a time when such defiance would have been unthinkable. Now, after months of redefining himself beyond the Phunsawat heir, Gun found it came naturally.

His father studied him with narrowed eyes. "If you get on that plane, there will be consequences."

Gun nodded, acknowledging rather than challenging. "I understand."

"Do you?" his mother pressed.

The question struck unexpectedly close to fears Gun hadn't acknowledged. Was he a fool, chasing someone who had walked away so completely? Was this desperate search just another form of selfishness, prioritizing what he wanted over Off's clear choice to leave everything behind?

"I'm not going to force my way back into his life," Gun clarified, as much to himself as to his parents. "But I need him to know the truth. What happens after that is his choice."

"And if he rejects you?" his father asked, voice softening slightly. "If you've thrown away everything for nothing?"

Gun considered this, the worst-case scenario he'd tried not to dwell on. "Then I'll have been honest for once. That's worth something."

He left for Tokyo the next day, his parents' warnings echoing beneath the drone of airplane engines. Three suitcases, an open-ended hotel reservation, and determination that wavered between confidence and terror depending on the hour.

Tokyo welcomed him with indifference—just another foreigner among millions, neither recognized nor celebrated for his family name or business accomplishments. Gun found it oddly freeing, this anonymity after a lifetime of performance and expectation.

The search proved harder than anticipated. Language barriers, cultural differences, the sheer size of Tokyo—all conspired to make finding one Thai art therapist seem impossible. Gun visited children's centers as a potential donor, approached art therapy programs with questions about international staff, followed leads that dissolved into disappointments.

His hotel room gradually transformed into a second investigation board—maps marked with visited locations, lists of potential workplaces, translated advertisements for art therapy services. Gun's Japanese improved from necessity, from endless conversations with receptionists and administrators who regarded him with polite suspicion.

Two weeks into his search, Gun almost walked right past the gallery. It was small, modern, tucked between more prominent businesses on a street he'd traversed multiple times already. Something about the Bangkok photograph in the window stopped him—not just the familiar skyline, but the particular quality of evening light that reminded him painfully of home.

Gun entered on impulse, seeking connection to the place he'd left behind, to memories that felt increasingly distant as Tokyo days accumulated. The photographs were beautiful—technically skilled but also emotionally resonant, capturing urban landscapes with unexpected intimacy.

He moved through the gallery slowly, appreciating each image, allowing himself a moment of respite from the search that had consumed him. When the attendant approached with a comment about Bangkok's light, Gun responded automatically, still half-lost in thoughts of home and distance and what he might never find.

Off didn't turn immediately, content to remain in this peaceful moment a while longer.

But something shifted in the air, some awareness beyond conscious thought. Gun turned slowly, expectation and disbelief warring within him.

Off looked different—hair slightly longer, frame a bit thinner, eyes holding shadows Gun hadn't seen before. But unmistakably, undeniably Off.

Every carefully rehearsed speech evaporated from Gun's mind. All that remained was the simple, devastating truth

It's another dead end for him.

He knew right after Off ran away for the third time.

Chapter Text

Three months.

For three months, Off had become an expert at avoiding Gun in a city of millions. It should have been easy—Tokyo was vast, a labyrinth of neighborhoods and districts where foreigners could pass without ever crossing paths. But somehow, Gun had become a persistent ghost in Off's carefully constructed new life.

The first month after their chance encounter at the gallery had been the most difficult. Off had changed his routines, taken different trains, avoided the art supply stores he'd come to love—all to prevent another meeting he wasn't ready for. When Gun showed up at his exhibition as promised, Off had managed a brief, professional conversation surrounded by others before escaping to the children's art corner, where social protocol prevented Gun from following.

The second month brought business cards left at the center's reception, careful messages requesting just five minutes to talk further, a small package delivered containing the photograph of Bangkok that had sparked their reunion—purchased from the gallery, the note explained, because Off had seemed drawn to it. Each gesture was respectful, never pushing past the boundaries Off had established, yet persistent in a way Off hadn't expected from the Gun he'd known in Thailand.

The third month, the cherry blossoms began to bloom, and Off found his resolve weakening. He'd spot Gun occasionally—sitting in a park near the center sketching, browsing art books in a store Off frequented, walking alone through streets dusted with pale pink petals—and something in his chest would tighten, a feeling he couldn't name as either pain or longing but something complicated in between.

