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Chapter Text

The rain had already started by the time Joong reached the cemetery. It was a soft, steady drizzle that blurred the edges of the world, turning the sky gray and the air heavy with the scent of wet earth. Black umbrellas opened one after another, a field of dark petals over bowed heads.

He stood beside his mother, silent, hands clenched around the handle of his own umbrella. The priest's voice drifted in and out, words about peace and rest and eternal love. None of it felt real. The polished coffin looked too small, too final. His father's name was engraved on a plaque that would soon be buried under soil.

When the first shovelful of dirt fell, something in Joong's chest cracked open. It was not grief alone but a flood of something deeper, older. The world tilted for a moment, the sound of rain fading until all he could hear was a distant roar, a hum that filled his mind with light and noise.

Images began flashing behind his eyes. Cameras. Red carpets. A bright stage with thousands of screaming fans. A voice calling his name that was not Archin, but Thanasit. Awards. Flashbulbs. Laughter that never reached his heart. The feeling of collapsing under hot lights, breath gone, heart slowing.

He gasped and stumbled. His mother turned to him, alarmed, but he shook his head quickly. The images kept coming, faster, unstoppable. He saw a hospital ceiling. He heard his own last words. He felt the heavy loneliness that had followed him through a lifetime of fame. Then, just as suddenly, silence.

The rain returned to his ears, soft and relentless. His mother squeezed his hand, her skin cold from the damp air. Joong looked down at her face, drawn and tired, and a new kind of ache filled his chest. He remembered her as she was now, but also as she had been before he was reborn, or rather, before he became someone else entirely. It made no sense, yet every piece fit together with terrible clarity.

That night he could not sleep. The house was quiet except for the sound of the rain on the roof. His sisters were asleep in their shared room, his little brother curled up on the couch. Joong sat at the kitchen table with a cup of tea gone cold. His reflection in the window looked back at him, young but carrying the weight of two lives.

He whispered to the dark, half in disbelief, half in acceptance. "I died once already."

The words hung in the air, soft but sharp. He closed his eyes and let the memories wash through him again, slower this time, no longer chaotic. He remembered the years he had spent as Joong Thanasit, a celebrated actor who had chased perfection until it broke him. He remembered the applause that faded when the lights went out, the faces that smiled at him for what he could offer, not for who he was.

He remembered dying.

And now, here he was, twenty-two years old, sitting in a small kitchen that smelled like rain and sadness, with a family that needed him and a past he could never explain.

By dawn he had made up his mind. He would not waste this life the way he had wasted the last one. He would not run from love or from responsibility. He would protect his family, no matter what it took.

When the first sunlight pushed through the clouds, Joong walked to his desk and started sorting through the papers scattered there. Among bills and condolence letters, he found a folder he did not remember signing. It bore the logo of a production company and the bold words "BL Industry, Rookie Actor Contract."

He stared at it, his brow furrowing. Somewhere deep inside, the part of him that once belonged to stages and scripts stirred. Acting again. Starting from nothing.

He let out a soft laugh that sounded more like a sigh. "So this is where fate wants me."

Outside, the rain had stopped. The world was still gray, but the air felt lighter, washed clean. Joong closed the folder, stood up, and faced the quiet house around him. For the first time since he remembered dying, he felt alive.

Chapter Text

The morning after the rain, the world smelled new. The streets glistened under thin sunlight, puddles catching flashes of gold. Joong walked slowly down the main road toward the bus stop, a small folder tucked under his arm. The air was cool and quiet, almost hesitant, as if the city itself was waiting to see what he would do next.

He had left the house early. His mother was still asleep, exhaustion pulling her into rare rest. His sisters would wake soon for school, his little brother still dreaming on the couch. Joong had made breakfast for them before leaving: rice, eggs, and a note that said, Be good today. I’ll be home by evening.

He didn’t know how to explain to them where he was going. Maybe he didn’t even know yet.

The bus rumbled into view, brakes hissing, and Joong climbed aboard. As he sat near the window, he caught his reflection in the glass again. It was strange how familiar and foreign it felt to look like this, to be young, with clear eyes and an unlined face. He touched his jaw absently, remembering the weight of years he no longer wore.

When the bus stopped outside StarBright Entertainment, he hesitated before getting off. The building was sleek and modern, its name spelled in silver across tinted windows. It wasn’t the biggest company, but it was known for its growing reputation in the BL industry, stories about love, truth, and connection that had started to win people’s hearts.

He straightened his shoulders and stepped inside.

The receptionist smiled politely. “You’re here for partner evaluations?”

“Yes,” Joong replied, his voice steady though his palms were damp. "Joong... Archin.” He almost gave his old last name.

She checked the list and nodded. “Room three, please. Your group’s starting soon.”

He followed the hallway, each step echoing faintly. Behind the glass doors of other rooms, he saw groups of young trainees rehearsing scenes, their faces tense and bright with ambition. It stirred something deep in him, an ache and a hunger he hadn’t felt since before his first death.

When he entered Room Three, several other trainees were already there. They looked around his age, maybe younger, chatting quietly or scrolling on their phones. A few gave him curious glances.

Joong took a seat at the back, setting down his folder. The instructor at the front explained the process. Each actor would be paired with another for an improvised BL scene. The company was looking for natural chemistry, emotional control, and the ability to blur just enough between real and imagined feelings.

He smiled faintly to himself at that last part. Blurring the line between real and imagined had always been his curse and his gift.

Names were called. Pairs went up one by one. Some stumbled, others glowed. Joong watched each performance carefully, noting posture, tone, and rhythm. Old habits.

Then his name came. “Joong Archin.”

He stood and stepped forward. The instructor looked down the list again. “Your partner will be Dunk Nattawat.”

A young man rose from the far side of the room, and for a moment, Joong forgot to breathe. Dunk was striking in a quiet way, the kind of beauty that did not demand attention but held it effortlessly once found. His features were clean and balanced, soft at the edges yet unmistakably masculine. Dark hair framed his face, and his eyes, calm, deep, unreadable, seemed to hold more stories than his expression allowed. He wasn’t trying to impress anyone. That, somehow, made him even more magnetic.

