-----

But once Wichian’s name had entered the conversation, Paul hesitated. His curiosity won over. “Wait... is he really here? Where is he?”

At that moment, the theatre doors swung open behind them.

Wichian's eyes fell on the scene unfolding before him.

Before he could speak, Sorawit was already in motion.

Fueled by a surge of possessiveness, Sorawit stepped toward Paul, grabbed him by the collar, and pulled him close—his eyes blazing with cold fury. 

“Don’t you understand?” he growled. “He’s mine. Whether I bully him or protect him… that’s for me to decide. I won’t let anyone else get near him.”

Paul’s face stiffened. His arms twitched at his sides but he didn’t fight back. There was something unhinged in Sorawit’s voice—something dangerous.

“Sorawit!” Wichian rushed forward. “Let him go! What the hell are you doing? People are watching—have you lost your mind?!”

But Sorawit didn’t move. He kept his grip tight, eyes still locked on Paul like he didn’t hear a word Wichian said.

“Wit!” Wichian tried to pull him back, his hands wrapping around Sorawit’s arm. “Enough! We’ll talk later, just—let go of him!”

As he tugged harder, their feet tangled in the scuffle—Sorawit stumbled.

Time slowed... 

And in that split second, Sorawit’s body toppled forward, crashing into Wichian.

Their lips met.

Soft.

Accidental.

Unplanned.

But far too real.

Both boys froze. Their eyes wide open, staring into each other in breathless silence. Everything around them faded—the hallway, the people, even Paul. For that moment, it was just them. Just the heat of that fleeting contact and the unspoken question trembling between them.

Sorawit was the first to react.

He pushed himself off Wichian as if burned, stumbling back, breath uneven, heart racing like a drum in his chest. Paul stood nearby, too stunned to say a word. Wichian sat up slowly, touched his mouth with the back of his hand, and glanced at Sorawit with a flicker of fear and something else—something neither of them could name.

People around them didn’t react. To any outsider, it looked like a harmless accident in the middle of a teen scuffle. But to Sorawit, it felt like the world had tilted off its axis.

Something had changed.

Something had broken free.

Without a word, he turned on his heel and fled back into the theatre, slipping into his seat beside his parents as if nothing had happened. But his mind was a whirlwind, replaying that accidental kiss over and over again. He couldn’t feel the chair beneath him or hear the movie anymore.

All he could feel was Wichian’s lips—and the storm they had awakened.

Back in the hallway, Wichian cleared his throat. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Don’t mind him. He’s just... a kid who likes playing the bully.”

Paul didn’t respond. Wichian walked straight to the popcorn counter, but his hands trembled as he picked up the tub.

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

Back Inside the Theatre

A few minutes later, Wichian returned to the darkened theatre, carefully balancing two large buckets of popcorn. The screen glowed with flickering lights from the fantasy world unfolding ahead, but Wichian’s focus wasn’t on dragons or heroes—it was on the two people seated in the middle row.

He stepped forward, leaned down gently, and handed one bucket to his mother. Then, he hesitated for a second before offering the other to Sorawit.

Sorawit turned, eyes barely lifting to meet Wichian’s—but just for a moment. And in that moment, he noticed them again.

Those lips.

The same lips he’d accidentally touched only minutes ago.

His chest tightened.

He snatched the bucket from Wichian’s hand almost too quickly and jerked his gaze back to the screen as if it could shield him from what he was feeling.

Wichian took his seat beside him, a steady calm on the outside, but his mind was anything but.

He kept his eyes forward, pretending to be invested in the glowing scenes of magic and prophecy—but the truth was, he hadn’t heard a single word of the movie. His hand reached out, almost instinctively, to grab a few pieces of popcorn from Sorawit’s bucket.

Their fingers touched.

Barely.

But the jolt was electric.

A sharp, unexplainable current ran through both of them. Sorawit froze. Wichian’s breath caught.

Their eyes met again.

Time stilled.

It wasn’t just about the kiss anymore. It was about everything it had stirred—everything they were too afraid to name.

Sorawit blinked hard, then jerked back into the present. Without saying a word, he shoved the entire bucket into Wichian’s lap, stood up abruptly, and slid into the empty seat beside Mr. Pong, forcing an awkward seat swap mid-movie.

Mrs. Vamika glanced at him in surprise as he reached over and dipped into her popcorn, but said nothing.

On the other side, Wichian quietly passed his bucket to his stepfather and sat back in silence. His heart was racing, his lips dry, his thoughts messy and loud.

The movie played on—an epic climax of magic, battles, and destiny.

Everyone’s eyes were fixed on the screen.

Everyone… except Sorawit.

He stole glances every few minutes—his gaze drawn back like a magnet to Wichian, to the curve of his lips, to the stillness in his posture, to the memory that refused to fade.

And with every glance, a dangerous realization inched closer to the surface.

Something had changed.

And there was no going back.

Sorawit's House – Midnight:

The night was still, but Sorawit's room pulsed with restless energy. He paced back and forth like a caged animal, the floor beneath his bare feet growing warm from his constant movement. Sleep refused to visit him—not tonight, not with his mind screaming at him.

He pressed a hand against his chest, trying to calm the storm inside. Those lips... The memory hit him like a wave crashing over a fragile shore. The softness. The heat. The way their mouths met for a heartbeat too long. His lips... Phi Wichian’s lips...

“No... It didn’t mean anything,” he whispered to himself, clutching the edge of his desk until his knuckles turned white. “It was just... an accident.”

But accidents dodn’t leave aftershocks like this.

Wichian’s eyes haunted him more than the kiss. The way they looked at him—confused, hurt, trembling with something deeper than either of them dared to name. That gaze had burned into his soul.

"Why can’t I stop thinking about it?",

He shook his head hard, as if the memory might fall out.

The whole house was cloaked in silence. Everyone else was asleep, tucked away in peaceful dreams, unaware of the storm raging in the boy down the hall. But Sorawit—he was wide awake, trapped in a prison built by his own emotions.

He flopped onto the bed, covering his face with both hands. "It was nothing. Nothing!", he screamed inside.

But no amount of denial could erase the truth. That kiss had changed everything.