The silence of the meal was comfortable, yet Santichai felt the weight of KK's focused attention. He ducked his head, focusing on the last of the steak. "You don't need to look at me," he murmured, his face heating up.
A sharp ringtone broke the spell. KK checked his screen—a call from Kenneth, his right-hand man. It wasn't something he could ignore. He looked at Santichai with an apologetic smile. "I have to answer this."
"Go into the bedroom," Santichai offered, gesturing toward the small door. "You can sit on the bed."
KK didn't need to be told twice. He wanted to see the inner sanctum of Santichai's life, even if it meant taking a business call there. He pressed the talk button as he stepped over the threshold. "Kenneth, how was the meeting?"
The contrast was jarring. KK sat on Santichai's old bed, feeling the worn springs sink toward the floor, while Kenneth's voice brought news of West Motion Picture and high-end villas.
"Everything is going well, Mr. Suwannarat," Kenneth reported. "They want to use the western villa for their new TV series. The director wants to repaint some walls to differentiate the family sets."
KK leaned back, his mind instantly clicking into business mode despite the modest surroundings. "Kenneth, advise the director to contact Siriporn Cooperation. They specialize in wallpapers. It'll save them a crew, and it protects my grandfather's original walls from permanent damage. Tell them if they use my referral, I'll give them a five percent discount on the rent."
He paused, a calculated glint in his eyes. "And tell the director that with my referral, he might get a discount from Siriporn as well."
"Yes, sir," Kenneth replied. "I'll call Director He immediately."
KK hung up, the silence of the bedroom settling around him. He looked at the simple pillows and the clean, faded sheets. Outside, he was a man who could move markets revenue; in here, he was just a guest on a sinking bed, hoping for a second chance at a first love.
KK hung up and surveyed the small bedroom. It was a space defined by absence. There was only enough room for a double bed, and the bedside table held an old, cheap lamp that looked like a relic from a store that had long since closed. Aside from two pairs of shoes and a few clothes, the rest of Santichai's life remained hidden away in unopened boxes. It wasn't a home; it was a transit station.
Just as he turned to leave, his phone buzzed. Kenneth's message was a victory: the director was on board. Without wasting a second, KK dialed the Siriporn residence. He wanted this deal moving tonight.
"Hello, Siriporn residence," a woman's voice answered.
"I would like to speak to Mr. Siriporn," KK said, his tone shifting back to the authoritative "Young Master" persona.
"May I ask who is calling?"
"Klaew Kla Suwannarat."
The wait was exactly two minutes—a sign of the Siriporns' respect for his name. When Mr. Siriporn finally answered, his voice was warm and eager. "Hi, Mr. Suwannarat."
"Sorry for calling so late," KK said politely. "I have a project for you. The director of West Motion Picture wants to redecorate some rooms in my villa, and I've recommended your wall stickers to them. He wants to see samples tomorrow. Do you have time to meet with Director He?"
"I'm heading into a meeting, but tomorrow I'll have my son see him in person," Mr. Siriporn replied, a smile evident in his tone.
"That's fine," KK said, leaning against the wall of the hallway, just feet away from the door. "I'll have the director call him directly. Good night, Mr. Siriporn."
The sound of shattering ceramic was like a gunshot in the quiet apartment. KK rushed into the kitchen to find Santichai trembling, his fingers digging into the wood of the dining table as if it were the only thing keeping him upright.
"Santichai, what's wrong?" KK's voice was sharp with a worry he couldn't hide.
"It's nothing," Santichai gasped, his face drained of color. "Just... old back pain."
KK didn't buy the lie. As a doctor, his mind immediately went back to the night they spent together. He had noticed it then—the unnatural, slight curve in Santichai's spine. It wasn't just bad posture; it was the mark of someone who had spent years lifting weight they weren't meant to carry, both physical and emotional.
"Your back?" KK asked, his medical intuition flaring.
"Yeah. It comes and goes," Santichai managed, taking shallow breaths to avoid jarring his nerves. "I guess I haven't rested well. It will be better after I rest."
Without a word, KK scooped Santichai up. He was struck by how light the man felt, despite the strength he usually showed. He carried him into the bedroom and laid him on the sinking mattress. Santichai immediately curled into a tight fetal position, his body seeking the only angle that offered a shred of relief.