He moved with an easy confidence, shoulders straight, every step measured. When he reached Joong’s side, he offered a small nod. It was polite, not shy, but guarded, as if he had built careful walls around his heart.

Joong felt a flicker of something familiar and dangerous. He had spent a lifetime pretending to fall in love on camera, yet this quiet man made his pulse trip in a way that wasn’t acting at all.

They took their positions.

The prompt was simple: a confession scene at sunset. One character admits his feelings; the other must decide whether to accept them.

Joong met Dunk’s gaze. For a moment, the world narrowed to that single connection. He could feel the shift in air, the tension before words began.

“Action.”

Joong let out a slow breath, stepping closer. The instinct came back like muscle memory. His voice softened, the lines forming naturally.

“I know it’s sudden,” he began, eyes flickering with hesitation that wasn’t entirely pretend. “But every time I see you, I forget what I was supposed to say. You make everything else quiet.”

Dunk’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered behind his eyes, surprise followed by guardedness. His reply came low and careful. “You shouldn’t say things you don’t mean.”

Joong smiled faintly. “I mean every word.”

They held the moment longer than required. Silence stretched between them, charged and uncertain. Then the instructor’s voice cut through. “Good. That’s enough.”

The room exhaled. Joong stepped back, heart pounding. Dunk gave him a small, polite nod again, but this time his gaze lingered a second longer.

After many other partners, the evaluations ended and Joong was called aside. The casting manager smiled. “Excellent work today. You and Dunk had the strongest emotional pull. We’d like to pair you for the BL trainee program.”

Joong bowed slightly. “Thank you.”

When he turned to leave, he caught sight of Dunk again by the doorway. Their eyes met briefly. Dunk gave a short nod, not quite friendly but not cold either. It was enough.

Outside, Joong stepped into the afternoon sun. The sky had cleared completely, blue and wide. He felt the faint rush of something he hadn’t felt in years: excitement, possibility.

He looked up and smiled. “All right, Dunk,” he murmured under his breath. “Let’s see if this story can end better than the last.”

Chapter Text

The next few days passed in a blur of early mornings and long rehearsals. The company scheduled Joong and Dunk into the same training block, which meant they spent nearly every daylight hour in the same room. Script analysis, vocal practice, movement training, mock interviews, PR workshops, media etiquette sessions, and finally, paired acting sessions designed specifically to build emotional intimacy on camera.

The building itself felt like a different world. Hallways bright with LED lights, mirrored practice rooms that reflected every flaw, and the constant murmur of ambition. The walls seemed to hum with dreams that were loud enough to fill the air and quiet enough to break against your ribs if you weren’t careful.

Joong walked those halls with familiarity he wished he did not have. His steps were steady, posture straight, expression composed. Everything about him suggested someone who had done this before, someone who had trained his mind to stay controlled and focused. And yet, beneath all that practiced calm, something restless stirred.

He remembered what it felt like to drown in this world once.

He would not drown again.

On the first morning of training, he arrived ten minutes early. The room was empty except for Dunk, who stood near the window stretching his shoulders as sunlight caught the edges of his face. He had not noticed Joong entering yet. His features were calm, almost serene, but his movements were careful, precise. There was discipline in the way he held himself. A kind of quiet self-respect.

Joong felt his heart pull in a slow, unexpected way.

Not attraction. Not yet. Something gentler. Curiosity, maybe. Recognition of someone who carried their own hidden weight.

Dunk finally turned when he heard Joong step closer. His gaze flicked up, unreadable but not cold.

“Morning,” Dunk said.

“Morning,” Joong replied.

Silence followed, not uncomfortable, just simple. Dunk returned to stretching, and Joong set his bag down before joining him. They moved in parallel, not speaking, but aware of each other in a quiet, unspoken rhythm.

Their instructor arrived a few minutes later, a woman in her mid-thirties named Nalin. She watched them with a thoughtful expression.

“Since you two were chosen as a pair, much of your training will revolve around building emotional presence together,” she said. “This means you will need to learn how to read each other. Every shift in expression. Every breath. Every silence.”

Joong felt something inside him tighten. This was how it began last time. Emotional closeness for the sake of the camera. Hearts tangled for a script. Lines blurred until no one remembered where acting ended and real feeling began.

He had promised himself he would not be swallowed by that again.

Yet when Dunk glanced at him again, just briefly, the thought did not feel as certain.

Their first exercise of the day was simple in theory: eye contact.

The two of them stood facing each other, close enough that Joong could see the subtle flecks of gold in Dunk’s dark eyes. Nalin instructed them not to speak, not to move, just to look and breathe.

At first, it felt professional.

Joong held his expression steady, gaze open, posture relaxed. Dunk mirrored him, though his eyes were guarded, like someone who had learned long ago that silence could be armor.

A minute passed.

Then two.

By the third minute, something shifted. Joong felt the air between them grow heavier, like shared breath created a kind of gravity. He began to see more in Dunk’s expression. Not emotion exactly, but restraint. Careful restraint. The kind that came from someone who did not want to be seen unless he chose it.

“Good,” Nalin said softly. “Now, without speaking, show him that you care.”

Joong inhaled slowly. His muscles softened, shoulders loosening. His gaze warmed, not dramatic, just real. Thoughtful. Present.

Dunk’s expression flickered. The smallest change. His eyebrows lowered by a fraction, his jaw eased. He did not pull away. He did not close off. He received the feeling, even if he did not return it.

It was the smallest thing.

But Joong felt it.

When the exercise ended, both of them exhaled as if they had been holding their breath without realizing it.

Nalin nodded with approval. “The two of you have an intuitive rhythm. That is rare.”

Joong bowed slightly. Dunk did the same.

But neither spoke.

Breaks were short, forty minutes for lunch. The cafeteria was crowded with trainees, employees, and minor idols stopping by between schedules. The place buzzed with gossip, ambition, and hope.

