But Sorawit didn’t hear him.Didn’t care.Didn’t want to care.

"Why did he look at Wichian like that? Why the hell was he smiling at him?

He thinks he can touch what’s mine?

They’re choking on their own breath."

His grip tightened, and the man’s face turned red, panicked.

Then—footsteps. 

The door creaked open behind him.

“Sorawit! What are you doing? Let him go!” Wichian’s voice rang out, sharp and alarmed.

But Sorawit didn’t even turn.

Why now?Why did he have to see this?

“Let him go!” Wichian ran forward, his voice rising with desperation. He grabbed Sorawit’s arm, trying to pull it back. “Please! Sorawit, what if your dad sees you like this? Whatever he’s done—it’s not worth this!”

That word—Dad—landed like a punch to Sorawit’s chest.

"Dad...

Shit. If he sees this...

No. Not now."

His hand began to tremble. Slowly, his grip loosened. The man dropped to the floor, coughing violently, before scrambling out without a backward glance.

A tense silence swallowed the room.

Wichian stood still, breath quickened, his heart pounding.

He turned to Sorawit, uncertain, frightened—not just by what he’d seen, but by who he was seeing.

"That wasn’t the Sorawit I know" Wichian thought.

"What happened to him? What pushed him to this edge?"

Sorawit didn’t speak. His eyes were still cold, distant, dangerous.

Wichian swallowed hard. “Your dad is asking for you... Let’s go,” he said gently, trying not to sound shaken.

Sorawit glanced at him—no softness, no apology, only that same cold fire—and brushed past him wordlessly, disappearing into the hallway.

Wichian remained there for a moment, rooted in place.

That wasn’t normal, he thought.

Something’s not right with him... and I’m starting to feel scared.

------------

Later that night:

After dinner, the family returned home, laughter still echoing faintly from the car ride. It had been a surprisingly pleasant evening—filled with warm conversation, smiles, and shared memories. For a while, everything felt almost... normal.

Wichian didn’t want to break that fragile feeling.

But tomorrow was important.

He had a major presentation early in the morning, and he needed to be sharp, rested, and ready.

As soon as they stepped inside, he quietly excused himself, offering a soft smile to the others. “Goodnight, everyone. I have to wake up early.”

Mr. Pong nodded proudly. “All the best, son. You’ll do great.”

Wichian returned a small, grateful nod, then disappeared into his room.

Once inside, he dropped his bag gently, changed into his pajamas, and sank into the bed. His limbs were tired, but his mind—his mind was spinning.

Why was Sorawit so aggressive earlier? What did that man even do?

I should’ve asked... but he looked so distant. So... dangerous.

Was it just protectiveness? Or something more?

He turned onto his side, trying to push the thoughts away.

There was no use overthinking. Not tonight.

"Focus, Wichian. Big day tomorrow. Whatever’s going on with Sorawit... deal with it later", Wichian said to himself.

He closed his eyes, willing himself into sleep.

But somewhere deep inside, a sliver of unease curled in his chest.

---------

Mr. And Mrs. Pong's bedroom:

In the quiet of their bedroom, Mr. and Mrs. Pong sat together, the soft hum of the ceiling fan filling the space between their words.

Mr. Pong spoke first, his voice laced with cautious optimism.

“Did you notice Wit today? He didn’t cause any trouble. In fact, he helped Wichian with the shopping.”

Vamika smiled, her eyes soft with hope. “Yes, honey. I was so happy to see that. Maybe… maybe they’re finally starting to reconcile. I just—”

Her sentence faded into silence. Her gaze drifted to the floor, lost in thought.

Mr. Pong reached for her hand gently. “Honey,” he said, his voice low and reassuring, “I know you’re worried about what’s going to happen after these two months... but you saw them today. I truly believe Wit is changing. Slowly, but he is.”

Vamika nodded, though her expression was still touched by uncertainty.

“I hope you’re right. If things keep going this way… maybe we can finally live peacefully. As a real family.”

She leaned into his shoulder, seeking comfort in his presence.

Mr. Pong wrapped his arm around her, holding her close, but his eyes were distant—lost in quiet reflection.

"They’re both good boys", he thought. "They just need time. Time to understand each other… and themselves."

----------

Sorawit's room:

Inside his dimly lit room, Sorawit stood in front of the punching bag, fists clenched in boxing gloves. Sweat dripped from his temples, sliding down his jaw. Each punch he landed echoed through the walls—raw, heavy, relentless.

Thud. Thud. THUD.

He couldn’t stop.

He didn’t want to stop.

His mind kept playing the scene in a loop—the washroom, that man’s hands, his eyes lingering on Wichian.

“What the hell was I thinking?” he growled between breaths. “Why did I do that?”

Another punch.

“They were just talking about him. I didn’t need to—”

Thud.

“Why do I even care? He’s the one I hate the most in this damn house. He’s annoying, fake, always trying to act nice—”

But mid-swing, his arms slowed. His mind betrayed him.

A vivid memory burst through—the image of Wichian at the restaurant, walking toward him in that fitted black shirt. The way the top buttons were left undone. The way his collarbone peeked through. His quiet confidence. That effortless elegance.

God.

Sorawit froze. His breath hitched.

His gloves dropped slightly as his mind wandered.

"He looked... hot. Wait. No. Not hot. Just... that shirt. It’s the shirt. That’s all."

He shook his head hard and snapped back to reality. “Shit.”

His fists resumed their assault on the bag—this time faster, sloppier. “Why am I thinking about him? He’s not even that handsome. Maybe it was just the lighting. Or the shirt. Yeah, it’s always the shirt.”

Then, he muttered aloud, voice dropping to a hiss, “Hot? Did I just call him hot? Shit...”

He stopped again. Panting. Face flushed.

"I must be losing my damn mind."

He pulled off the gloves, dropped them onto the floor, and stumbled into the bathroom.

Under the harsh light, he peeled off his sweat-soaked shirt, turned the shower knob, and stepped into the cold water. For a few seconds, the chill helped. But as he reached for the soap and began rubbing it across his chest, the memory flashed again—

Wichian’s unbuttoned shirt. That glimpse of his toned chest. The way he walked with calm intensity, like he didn’t even know how many heads he turned.

Sorawit’s hand froze mid-motion.

“What the actual f—” He shook his head violently, splashing water onto the tiles. “I need to stop. I’m just... tired. That’s all. Just tired.”

He rushed through the rest of the shower and flung himself onto the bed. But rest didn’t come.

Even in the dark, his mind wandered.

Back to Wichian.

Back to the burning inside his own chest that he didn’t know how to name.

He turned onto his side. Then again. And again.

"It’s nothing", he told himself. "I’m just tired. I’m just... messed up."

After what felt like hours of tossing and turning, Sorawit finally slipped into an uneasy sleep—still haunted by things he refused to understand.