"You can't avoid him forever," Tay said during their weekly video call. Three faces crowded the screen "He's not giving up, Off."

"He should," Off replied, adjusting his laptop so they couldn't see the sketch he'd been working on—Gun's profile against Tokyo's skyline, cherry blossoms falling around him. "It's been almost eight months since I left Bangkok. Almost a year since everything fell apart. We're different people now."

New's skeptical expression was clear even through the pixelated connection. "Are you, though? Because from where I'm sitting, you're still drawing him. He's still searching for you. Doesn't sound like much has changed at the core."

Off closed his sketchbook with more force than necessary. "I've changed. I have a life here, friends, work that matters. I'm not that person anymore—the one who waited in the shadows of someone else's life, accepting whatever scraps of attention I was given."

"Is that what you think you were?" Tay asked softly. "Because that's not what I saw."

Off looked away from the screen, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. "It doesn't matter now. What's done is done."

"Except it's clearly not done," New interjected. "Not for him. Not for you either, if you're being honest with yourself."

Off changed the subject then, asking about their latest exhibition, about mutual friends, about anything that wasn't Gun Attaphan Phunsawat and his stubborn refusal to disappear back into memory where he belonged.

After the call ended, Off stood by his window, watching Tokyo's evening lights emerge as dusk settled over the city. Cherry blossom season was his favorite so far—the brief, exquisite beauty of the flowers, the way they transformed familiar streets into something magical before falling like snow, reminding everyone who witnessed their brief glory of impermanence, of the beauty in ephemeral things.

Off's gaze fell on his wall of skyline sketches—one per week since his arrival, a visual diary of his healing. The earliest ones showed Tokyo as a stranger might see it—precise, distant, carefully observed but emotionally removed. Gradually, they had changed, becoming more intimate, more emotionally resonant. The most recent ones, he had to admit, incorporated elements from home—the particular curve of Bangkok's Chao Phraya River transposed onto Tokyo's landscape, familiar temple silhouettes hidden among modern skyscrapers, and lately, cherry blossoms that sometimes took the shape of familiar profiles when viewed from certain angles.

His phone chimed with a message. Off expected another gentle request from Gun, another careful reminder of his continued presence in the city. Instead, it was Yuki, one of the therapists from the children's center.

"Haru asked about you today. Said the angry pictures helped him feel better. Thought you should know. :)"

Off smiled, warmth spreading through his chest. Haru was one of his challenging cases—a seven-year-old who had witnessed domestic violence, who hadn't spoken for months after coming to the center. Off had introduced him to abstract expressionism, to throwing paint and making "angry pictures" that gradually gave way to structured compositions as his emotional regulation improved. Last week, he'd spoken his first full sentence in therapy: "I like the blue one better."

These were the victories that sustained Off through difficult days—small signs of healing, of children finding their voices through art just as he once had. This was the life he'd built for himself in Tokyo, piece by careful piece, a life with meaning and purpose and genuine connection.

A life that didn't include Gun.

Off put his phone away, pulled out a fresh sheet of paper, and began another skyline sketch—the nightly ritual that helped him process whatever the day had brought. His hand moved with the confidence of practice, Tokyo's familiar contours emerging beneath his pencil.

Yet when he finished and studied the result, he found he'd drawn Bangkok instead—not from memory or imagination, but from the photograph Gun had given him, the one that had triggered their unexpected meeting at the gallery three months ago.

Off set the sketch aside with a sigh. Perhaps New was right. Perhaps nothing was truly done, truly finished between them.

Tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow he would stop running, stop avoiding, stop pretending Gun didn't exist in his carefully reconstructed world. Tomorrow he would hear what Gun had traveled so far to say, would listen properly this time without the shock and disbelief that had colored their first conversation. Then they could both move forward, in whatever directions their separate lives required.

Decision made, Off sent a simple text to the number he'd been ignoring for months:

"Ueno Park. Cherry blossom viewing area. Tomorrow at 10. If you still want to talk."

The response came almost immediately, as if Gun had been waiting with phone in hand:

"I'll be there. Thank you."