Joong bought a tray of steamed rice, grilled chicken, and soup. He scanned the room for an empty table, but nearly every seat was filled. Then he noticed Dunk sitting alone at a small table near the wall, eating quietly, head slightly bowed.

Joong approached.

“Can I sit?”

Dunk looked up and nodded. “Sure.”

They ate in silence at first. It was a comfortable silence, not awkward. Dunk ate slowly, neatly, almost thoughtfully, as if every movement mattered.

Joong sipped his soup. “You’ve acted before,” he said, not asking, simply stating.

Dunk paused. “Not professionally. Theater club in high school. University performance elective.”

“You’re natural at emotional focus,” Joong said. He meant it. Not flattery. Just truth.

Dunk didn’t react immediately, but something in his posture shifted. “You’re experienced,” he said. Not a question either.

Joong stared down at his rice. “I’ve had practice,” he replied lightly.

He did not elaborate.

Dunk did not push.

And strangely, Joong appreciated that more than he knew how to say.

The afternoon session was more demanding. Improvised dialogue, reactive emotion work, emotional recall drills that bordered on intimate. They were instructed to sit facing each other again, knees nearly touching.

This time, the exercise required speaking.

“Tell him a truth you usually keep to yourself,” Nalin instructed.

Joong froze.

His heartbeat kicked.

He glanced at Dunk. Dunk looked composed, but there was something guarded in his eyes now. Something wary.

Joong considered lying. Saying something safe. Something neutral.

But Dunk had been honest in everything so far, even in silence.

So Joong took a quiet breath.

“I’m afraid of losing the people I love,” he said. Voice steady, but soft. “And I have lost people before. So I try not to get too close.”

Dunk looked at him for a long time. Something softened. Not dissolved. Just eased.

Then Dunk spoke.

“I am careful with my heart,” he said. “Not because I don’t want to give it, but because once I do, I don’t know how to take it back.”

Joong’s breath caught.

There it was.

Not distance.

Not coldness.

Devotion. The kind that was all-or-nothing.

Dangerous in the wrong hands.

Beautiful in the right ones.

By the end of the day, Joong’s body ached and his mind felt heavy. He gathered his things slowly, muscles tired, thoughts spinning.

Dunk was packing up as well. They left the training room at the same time, walking side by side toward the exit. The sky outside was soft pink and gold, early evening settling gently.

“You did well today,” Dunk said quietly.

Joong looked at him, surprised. Dunk had hardly spoken all day unless necessary.

“You did too,” Joong replied.

They walked another few steps.

Then Dunk paused at the door, hand on the frame, eyes on the street outside.

“I do not let people close easily,” he said, voice low. “But I respect you.”

Joong felt the words settle deep in his chest.

“Thank you,” he said simply.

Dunk nodded once, then stepped into the fading sunlight and walked away, posture straight, steps steady.

Joong watched him go.

And for the first time since remembering his past life, Joong felt something like hope.

Not for destiny. Not for romance.

For the possibility of something real.

Something earned.

Something slow.

He exhaled, long and steady, and followed him out into the evening.

The future felt heavy with meaning.

But for now, they were only beginning.

Chapter Text

Joong woke before dawn, eyes opening to the faint grey of morning. His body already knew the rhythm of this world, though his mind kept trying to forget his past. He dressed quietly, pulled on a simple hoodie and jeans, then slipped out before his family stirred leaving a note. The air outside was still cool, holding the last breath of night.

He walked to the train station with a calm face, but his pulse had a quiet, restless rhythm. It had been years since he last stood beneath studio lights, but his soul remembered everything: the smell of powder, the weight of cameras, the hum of people waiting to see if you would shine or falter.

At StarBright's studio lot, the air buzzed with energy. Dozens of trainees hurried between rooms, voices rising in a chorus of nerves and excitement. Crew members carried equipment, lights flickered on, makeup brushes swept across young faces that all carried the same dream, to be seen, to be remembered, to matter.

Joong signed in, accepted his wardrobe for the shoot, and walked toward the small soundstage marked "Set B." Dunk was already there.

He stood by the backdrop, wearing a soft beige sweater that brought out the warmth in his skin. His hair was styled neatly, his face bare except for light foundation. The camera lights softened him, casting faint gold across his cheekbones. He was beautiful, not in the glossy, distant way of most idols, but in something more grounded. His beauty felt honest, almost quiet, like sunlight on still water.

He noticed Joong approach and offered a small nod.

"Morning," Dunk said.

"Morning," Joong replied.

They stood side by side as the director explained the exercise. It was simple: a one-minute silent video to test chemistry. They would face each other, walk closer, and convey connection without speaking. The company would use it for internal evaluation, or so they said. Joong knew better. These videos always leaked somehow, cut into fan edits, used to measure popularity before the actors even debuted.

"Ready?" the director asked.

Joong nodded. Dunk's expression barely changed, but Joong caught the slight lift of his chest as he took a deep breath. They turned toward each other.

The moment the camera light blinked red, the world contracted.

Joong's awareness sharpened. Every detail of Dunk seemed suddenly magnified, the slow rise and fall of his shoulders, the faint tremor in his fingers, the shadow of his lashes when he blinked. Joong couldn't stop the thought about how long his eyelashes were. Their eyes met, and Joong felt that strange sense of déjà vu again, as if he had performed this exact emotion in a hundred lives before but never with someone who made it feel so real.

Dunk's gaze did not waver. He stepped closer, one careful pace at a time. Joong matched him, their movements almost mirrored. The air grew heavier. A subtle hum filled Joong's chest, like the echo of an old melody that refused to fade.

The director called, "Cut."

But Dunk did not step back immediately. For one suspended second, he just stood there, close enough for Joong to feel the faint warmth radiating from him. Then he blinked, nodded slightly, and turned away.

Joong exhaled. The cameras stopped, but the tension remained.

Later that morning, they were moved to a different studio for PR training. The trainer, a sharp-eyed woman with a stack of cue cards, explained the rules of interviews.

"You two are a pair now," she said briskly. "Your public image must align. You will learn how to answer questions together. Smile, but not too much. Stay close, but not too close. Let fans imagine romance, but deny it if pressed."

