The raindrops sliding down the Ferrari's window were perfect mirrors of the tracks on Santichai's cheeks—silent, cold, and inevitable. He felt the familiar weight of his own "worthlessness" settling back into his bones. To the world of the Siriporns, he was an eyesore; to Asnee, he was a secret; to himself, he was simply the debris left behind after the storm.
"Santichai, do you want to go to your house or my house?" KK's voice was gentle, breaking the heavy silence.
"Whatever you want," Santichai replied. It was the answer of a man who had long ago given up the right to choose his own destination.
"The rain is getting heavier, and my house is closer, if you don't mind," KK said, turning the wheel with practiced ease.
"I don't mind."
KK's home was a masterpiece of modern architecture—a place of glass, stone, and warmth. As the garage door hummed shut behind them, sealing out the violent night, KK reached over. He didn't just unbuckle his own belt; he reached across and unclicked Santichai's, a small gesture of care that felt alien to a man used to five-thousand-baht departures.
Inside, the living room opened up like a cathedral of calm. The floors were a polished expanse of wood, so clean they reflected the soft amber lights of the ceiling.
"There's a bathroom over there," KK said, gesturing toward a hallway. "Go take a hot shower. I'll get you some dry clothes."
KK disappeared into his bedroom, leaving Santichai alone in the vastness.
Santichai didn't move. He looked at his shoes, dampened by the rain, and then at the pristine floor. He felt like a stain. Instead of walking across the room, he retreated to the edge, standing perfectly still beside a large, illuminated fish tank built into the wall. He watched the tropical fish darting behind the glass—trapped in a beautiful, transparent world. It felt familiar.
On the far side of the room, the floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the churning sea, but Santichai kept his back to it. He stayed in his corner, his head bowed, waiting for the moment he would be told to hide or leave.
When KK emerged a few minutes later, fresh from his own shower and carrying a stack of soft, grey fleece clothes, he stopped short. He expected to hear the spray of the shower; instead, he found Santichai exactly where he had left him—standing like a statue of grief by the fish tank.
"Santichai?" KK's brow furrowed. "Why are you still standing there? The water is warm, I promise."
Santichai looked up, his eyes wide and hollow. "I... I didn't want to get the floor wet. I'll just stay here until I dry off."
KK felt a sharp pang in his chest. He realized then that Santichai wasn't just cold from the rain; he was frozen by a decade of being told he didn't belong in the "clean" parts of life.
Santichai stepped out of the guest bathroom, the steam from the hot water still clinging to his skin. He felt lighter in the soft fleece clothes KK had provided, but his heart still felt heavy, anchored by the memories that had surfaced in the rain.
When he entered the kitchen, his breath caught. There, on the marble countertop, sat two plates: fried cabbage and boiled eggs.
The irony was sharp enough to draw blood. He stood there for a moment, staring at the very meal that had served as his final breaking point with Asnee.
"I don't know what you like to eat," KK said, looking up with a sheepish grin as he finished peeling an egg. "So, I made these simple dishes. If you want something else in the future, just tell me."
"Can you cook?" Santichai asked, his voice barely a whisper.
KK shook his head honestly. "To be truthful, I only recently started. Except for porridge, I only know eggs and stir-fry. My icebox is basically just cabbage, bacon, and eggs. I'm sure it's edible, though maybe not as good as yours."
Santichai took a bite. The flavor was familiar, yet entirely different because of the hands that had prepared it. "Not bad," he murmured, a small, sad smile touching his lips. "Next time... add a little less salt."
As they ate, the silence wasn't the heavy, suffocating kind Santichai was used to. It was a waiting silence. KK noticed Santichai pushing the food around his plate, his appetite swallowed by exhaustion.
KK set his fork down and moved. He didn't stay across the table; he sat beside Santichai, reaching out to gently tilt Santichai's chin up so their eyes met.
"Santichai," KK said, his voice steady and warm. "If you feel you can't take it anymore, you can take a break. I hate seeing you like this. I won't ask about your past—but I am asking you to give me a chance to show you a brighter future."
He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Santichai's forehead. "Even if you don't want to give me a chance yet, at least give yourself a chance to breathe, okay? You've been carrying so much. Aren't you tired?"
At that one word—tired—the last of Santichai's defenses crumbled. He hadn't been asked that in ten years. He had been the provider, the secret, the worker, and the ghost, but he had never been the one allowed to be tired.
He leaned his head onto KK's shoulder, his arms locking around the doctor's waist as if he were holding onto the only solid thing in a shifting world. "Honestly," he sobbed, the sound muffled by KK's shirt, "I've never been asked that. I just need someone to ask how I'm doing. I don't need much. What I do for others... I never ask for anything in return."
