The set lights burned bright, hotter than the Bangkok sun. Bright Vachirawit sat on the worn couch in the center of the studio, pretending to focus on the script in his lap. His eyes, however, weren't on the pages. They were locked on the man pacing just a few steps away.
Win Metawin, with his rolled-up sleeves and a look of concentration that made Bright's chest tighten. They had been filming for nearly twelve hours, and the final scene of the day—the almost-kiss—was driving both of them insane.
"Cut! No, no—again!" the director shouted, running a hand through his thinning hair. "Win, look at Bright with more longing. Bright, hold him like you don't want to let go. This is romance, not a business transaction!"
The crew groaned quietly, exhausted. Bright smirked, tossing his script onto the couch. He could play this game all night if it meant holding Win in his arms.
When the cameras rolled again, Bright reached for Win. His hand found the younger man's wrist, pulling him closer. Their faces hovered inches apart, breaths mingling.
Win's eyes met his—steady, deep, and far too real.
Bright forgot the cameras. Forgot the lights. He only knew the pounding in his chest, the way Win's lips parted ever so slightly, and the temptation that nearly drove him to close the distance.
"Cut!" the director yelled again. "Still not enough. Tomorrow, we try again. That's a wrap for today."
The crew began packing up, sighs of relief echoing around the set. Bright, however, stayed frozen, his hand still lingering on Win's wrist. Win gently pulled away, clearing his throat as he looked anywhere but at Bright.
"Good work today," Win said softly, his professional mask slipping back into place. He turned toward the dressing rooms, but Bright followed without a word.
The corridor outside the set was quiet, dimly lit, the bustle of the crew fading into the distance. Bright leaned against the wall, watching as Win dug through his bag, avoiding his gaze.
"You know," Bright finally said, voice low and teasing, "the director might be right. You should look at me with more longing."
Win shot him a glare, though his cheeks warmed with color. "Maybe you should stop enjoying this so much."
Bright pushed off the wall, stepping closer, closing the space between them. Win tensed but didn't move away.
"Enjoying what?" Bright whispered, his lips curving into a dangerous smile. "Holding you? Looking at you like this?"
Win's heartbeat betrayed him, hammering loud enough that Bright was sure he could hear it. "It's acting," Win muttered, his voice lacking conviction.
Bright leaned in, close enough that their noses brushed. "Then why does it feel so real?"
Win swallowed hard, his composure cracking. For a moment, he looked like he might push Bright away. Instead, he whispered, "Because you're not supposed to look at me like that off camera."
The words were a warning, but Bright took them as an invitation. His hand lifted, brushing against Win's jaw, fingers trailing lightly over warm skin. Win's breath hitched, and Bright felt a rush of victory.
The hallway was empty. No cameras. No director. No script to follow.
Bright closed the final inch of distance, pressing his lips against Win's.
It wasn't staged. It wasn't practiced. It was raw, hungry, and reckless—everything they'd been holding back. Win stiffened for a heartbeat, then melted into him, hands gripping Bright's shirt as if to anchor himself.
The kiss deepened, fire sparking through both of them. Bright angled his head, capturing Win's lips harder, desperate to taste more. Win let out a soft sound—a mix of surprise and need—that nearly drove Bright over the edge.
When they finally broke apart, both were breathless. Win's eyes were wide, dazed, his lips swollen from the kiss.
"Bright…" he whispered, a tremor in his voice.
Bright smirked, though his chest was pounding with more than confidence. "You can call that acting if you want, Win. But we both know it's not."
Win stepped back, shaking his head, trying to compose himself. "This is dangerous. If anyone finds out—"
"Let them," Bright cut in, his voice low and fierce. "I don't care who knows. I just know I can't keep pretending this is only a script."
Win stared at him, torn between fear and the undeniable pull that had just set his body on fire. His lips parted, like he wanted to argue, but no words came out.
Bright took his silence as proof enough. He reached for Win's hand, lacing their fingers together briefly before letting go.
"Think about it," Bright murmured, brushing past him toward the exit. "If you want me to stop, tell me tomorrow. Otherwise…" His smirk returned, sharp and wicked. "Be ready for more than acting."
Win stood frozen in the corridor long after Bright was gone, his heart racing, his lips still tingling from the kiss.
He knew Bright was trouble. Knew this path could ruin everything.
But as much as he tried to deny it, a dangerous truth burned in his chest: he didn't want Bright to stop.