Joong almost laughed. He had lived through these lessons before, down to the exact phrasing. It was always the same, the illusion of honesty built carefully over lies that sold affection.

He glanced sideways at Dunk. The younger man's face was polite, composed, but Joong saw the slight tightening around his mouth.

Dunk did not like this either.

When it was their turn to practice, the trainer handed them mock questions.

"How did you feel meeting each other for the first time?" she asked.

Joong smiled faintly. "Surprised. He looked calm, but he's actually full of depth."

Dunk's eyes flicked toward him, a flash of something unreadable there. He replied softly, "He makes everything feel easy."

The trainer nodded approvingly. "Good. Keep that tone. Audiences like sincerity."

It was the word sincerity that broke something small and private inside Joong.

He had spent half his first life trying to sound sincere when he wasn't.

Now, in this new one, he wanted to be sincere, but that seemed harder than ever when everything around him was built to pretend.

After the session ended, Joong and Dunk stayed behind, helping reset chairs. Dunk's silence felt different now, less guarded and more thoughtful.

"Did you mean it?" Joong asked suddenly.

Dunk looked up. "Mean what?"

"What you said. That I make things feel easy."

Dunk hesitated. His fingers, pale and so beautiful it was hard for Joong to look away, brushed the back of a chair, then stilled. "Yes," he said finally. "You don't force things. Most people here... try too hard."

Joong studied him. Dunk's honesty was simple, stripped of embellishment. It made him feel strangely seen.

"Thank you," Joong said quietly.

Dunk nodded once. "You?"

"What about me?"

"Did you mean what you said?"

Joong's mouth curved, not quite a smile. "Yes. You are calm, but not empty. You hold back a lot."

Dunk's gaze lingered on him for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Then he looked away. "Maybe."

Joong wanted to ask what that meant. But he didn't. Some truths revealed themselves only in silence.

By the third day of filming tests, exhaustion crept in. The company pushed longer hours, more practice scenes, staged interviews for promotional previews that would air online. Joong caught his reflection between takes, the sharp lines of fatigue starting to return to his face, a ghost of the man he used to be.

He tried to remind himself that this was different. He was not the same person. He would not repeat the mistakes that had cost him peace before.

But when the staff set up their next test, a scene from the upcoming series script where his character confesses under rain, Joong felt the old familiar current pulling him in.

He could almost taste the memory of lights, of applause, of the ache of being loved by strangers.

Dunk stood opposite him, hair dampened by the spray used to mimic drizzle. His lips were slightly parted, his eyes reflecting light in a way that made them light brown and seem endless.

The director called, "Action."

Joong spoke his line, voice low. "If you don't feel the same, I'll still wait."

Dunk's reply came softer than the script demanded. "You shouldn't wait for someone like me."

Joong took a slow step closer. He did not plan it. It just happened. "Maybe I already have."

The rain machine clicked off. Silence filled the studio.

The director exhaled. "Perfect. That's what we wanted."

Crew members started clapping lightly. Joong bowed, smiling politely, but his pulse was too fast. He turned away quickly, wiping water from his face.

Dunk was watching him quietly.

For a brief second, Joong forgot the cameras.

He saw Dunk not as a scene partner, not as a co-star, but as a person standing inches away, whose every emotion felt both fragile and steady at once.

He forced himself to look away.

He could not afford to lose the line again.

That night, Joong took the late train home. The carriage was nearly empty, only the hum of wheels beneath the tracks and the dim lights flickering overhead. He leaned against the window, watching the city slide by.

He thought of Dunk's gaze, steady, unreadable, but never indifferent. He thought of how easily they fell into rhythm when the camera rolled, how real the silence between words could feel.

He reminded himself that he had promised to live differently this time. That this world was not meant to be a repetition of his first.

But promises were fragile when the heart recognized something it did not understand.

When he got home, his mother was asleep on the couch, television humming softly in the background. His brother's school bag sat on the floor. One of his sisters had left a note on the kitchen table: We ate already. Get some rest.

Joong smiled faintly and turned off the lights. The house was warm in a quiet, unpolished way. It grounded him. Reminded him who he was doing all of this for.

He sat by the window for a while, looking out at the night. His reflection stared back, younger, sharper, filled with a different kind of exhaustion.

He wondered if Dunk was also awake somewhere, staring out a different window, thinking about the same thing.

The next morning would come soon enough. More lights. More cameras. More blurred lines between what they were told to feel and what they actually did.

Joong let his eyes close slowly, whispering to himself in the dark.

"This time," he murmured, "I'll know the difference."

Outside, the city pulsed with distant life.

And somewhere across it, Dunk's heart might have been beating to the same rhythm, steady, quiet, waiting.

Chapter Text

The video was never supposed to leave the room

The leaked video appeared before dawn.

Joong found out only because his phone would not stop vibrating. Message after message after message. At first, he thought it was a group chat spamming memes, but the notifications were too rapid, too chaotic, too many unfamiliar usernames. He sat up in bed, heart kicking hard once, the way it always did when something shifted outside of his control.

He opened one notification, then another.

It was the chemistry test video.

The one where he and Dunk stepped closer.
The one where they held each other's gaze without speaking.
The one that had lasted less than a minute.

Someone had cut it into slow motion, added soft piano music, and written captions like:

They are falling already.
Even silence has a heartbeat here.
Look how he looks at him.

Joong felt heat rise in his chest.

Not embarrassment.
Not pride.

Recognition.

It was always like this.
Art becoming rumor.
Innocence turning into narrative.
Reality blurring the moment it reached a screen.

He clicked the comment section.

He expected excess.
Instead, he found devotion.

This is not acting. This is something real.
Their eyes. Look at their eyes.
I swear they know each other in ways we cannot see.

Joong set the phone down, fingers curling around the blanket.

He stared at the ceiling.

So it had begun.

Not just fandom.
Not just speculation.

The story of them.

He had lived in this world once already. He knew how quickly admiration could turn to possession, how easily strangers could rewrite your heart for you. He closed his eyes and took a slow breath.