"I've been sad like this before," KK whispered, stroking Santichai's hair. "I've faced difficulties, but I stand up because I know people are out there fighting harder than me. Cry your heart out today, Santichai. Because tomorrow, I don't want you to cry anymore."
Santichai pulled back slightly, his eyes red and searching. "Mr. KK, please... don't be too kind to me. It's a wasted effort. I can't fall in love with you. I can't let my heart be hurt again."
KK let out a low, soft chuckle—a sound of pure, undiluted confidence. "Well, if that's the case, then I'll just have to be extra nice to you. I'll make sure you have no choice but to fall in love with me."
Santichai's plea was a desperate attempt to drown out the noise of the past. He wanted KK to be a fire that would burn away the memories of the worn-out mattress, the five-thousand-baht note, and the naked woman in his bed.
"Mr. KK, make love to me," he whispered through his tears. "Touch me in a way that will make me forget. Make me believe in that future."
KK's gaze was heavy with a mixture of desire and a doctor's caution. "Are you sure? Will you regret this?"
"No," Santichai insisted, his voice trembling. "I just want to breathe again."
KK moved with the same tenderness he had shown all night. He carried Santichai to the master bedroom—a room that smelled of cedar and expensive soap, not the humid scent of a cramped apartment. As he laid Santichai down, the sheets felt like cool silk against his skin.
As KK began to kiss him, Santichai closed his eyes, trying to lose himself in the sensation. KK's touch was different—it was intentional, soft, and respectful. It didn't feel like a demand; it felt like a question. Santichai found himself moaning softly, his breath hitching as a new, indescribable warmth began to climb every inch of his skin.
Tomorrow, he thought, a mantra beginning to form in his mind. Tomorrow, we start a new life. Asnee... let's break—
But the moment he thought the name, the mental dam burst.
Suddenly, it wasn't KK's face he saw in the shadows of his mind. It was Asnee—the younger Asnee, the one who had smiled at him on a rooftop ten years ago. He felt the ghost of a different touch, a different weight. The past wasn't a memory; it was a physical presence in the room, suffocating him.
His body reacted before his brain could stop it. A cold surge of panic replaced the warmth. Without warning, Santichai's hands flew up, shoving KK back with a frantic, desperate strength.
"I'm sorry!" Santichai gasped, scrambling back against the headboard, his eyes wide and filled with a fresh wave of horror. "Mr. KK... I'm sorry... I—I can't..."
He pulled his knees to his chest, shaking violently. The "breathing room" he had begged for had just become a vacuum. He realized, with a crushing weight, that he had spent ten years belonging to someone else, and even when that person had discarded him like garbage, they had left the locks on his heart.
The silence that followed Santichai's frantic push was not cold; it was filled with the soft sound of their labored breathing and the distant patter of rain against the glass. Santichai waited for the anger, the rejection, or the lecture on how he was being "unreliable" again.
Instead, KK simply sat back, his expression softening into the calm, observant gaze of a healer. He let out a long sigh—not of frustration, but of a deep, resonant understanding.
"You must have loved him deeply," KK said softly, his voice steadying the air in the room. "Was he your first?"
Santichai's heart felt like it was being squeezed. "He was my first... and perhaps my only," he answered honestly, his voice cracking. He looked at KK, his eyes pleading for forgiveness for a crime he didn't know how to stop committing. "So, I am so sorry, Mr. KK. I really am."
"There is no fault here, Santichai," KK said, and to Santichai's shock, he smiled. It was a small, sad, but incredibly sincere smile. "Being honest with your heart is what is important. You cannot force a new life to grow in soil that hasn't finished mourning the old one."
KK reached out, but he didn't touch Santichai's skin. He simply laid his hand on the silk sheet between them, a gesture of presence without pressure.
"But I won't give up," KK continued, his eyes locking onto Santichai's with a fierce, quiet light. "Fate gave me a chance to finally reconnect with you after all these years, and there is no way I will let that chance slip through my fingers. One day, I will make you fall in love with me willingly—just like how you fell in love with him willingly. I don't want your submission, Santichai. I want your heart when it's ready to be given."
Santichai looked at the man before him. He had spent ten years being a secret, a bank account, and a servant. He had never been told that his honesty was more valuable than his body. For the first time, the "million trails" of tears on his face felt like they were being washed clean, not by the rain, but by a kindness he didn't yet know how to carry.
"Sleep now," KK whispered, pulling the duvet up to Santichai's chin. "I'll be right here. No touch, no advance. Just sleep and rest."