Off set his phone aside, returned to his window, watched Tokyo continue its nightly transformation beneath cherry blossom branches illuminated by streetlights. Whatever tomorrow brought would be an ending of sorts—or perhaps a new beginning. Either way, it would be definitive, would allow both of them to stop lingering in the uncertain space between what had been and what might yet be.

Ueno Park was crowded despite the early hour, visitors from across Tokyo and beyond gathering beneath cherry trees in full bloom. Off arrived early, found a relatively quiet spot with a view of both the lake and the main path, settled on a bench to wait. He'd dressed carefully in clothes that felt like armor—layers against the slight morning chill, against the vulnerability of what was to come.

Gun arrived precisely at ten, punctual as always. Off spotted him immediately despite the crowds—something in the way he moved, the particular angle of his shoulders, the careful attention he paid to his surroundings. He'd dressed casually but well, as he always did, though Off noted subtle differences from the Gun he'd known in Bangkok. His hair was styled differently, less rigidly perfect. He wore no designer logos, no obvious signifiers of wealth or status. Most noticeably, he moved with a different kind of confidence—not the practiced ease of someone born to privilege, but something more genuine, more grounded.

Their eyes met across the distance, and Gun waited, giving Off the choice of whether to approach or be approached. Off appreciated the consideration, the understanding that this meeting was happening on his terms. He stood, made his way through scattered groups of tourists and locals, stopping an arm's length from Gun—close enough for conversation, far enough for comfort.

"You came," Gun said simply.

"It's my city now," Off replied, the words carrying more weight than their simplicity suggested. "I know my way around."

Gun nodded, accepting the boundary implicit in the statement. "Thank you for agreeing to meet. I know you've been avoiding me."

"I needed time," Off acknowledged. "Still do, probably."

Cherry blossoms fell around them, pale pink against the blue spring sky, catching in Gun's hair, on Off's shoulders, a gentle reminder of beauty and impermanence. They began walking by unspoken agreement, following paths beneath canopies of blossoms, maintaining that careful distance between them.

"I should have respected that more," Gun said after a while. "Given you space instead of... lurking around your life these past months."

Off glanced at him, surprised by the self-awareness. "Why didn't you? Give up, I mean. Go back to Bangkok."

Gun considered the question with the seriousness it deserved. "At first, because I needed you to know the truth. Then because I needed to know if the truth mattered to you. Lately..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Lately because I've been building something for myself here too. Something separate from you, from my family, from everything I was before."

Off raised an eyebrow, genuinely curious. "What do you mean?"

"I've been consulting with art therapy programs," Gun explained. "Using my business background to help them secure funding, establish sustainable financial models. Started with your center—anonymously, through intermediaries. Then expanded to others across Tokyo."

This was unexpected—so different from anything Off had imagined Gun doing that he momentarily forgot the careful script he'd prepared for this conversation. "You've been... helping art therapy programs? Why?"

Gun's smile was small, self-deprecating. "Because I finally understood what you tried to tell me all along—that art isn't just decoration or investment. It's communication. Healing. Truth." He glanced at Off briefly. "And because I wanted to understand your world better, even if I couldn't be part of it anymore."

They continued walking in silence, Off processing this revelation against everything he'd believed about Gun, about their fundamental incompatibility, about the irreconcilable differences in how they saw the world.

"The center director mentioned a new corporate donor," Off said eventually. "That was you? Through your family company?"

Gun shook his head. "Just me. My family... we're not exactly on speaking terms right now."

Another surprise. Off stopped walking, turned to face Gun directly. "What happened?"

"I chose differently," Gun said simply. "When I left for Tokyo, my father said there would be consequences. There were." He shrugged, the gesture too casual to be entirely convincing. "

Off stared at him, trying to reconcile this information with the Gun he'd known—the dutiful son, the perfect heir, the man who had seemed incapable of defying family expectations even for love.

"You gave up everything," Off finally said, the words more statement than question.

"Not everything," Gun corrected. "Just the things that were given to me rather than chosen. Just the path that was laid out before I could walk for myself."

They resumed walking, the conversation continuing in fits and starts—Gun explaining how he'd used his business education to establish himself as a consultant for arts organizations, Off sharing stories about his therapy work, both carefully navigating around the central question that hung between them.

Eventually, they found themselves at a quieter section of the park, a small hill overlooking both cherry trees and water. Off sat on the grass, Gun joining him at that now-familiar careful distance.