He did not fear the attention.
He feared losing himself to it again.

His phone buzzed a final time.

Dunk:
Are you awake

Joong exhaled, tension softening a fraction.
He typed back.

Joong:
Yeah
You saw it?

Dunk replied almost instantly.

Dunk:
Yes
Are you alright

Joong stared at the message longer than necessary.

No one had asked him that last time.
Back then, the world only asked if he could keep performing.

Joong typed.

Joong:
I’m fine
You?

A longer pause this time. Then:

Dunk:
I do not mind the way they saw us
Only whether you are comfortable

Joong stopped breathing for a moment.

There was no performance in that sentence.
No script.
No calculation.

Just concern.

Real concern.

Joong typed slowly.

Joong:
I’m okay
Thank you

Dunk:
Good
I am downstairs
If you want to come down before practice

Joong blinked.

Downstairs.
Here.
Now.

He threw on a hoodie, grabbed his bag, and headed out.

Dunk was waiting outside his building entrance, hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly as if he had been listening to the morning itself. The sky had just begun to lighten, pale pink brushing the horizon. Dunk turned when Joong stepped out, and his expression softened.

No words.
Just presence.

Joong fell into step beside him.

They walked toward the station in companionable quiet, breath visible in the cool morning. Their shoulders didn’t touch, but they were close enough that the warmth from Dunk’s body kept the air between them from feeling cold.

After a while, Dunk spoke.

“It is going to spread more.”

Joong nodded. “I know.”

“The company will tell us how to respond.”

“I know.”

Dunk looked at him carefully, eyes steady. “What do you want to say?”

Joong stopped walking.

No one had ever asked him that either.

He swallowed, searching for words that felt honest. “I don’t want to lie. Not completely.”

Dunk considered that. “We will not lie. We will speak simply.”

Joong let out a quiet breath that felt like relief.

They began walking again.

The train arrived. They boarded. They sat side by side.

The carriage rattled along the tracks, early commuters half-asleep around them. The world felt suspended in a gentle hush.

Joong leaned his shoulder lightly against the window.
Dunk looked out over the passing city.

They did not speak again until they were almost at the station near the company.

Dunk’s voice was soft. “People will believe what they want. We do not need to act for them. Just stay close to me. That is enough.”

Joong turned his head.

The sunlight hit Dunk’s face just as the train emerged from a tunnel. His features softened in gold. His lashes cast delicate shadows. His jaw was strong, but not harsh. His beauty was the kind that did not announce itself. It revealed itself slowly, the longer one looked.

Joong felt something warm catch behind his ribs.

Something he tried not to name.

He nodded once, quiet and sure.

“I’ll stay close.”

Dunk’s gaze flicked to him, steady and unreadable, but warm at the center.

“Good.”

The train doors opened.

The day began.

And the world was already watching.

Chapter Text

The conference room smelled faintly of coffee and printer ink, the kind of scent that always accompanied early morning damage control. A long table stretched across the center, flanked by chairs that looked more comfortable than they actually were. A projected screen glowed at the front of the room, paused on a still frame from the chemistry video.

It was the moment just before Joong and Dunk stepped close enough that the air seemed to hold its breath.

Joong sat near the middle of the table, shoulders straight, hands clasped loosely in his lap. Dunk took the seat beside him. The rest of the seats filled quickly with managers, PR strategists, and two junior producers who seemed too excited to be subtle about it.

The division head, Mr. Rattan, stood at the front. He was a man whose expression rarely shifted from neutral calculation. He pressed a button on the remote, and the video began to play again. No one spoke as the silent scene unfolded.

When it ended, the room stayed quiet for a moment.

Then the conversations started.

“We should get ahead of this.”

“It is actually good publicity.”

“It is too early. Their relationship is not established yet.”

“We can amplify it. Lean in just enough.”

“We need to define the angle. Innocent. Surprised chemistry. Nothing too strong.”

Joong listened without reacting. He had heard these strategies before. The words were the same, even if the faces here were new. Everyone wanted authenticity, as long as it could be shaped, trimmed, packaged neatly.

Someone turned toward him. One of the senior PR managers, a woman with sharp eyes softened by expensive makeup. “Joong. You are older. You will likely be seen as the emotional lead. Your responses in interviews will guide public tone. Be warm, but not overly familiar. Show awareness of Dunk, but avoid romantic implication.”

Joong nodded. His voice remained steady. “Understood.”

She turned to Dunk. “You should be receptive, but subtle. Do not look at him too much during press. It creates imbalance and invites speculation.”

Dunk blinked once, slow.

“I disagree,” he said.

The room stopped.

Eyes lifted. Chairs shifted. Someone cleared their throat.

The PR manager raised an eyebrow. “You disagree with which part?”

Dunk sat comfortably, posture relaxed, expression unreadable, but his voice held quiet certainty.

“With the instruction to change how I look at him. My reactions on camera are natural. If I begin to force or hide them, the audience will sense it. That will damage credibility and engagement more than any rumor will.”

The room was silent again, but it was a different kind of silence now.

It held attention.

Mr. Rattan tilted his head in measured curiosity. “What are you suggesting, Dunk?”

Dunk folded his hands loosely on the table. “Let it breathe. Let the public interpret it how they want. As long as we speak simply in interviews, nothing escalates into scandal. It will become admiration instead. A connection that feels real without needing to be defined.”

It was a precise strategy.
Not naive.
Not emotional.
Intentional.

Joong looked at him, studying the calm profile beside him.

Dunk was not protecting popularity.
He was protecting them.

Not them as a pair, not the fictional couple the public was already constructing.
Them as people.

The PR manager considered this. “It is a risk.”

Dunk nodded once. “It is the better risk.”

Mr. Rattan finally spoke. “Then we proceed with Dunk’s approach. Minimal correction. No denial. No exaggeration. No forced distance. Keep interviews soft and personal. Let the authenticity drive its own momentum.”

Pens scribbled. Laptops clicked. The decisions began to crystallize.

Joong kept his expression calm, but his pulse had changed. Not fast. Just present.