KK didn't leave immediately. He went back to the kitchen, carefully picking up the shards of the broken plate and sweeping the floor. He brought a fan into the bedroom, plugging it in to circulate the stale air, and watched as Santichai struggled to breathe through the agony.
"Santichai, how do you sleep like this?" KK asked, kneeling by the bed. "Don't sleep like this. It's making the curve worse."
"It relieves the pain," Santichai whispered, his voice thick with unshed tears. "It will take me a while to straighten out. Don't worry about me, KK. I won't be able to see you off... could you just lock the door for me when you leave?"
KK stood over him for a long heartbeat. He saw the way Santichai's shoulders shook, the way he tried to hide his suffering to avoid "bothering" a guest. "Okay," KK finally said. "I'm leaving now."
"Good night," Santichai murmured into the pillow. "Be careful on the road."
As Santichai lay there, he heard the heavy click of the lock. He finally let the tears fall, soaking into the thin pillowcase. In his heart, he truly believed he was alone. He was used to Asnee—a man who lived with him for a decade and never once asked if his back hurt or if he needed help. To Santichai, his relationship with KK was just a "trial." He assumed that a man of KK's status would have no interest in the broken body of a dishwasher.
Santichai lay in the dark, listening to the heavy click of the lock. In his heart, he had always hoped that on days like this, someone would ask if he was okay. He wished KK had said it, but he dismissed the thought as wishful thinking. The Asnee he had known since childhood never asked such things; why would a man like KK, who was practically a stranger, care? To Santichai, they were just on a "trial"—a temporary arrangement that didn't include the burden of a broken body.
His mind drifted back to the three months he had spent in the hospital. Asnee had only visited twice. At the time, Santichai had settled out of court with his employer just to get the money needed for Asnee's tuition. But the company owner fled the country, the settlement vanished, and Santichai's treatment was cut short. He remembered watching Alzheimer's patients in the ward and secretly wishing he could switch places with them—to forget the pain, to forget the struggle, to forget himself.
When the money ran out, Asnee's true colors emerged. His temper flared, and silence became a weapon. On nights when Santichai's back burned so fiercely he couldn't even reach for a glass of water just inches away, Asnee was either at a friend's house or stumbling home drunk.
"Santichai, you can do it," he whispered into the empty room, a mantra of survival. "You are strong. You can do it."
He closed his eyes as the pain in his lower back turned into a searing heat. "Santichai..." he sobbed softly. "You can do it..."
Two hours passed in agonizing silence. Then, the front door opened softly.
Santichai froze as he heard footsteps crossing the living room and entering his bedroom. The door clicked shut. With a soft thud, someone knelt by the bed and then crawled onto the narrow mattress. A pair of strong arms reached out, pulling Santichai's trembling frame into a firm, warm embrace.
"Who are you? Let me go!" Santichai gasped in horror, struggling to break free, but his back flared in protest, pinning him against the wall.
"Santichai, don't move."
Santichai's lips trembled as the voice registered. "KK...?"
"Mmm, it's me," KK murmured, his voice a low vibration against Santichai's hair. He didn't ask for anything; he just held him. "How is the pain? Is it any better?"
Fresh tears soaked the pillow. Santichai couldn't say the pain was gone—his lower back was still a storm of nerves—but as KK's warmth seeped into him, the cold void in his chest began to heal.
"Mmm," Santichai whispered, leaning into the man who had actually come back.
He felt the steady warmth of KK's embrace. The soft, rhythmic breathing brushed against his forehead, and though his mind knew with absolute certainty that the man holding him was KK, his stubborn heart—scarred and slow to learn—still wished the arms belonged to Asnee.
He found himself tallying a million past episodes of agony, a million nights spent alone on a sofa bed, wishing just once that Asnee would have held him exactly like this. The realization that a virtual stranger was offering the tenderness his partner of a decade never could made Santichai's chest tighten. As the thought lingered, a wave of self-loathing washed over him. He hated himself for the betrayal of his own mind—for still clinging to a ghost, for yearning for a past that didn't truly exist, and for wanting a version of Asnee that had never been real.