"Jane is in London," Gun said unexpectedly. "With Lin. They're building a life together too." Off absorbed this, another piece of the story he hadn't known. He knew the marriage didn't happen. His friends told him about it "Jane's father eventually came around—or at least, he values the business alliance enough to tolerate her personal choices. He's more pragmatic than my parents."

"And the painting?" Off asked, the question that had lingered since their first conversation in the café.

"Safe," Gun assured him. "I have it in storage. It's..." He hesitated. "It's yours, if you want it back."

Off shook his head. "I painted it for you. Or for myself. Or as a statement. I'm not sure anymore."

A cherry blossom landed on Gun's shoulder. Off resisted the urge to brush it away, to bridge the careful distance they'd maintained throughout their conversation. Instead, he finally asked the question he'd been avoiding.

"Why are you really here, Gun? After all this time?"

Gun met his gaze directly, confidence faltering for the first time. "Because I love you. Still. Despite everything. Despite knowing you may never feel the same way again."

The words hung between them, honest and raw and terrifying in their simplicity. Off looked away, across the park filled with people celebrating fleeting beauty, momentary perfection destined to fall and fade.

"I need to tell you something," Off said finally. "Something I've been working through these past months."

Gun waited, giving Off the space to find his words, to articulate what he'd only recently begun to understand himself.

"When I left Bangkok," Off began, "I was running away. From grief, from heartbreak, from a world that never seemed to have space for someone like me. I told myself I was being brave, making a clean break, starting fresh. But I was really just afraid—afraid of staying and fighting, afraid of believing things could change, afraid of hoping for something better than what we had."

Gun listened intently, expression open, vulnerable in a way Off had rarely seen before.

"I blamed you for not choosing me," Off continued. "For not fighting your family, for accepting the path laid out for you. But I didn't choose you either, not really. I delivered that painting and ran, never giving you a chance to respond, never staying to see what might happen next."

"You had every reason—" Gun started.

Off shook his head, cutting him off gently. "Let me finish. I need to say this."

Gun nodded, fell silent again.

"We were both cowards," Off said simply. "You for not standing up to your family sooner, me for running instead of standing my ground. We both chose fear over faith, over fighting for what we had together."

Cherry blossoms continued to fall around them, pink petals catching in their hair, on their clothes, on the grass between them. Off brushed one from his knee, watched it tumble away on the slight breeze.

"These past months in Tokyo," he continued, "I've been healing. Finding myself again. Building a life that matters, with work that helps others. I'm not the same person who left Bangkok broken and angry."

"I know," Gun said softly. "I can see it."

"And you're different too," Off acknowledged. "I can see that as well. The Gun I knew in Bangkok would never have defied his family, never have walked away from his inheritance, never have chosen uncertainty over security."

Gun's smile was small, tinged with sadness. "People can change."

"They can," Off agreed. "But not everything changes. Not timing. Not circumstances."

Off took a deep breath, feeling the weight of what he needed to say next. It would be easier to leave the door open, to allow for possibilities, to give both of them something to hold onto. But he had learned, through months of therapy and self-reflection, that sometimes the kindest truth was also the hardest one.

"Gun," he said gently, "what we had was real. More real than anything in my life until then. I loved you. Part of me probably always will."

Hope flickered in Gun's eyes, quickly tempered by the tone of Off's voice, by the finality he must have heard beneath the gentle words.

"But I can't go back," Off continued. "Not to you, not to us, not to what we were. Not even to a new version of it."

Gun's expression fell, though he tried to hide it. "Because of what happened in Bangkok? Because I didn't fight for you then?"

Off shook his head. "No. Because I'm finally learning to fight for myself. Because the person I'm becoming needs to stand alone, not defined by anyone else's love or absence or choices."

"I wouldn't ask you to be any less than who you are," Gun said, a note of desperation entering his voice. "I want to know that person, to grow alongside him, not to change him."

"I believe you mean that," Off said gently. "The Gun I knew in Bangkok wouldn't have, but the man sitting here now—I believe he would try. But it's not about your intentions, Gun. It's about what I need."

A cherry blossom landed between them, delicate pink against green grass. Off looked at it instead of at Gun's face, finding it easier to continue that way.