After notes were finalized, chairs pushed back slowly as the room emptied. Joong and Dunk remained sitting for a moment longer, the air around them settling again.

Joong turned slightly toward him. “You did not have to say that.”

Dunk looked at him directly. “I know.”

Joong searched his face. “Why did you?”

There was no hesitation.

“Because you should not have to pretend you are comfortable when you are not,” Dunk said. “Not again.”

The words hit something deep and unguarded inside Joong.

He wondered how much Dunk had already seen.
How much he understood without asking.
How much he simply felt.

Joong exhaled slowly, a breath that felt like loosening a knot beneath his ribs.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

Dunk did not smile, not fully. But his eyes warmed.

“You would do the same for me.”

It was not a question.
It was not a request.

It was simply true.

Joong felt the truth settle inside him, steady and warm, like something meant to stay.

“Yes,” he replied. “I will.”

They stood.
They walked out together.
Not close enough to draw attention.
But close enough to understand there was no distance at all.

Chapter Text

Joong sat on the studio bench with a towel around his neck, chest rising and falling as he waited for the cameras to reset. The training session had gone longer than scheduled, and exhaustion buzzed under his skin like a low vibration. He was used to this feeling. It reminded him of his past life, the familiar burn of overwork, but now the weight carried a strange softness. A new life. A new chance. New people.

Across the room, Dunk leaned against a wall, scrolling through his phone with furrowed brows. His dark hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat from the practice scenes. He looked like he wanted to disappear into the shadows, but the shadows kept shrinking every day. The more the company paired them together, the more the world noticed him.

And today, the world noticed a little too much.

A familiar chill washed over Joong. The machinery of fame. The calculated timing. The way a single clip could set the tone for an entire career. He had lived this cycle before. He had been trapped inside the engine of it until exhaustion became the only language he understood.

He steadied his breath. This time would be different. It had to be.

Joong picked up his towel again and draped it over his shoulder. He glanced at Dunk. “Are you alright?”

Dunk took a long moment before responding. “I do not know.”

Joong nodded. He understood that answer better than anyone.

“They are going to say things,” Dunk muttered. “People online. About the video. About us. They already are.”

Joong stepped closer, careful and slow. “People always talk. They fill the silence with whatever story they want to believe. It is not your fault.”

Dunk looked up at him. There was uncertainty in his eyes, but also something else. Something curious. Something that looked like trust trying to form.

“What about you?” Dunk asked quietly. “You do not seem surprised.”

“I am not,” Joong answered truthfully. “I have been in this world before. I know how fast things spread. And how it can feel when the world starts to shape your story before you do.”

Dunk bit the inside of his cheek. “I am not used to people looking at me like that. Like they know me when they do not.”

“No,” Joong said softly. “They see what they want to see. Nothing more.”

Dunk’s gaze dropped. “What if I do not meet their expectations?”

“Then you have to decide what makes you happy.” Joong’s voice was gentle but steady. “Not the company. Not the fans. You.”

A long silence followed. Dunk absorbed his words slowly, as if weighing the meaning of them against his own uncertainty.

Then, finally, Dunk asked, “Does it bother you? That they think our chemistry is real?”

Joong paused. He could have answered in many ways. With distance. With humor. With practiced professionalism.

Instead, he told the truth.

“No,” he said softly. “It does not bother me.”

Dunk held his gaze for a moment too long before looking away again. His ears turned slightly pink.

By evening, the entire trainee group had heard about the leaked clips. Some whispered quietly when Joong and Dunk passed. Others stared openly. Two staff members asked if they could take behind the scenes photos for social media. The company photographer stopped them in the hallway for candid shots also.

Everything felt accelerated. The pressure around them thickened, almost visible.

But what struck Joong the most were the new looks Dunk kept receiving. Curious looks. Knowing looks. Romantic wishful looks. People interpreted shyness as mystery. Politeness as hidden passion. Silence as depth.

Joong watched Dunk retreat further into himself with each passing hour.

During lunch, Dunk barely ate. During the afternoon workshop, he struggled to focus. During their final scene practice, he kept his eyes down until the director forced him to look up.

Joong had seen this before in so many young actors. The sudden overwhelm. The confusion between who they were and who the world wanted them to be. The fear of accidentally becoming a fiction.

After practice ended, Dunk hurried out of the studio. Joong hesitated only a moment before following.

He found him outside near the back stairwell, sitting alone on the concrete step with his elbows on his knees and his hands pressed lightly over his face. The sun was lowering, casting soft golden light along the alley wall. It framed Dunk in a way that made him look fragile and strong all at once.

Joong approached quietly. “Dunk.”

Dunk lifted his head slightly. “Sorry. I just needed a moment.”

Joong sat beside him, keeping a respectful distance.

“You can take as many moments as you need,” he said.

Dunk exhaled slowly. “Everyone is looking at us like we are some kind of… couple already. It feels strange. Like the story is running ahead of me.”

Joong nodded. “I know that feeling.”

Dunk turned toward him. “You do?”

“In my past... job,” Joong began carefully, “I learned how fast rumors become truth in the eyes of admirers. And how hard it is to keep pieces of yourself from being swallowed by the spotlight.”

Dunk listened without interrupting. His expression softened, touched by something quiet and vulnerable.

Joong continued, “But if this is something you truly love, then you can learn to be yourself no matter what."

Dunk’s eyes flickered. “You think I can.”

“Yes,” Joong said with certainty. “I do.”

The late afternoon breeze brushed across their shoulders. Dunk looked away toward the shadowed corner of the alley, breathing more evenly than before.

After a long while, he spoke again. “The clip… People said it looked real.”

“They said that,” Joong agreed.

Dunk bit his lip. “Was it?”

The question hung in the air like a lifted veil.

Joong inhaled. A soft ache pressed against his ribs. The memory of the scene washed through him again. The closeness. The tension. The way their eyes met like they were sharing a truth neither of them was ready to say out loud.

“It felt honest,” Joong said finally.

Dunk stayed silent, but his pulse seemed to quicken.

They sat together until the light faded and the street lamps flickered on. The world had grown loud around them, but here in the quiet corner of the building, it felt like time slowed for a moment.

Just enough for two young actors to breathe.

Just enough for a connection to form without the weight of cameras or the noise of fans.

Just enough for something small and fragile to shift between them.

Before they left, Dunk said in a soft voice, “Thank you.”

Joong looked at him. “For what?”

“For not treating me like a product,” Dunk replied. “For seeing me.”

Joong felt his heart tighten, warm and painful in the same breath.

They walked back inside, side by side, not touching but not drifting apart either. By the time they reached the lobby, Joong’s phone buzzed with a notification.

The leaked clip had hit a million views.

The world was already watching.

But Joong knew something the world did not.

This story was only the beginning.

Chapter Text

Night settled softly over the Archin household, quiet in the way only grieving homes are. Dinner dishes sat clean on the rack. The curtains were drawn. His younger siblings had already retreated into their rooms, worn out from school and part time shifts. His mother had gone to bed early again, exhaustion wrapped around her like a blanket she could not put down.

Joong remained in the living room long after the lights were dimmed. The only illumination came from the television screen, muted, showing the end of some variety show that he was not really watching. The shadows in the room felt stretched, and he felt stretched with them.

The memories had been coming in unpredictable waves since the funeral. Some days they were fog. Some days they were fire. Today they were sharp. Painfully clear. Every moment from the chemistry reading with Dunk echoed in his head as if replaying on an internal screen.

He stood and walked to the small bathroom near the kitchen. The hallway creaked beneath his feet. He pushed the door open and flicked on the light.

The mirror caught him immediately.

This was always the moment that stole his breath. As if his mind still expected to see a different face, the one that had laughed on red carpets and cried in dressing rooms and stared at hotel ceilings in an emptiness no award could soothe. The face of Joong Thanasit. Forty. Burnt out. Famous. Alone.

But the reflection staring back belonged to Joong Archin. Young. Twenty two. Soft around the edges. Grieving his father, carrying his family, and now the unwilling host to the memories of a man who had lived a life too heavy for him.

He leaned forward, palms on the sink.

The boy in the mirror did not look like a seasoned actor. He looked like someone trying to hold himself together for the sake of everyone around him.

He closed his eyes.

Earlier that afternoon, the company had released a short training clip online. It was the scene he performed with Dunk. Fans were already reacting. The comments were calling their chemistry too natural, too intimate, too believable. The company group chat buzzed with strategies for photoshoots and future teasing content. The staff was thrilled.

Joong was not.

He had lived this cycle once. He knew exactly where it led. Public affection sold beautifully, but it also chipped away at the line between performance and real emotion until nothing felt like his own anymore.

He splashed water on his face and let it drip down his jawline. His skin felt warm, as if carrying tension that had nowhere else to go.

The way Dunk had looked at him during that scene replayed again. Soft-eyed, startled, like someone who had opened a door without realizing there was someone on the other side. That moment had not been planned. It had not been practiced. It had simply happened. His hand had brushed Dunk’s wrist and Dunk had inhaled like someone waking up.

And Joong had felt something too. Something frighteningly real.

He reached for a towel and dried his face. His hands were not completely steady.

He turned off the bathroom light and stepped back into the living room. The house felt even quieter now. The silence pressed against him in a familiar way. In his past life, he had come home to empty apartments, empty hotel suites, empty dressing rooms after the staff left. Fame gave him noise but never warmth. The contrast was cruel and constant.

But this house had warmth. Exhausted, fragile warmth, but real warmth. His mother’s worn hands. His sisters’ quiet determination. His little brother’s faith that Joong would somehow fix everything. These rooms carried the weight of real life. Real responsibility. Real love.

He sat on the sofa and let himself sink into its old cushions.

His phone buzzed beside him. Notifications. Company threads. Marketing plans for him and Dunk. He turned the screen face down. He did not want to see those messages. Not tonight.

He needed to think. Just think.

He remembered the moment after the chemistry reading ended. Dunk had looked at him with a lingering confusion, not the type that came from forgetting a line, but the type that came from feeling something he did not understand. Joong had been the same age once. He remembered what it was like to be new, careful, scared of being seen too clearly.

And maybe that was why Dunk unsettled him so deeply.

Joong had been surrounded by people his entire past life, yet none had ever looked at him with the kind of hesitant honesty Dunk showed in that one unguarded moment. It felt real. Dangerous. Human. Something he had never been allowed to hold long enough to identify in himself.

He rubbed his palm slowly against the sofa fabric.

He could feel his two lives pulling in opposite directions. Joong Thanasit knew how to perform romance with perfect precision. Joong Archin did not know how to feel it without questions.

Dunk had appeared right at the crossroads of those two selves.

He stood up and walked toward the window. Outside, the neighborhood streetlights glowed faintly. A stray dog lay by the curb. A motorcycle passed in the distance. Life continued in its gentle, unremarkable rhythm.

The kind of life he had always wanted.

He rested his forehead lightly against the cool glass.

He had a chance now. A chance to live differently, to love honestly, to protect the people he cared about without losing himself. A chance to rewrite everything he regretted.

But he also had a chance to fall into the same patterns that had destroyed him the first time.

He lifted his head and stared out at the quiet street.

Then he whispered softly, as if confessing to something sacred.

“Not again.”

The words trembled out of him, barely audible.

He straightened. His voice steadier now, filled with the weight of his vow.

“This time, I will live honestly. Even if it hurts.”

The promise lingered in the air, settling into him like breath.

Maybe he did not know where this path would take him. Maybe he did not know what Dunk would become to him or how their partnership would blur the line between acting and truth. Maybe he did not know how to navigate fame without becoming hollow again.

But he knew one thing with absolute certainty.

His second life would not repeat the first.

He stepped away from the window and moved toward his room. He paused in the doorway. For a long moment he simply looked at the small bed, the worn desk, the pile of scripts, the textbooks belonging to his siblings, the photos of his father.

This was the start of something new.

He let that truth settle in his chest.

A beginning.
A direction.
A vow.

Joong Archin inhaled.