"I need to be no one's second choice, no one's secret, no one's maybe," Off said quietly. "I need to be my own first priority, my own certain choice, my own definite yes. After a lifetime of being secondary—to my mother's fears, to my friends' concerns, to your family obligations—I need to center myself completely."

"And I don't fit in that picture," Gun said, understanding rather than asking.

Off finally looked up, met Gun's eyes directly. "No. Not now. Maybe not ever."

The words hung between them, painful in their honesty but necessary in their clarity. Off watched emotions play across Gun's face—hurt, disappointment, the beginnings of acceptance.

"In another lifetime, maybe the stars would align differently for us," Off said softly. "Maybe we would meet at the right time, in the right place, as the right versions of ourselves. But in this one, we're out of alignment. I think we always were."

Gun didn't argue, didn't try to persuade him otherwise. Instead, he nodded slowly, accepting Off's truth with a dignity that the Gun of Bangkok might not have managed. "I understand," he said simply. "I don't like it, but I understand."

They sat in silence then, watching cherry blossoms fall, watching strangers celebrate beauty that would last only days before fading. Off felt something shift inside him—not relief exactly, but certainty, the quiet conviction that he was choosing himself not out of fear or anger but out of genuine self-love, out of recognition of what he truly needed.

"What will you do now?" Off asked eventually. "Go back to Bangkok? Try to reconcile with your family?"

Gun shook his head. "No. That part of my life is over, regardless of what happens between us. I'll stay in Tokyo for a while. Then maybe somewhere else—London to visit Jane, New York, wherever the work takes me."

"I'm glad," Off said sincerely. "That you're building something meaningful. That you're choosing your own path, even without..." He trailed off, not wanting to say 'even without me' and center himself in Gun's journey.

"Even without us," Gun finished for him, a sad smile touching his lips. "I wish I'd found this courage sooner. When it might have mattered."

Off reached out impulsively, squeezed Gun's hand briefly—their first physical contact since reuniting. "It matters now. For you. That's enough."

Gun looked down at their hands, then back at Off's face, understanding the gesture for what it was—not an opening, not a promise, but a recognition, a goodbye, a release.

They stood by mutual agreement, brushed cherry petals from their clothes. The walk back toward the park entrance was quieter, the urgency of unspoken words dissipated now that truth had been given voice. They talked of small things—Tokyo's upcoming festivals, the differences between Japanese and Thai cuisine, books they'd read recently.

At the park entrance, Off stopped, turned to Gun with an expression that was neither cold nor warm, but peaceful—the look of someone who had made a difficult choice but knew it was the right one.

"I hope you find what you're looking for," Off said simply. "I hope we both do."

They didn't embrace, didn't make promises to stay in touch, didn't pretend this was anything but what it was—an ending, clear and necessary, made with love rather than anger but an ending nonetheless.

"Goodbye, Gun," Off said finally.

"Goodbye, Off," Gun replied.

As Gun turned to leave, walking away with straight shoulders and measured steps that betrayed his effort at dignity, Off felt something catch in his throat. Not regret—he knew he was making the right choice—but acknowledgment of what they'd shared, of what it had meant, of how it had changed him.

"I want you to live in my memories," Off whispered, the words too soft to carry to Gun's retreating form, meant only for himself, a truth he needed to speak aloud to fully accept it. "Where you're perfect. Where we're perfect. Untouched by time or circumstance."

In his memories, Gun would remain exactly as he had been in their best moments—the quiet laughter in darkened rooms, the vulnerable honesty they'd found in each other's arms, the connection that had felt like finding a missing piece of himself. There, in the protected space of remembrance, their story could remain beautiful, complete in its incompleteness, meaningful precisely because it hadn't been forced to bear the weight of reality.

Gun turned briefly at the gate, a final glance back that Off met with calm certainty rather than wavering doubt. Then he was gone, disappearing into the Tokyo crowd, leaving Off standing amid falling cherry blossoms, surrounded by strangers celebrating beauty defined by its impermanence.

"May you find happiness," Off whispered to the space where Gun had been. "May we both."

Behind him, cherry blossoms continued to fall, covering the path where they had walked together, erasing footprints, transforming the landscape—beautiful, temporary, meaningful in its passing.

Just like their love had been.