He exhaled.

And for the first time since the memories had returned, his future felt like a choice he was ready to make.

Chapter Text

Joong arrived at the studio before sunrise. The city was still half asleep, washed in blue light. He had not slept more than three hours, but he felt strangely awake, almost brimming with a restless energy he could not name.

He kept thinking about the other day. Dunk’s hand brushing his. The way Dunk had leaned in to read the script over his shoulder. The breath on his cheek. The stillness that had grown between them like a question neither of them knew how to ask.

None of it was inappropriate. None of it could be called anything other than work. Yet Joong felt that quiet pull again, the one that struck him during their first evaluation. The soft magnetism that made him turn every time Dunk moved, even if he pretended not to notice.

Inside the practice room, the lights were bright and cool. Someone had opened the windows for ventilation, letting fresh morning air drift through. Joong dropped his bag by the wall and began stretching, slow and methodical. He knew the cameras would turn on soon. The company had started recording everything. Training was part development and part marketing now, always feeding the growing online interest.

He leaned forward to touch his toes. His muscles pulled tight from yesterday’s choreography module.

The door opened behind him.

He straightened and turned.

It was Dunk.

His hair was slightly tousled, as if he had just run a towel through it. He wore a simple hoodie and sweatpants, not trying to impress anyone, but he still managed to look striking. That softness around his features, mixed with something sharper and more mature, gave him a presence that filled a room even before he spoke.

He set his bag down next to Joong’s without comment. Their bags always drifted together now. Neither of them acknowledged that pattern.

“Morning,” Dunk said quietly.

“Morning,” Joong replied, rising to his feet.

Dunk began stretching beside him, copying the exact routine Joong had been doing. Joong tried to ignore how natural that felt, how easily Dunk matched his rhythm.

After a moment, Dunk spoke again. “Did you sleep at all?”

“Some,” Joong said.

“You look tired.”

“You always say that.”

“Because it is always true.”

Joong laughed. Dunk looked at him for a second, then looked away quickly as if he had not meant to get caught watching.

The rest of the trainees trickled in. The room grew louder. Yet Joong kept feeling that invisible line between him and Dunk, a line they both kept pretending was not there.

The instructor arrived and clapped her hands. “Today we work on intimacy grounding exercises. Nothing romantic yet. This is about comfort, control, and emotional support. Partners, stand in front of each other.”

Joong already knew who his partner was. Dunk stepped into place with a sigh that almost sounded resigned or maybe relieved.

The instructor demonstrated the exercise. The partners had to keep eye contact while one leaned forward slightly. The other had to match the movement to maintain balance. The goal was trust and stability.

Dunk looked uncomfortable. He hated eye contact that lasted too long. Joong had learned that quickly. Dunk used it rarely, and when he did, it felt like something private.

“Ready?” the instructor called out.

Joong stepped closer. So did Dunk.

They stood inches apart. The rest of the room faded into a blur of bodies and voices.

“Lean forward,” Joong said softly.

Dunk held his gaze, steady but tense. Joong began to lean, slow and measured. Dunk mirrored the movement, their bodies moving like a single line, shoulders almost touching.

Their breaths mingled. It was not meant to be intimate, but it was.

“Good,” the instructor said, walking past them. “This pair is balanced.”

Joong felt Dunk’s breath hitch for a single second. No one else noticed, but Joong did.

They repeated the exercise again and again. Each time felt closer. Each time felt less like training and more like something dangerous, something delicate. If anyone asked, Joong could say he was imagining it. If anyone asked Dunk, Joong knew he would say he felt nothing.

He was lying though. Joong could see it in the tightness around Dunk’s eyes, the care in his movements, the way he matched Joong so precisely it felt like they were sharing a thought instead of a cue.

When the instructor finally dismissed them for a break, Dunk stepped back quickly. He looked away as if trying to steady himself.

Joong’s heart pounded.

Dunk walked to the corner to grab his water bottle. Joong followed, not on purpose, but because his feet carried him.

“You did well,” Joong said softly.

Dunk took a slow breath. “You made it easy.”

“You say that like it is a bad thing.”

“It is not,” Dunk replied, still not looking at him.

“It feels different, right?” Joong asked.

That made Dunk finally meet his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“The exercises. The scenes. All of it. With you, it feels different.”

Silence stretched between them. Dunk’s gaze flickered to the floor, then to Joong, then away again.

“You should not say things like that unless you mean them,” Dunk whispered.

Joong stepped closer, not touching him, just closing the space slightly.

“I do mean it.”

Dunk’s breath caught again, so faint that most people would miss it. Joong did not miss anything.

The instructor called for partners to return. Dunk swallowed hard and stepped back.

“We should focus,” Dunk said.

“We are,” Joong replied.

For the rest of the practice, Dunk avoided looking directly at him unless he absolutely had to. It made every glance feel charged.

When training ended, the sun was already sinking. Trainees gathered their things and left in small groups. Dunk zipped up his hoodie and started for the door.

Joong followed again. This time Dunk noticed.

“You do not need to walk with me,” he said.

“I want to.” Joong gave a half smile. “Unless you do not want me to.”

Dunk hesitated. That was answer enough.

They walked together out of the building. The sky was streaked with soft pink and gold. Dunk’s shadow fell across Joong’s, overlapping in the fading light.

At the gate, Dunk finally spoke.

“I am not good with things that feel… confusing,” he said quietly. “I do not like when lines start to blur.”

Joong nodded slowly. “Then tell me if it gets too much.”

Dunk looked at him with something complicated in his eyes. “It already is.”

Joong’s heart thudded painfully. “And you want to stop?”

Dunk took a long breath. “No.”

That single word hung between them, fragile and warm.

Joong smiled gently. “Then we keep going.”

Dunk looked away, but he did not move. His voice softened to something vulnerable and honest. “I do not know right now.”

“You do not have to know right now,” Joong said. “Just stay my partner. That is enough.”

For a moment, Dunk did not answer. Then he nodded quietly.

They walked together, keeping a careful distance that felt anything but distant.

Both pretending they were not crossing lines.