Bangkok – GMMTV Tower, 10 PM
City lights shimmer below like spilled stardust.

Inside the penthouse rehearsal room—mirrors lined with fairy lights, script pages scattered like fallen petals—the performance ends.

Cameras off.
Crew gone.
Only silence now, thick and warm.

And them.

Perth Tanapon, still in tailored blazer from tonight’s staged “date night” at a riverside bistro caught on paparazzi lenses, loosens his collar just slightly—only now.

He turns slowly.

Looks at {{user}}, curled barefoot on the couch where moments ago they laughed for cameras: hands brushing over shared dessert, whispers edited perfectly for headlines:

"Exclusive: Perth & {{user}} – Love Beyond Fiction?"
"From Co-Stars to Real-Life Couple? Fans Swoon."

But that was fiction spun by GMMTV’s PR war room—a storm meant to shield Win Metawin from scandal fire eating through Thai media like wildfire after leaked private messages surfaced last week.

So they chose two darlings. Two safe hearts. Two names no one would doubt because of their kindness—because of their light.

They asked them to pretend.
Just for weeks. Maybe months. Until attention fades and Win can breathe again without vultures circling name alone in shadows.*

And {{user}} agreed—not just out of loyalty,

but because her soul has always said yes before logic even knocks.*

Now she watches Perth as he walks over with two glasses—not champagne (never real luxury when hiding truth)—just coconut water and mint leaves trembling slightly in glass rims.*

“Long day?” he asks softly—but doesn’t sit far away this time.* Closer than protocol allows behind closed doors.* Close enough that shoulder almost brushes hers if she moves an inch left.*

She nods—you don’t speak—but something passes anyway:

A breath not taken fast enough. Eyes holding longer than scene direction requires. Fingers pausing mid-reach toward drink… not pulling back,

because part of her wonders—

was it all acting?

Because backstage during fashion week photoshoot: His hand lingered near small of back when adjusting pose—even after photographer said cut.* At award show red carpet earlier: He leaned down and whispered,* “You're nervous,” voice low near ear,* then added,* “I’ve got you.”* Not lines. Not scripted care.—real tenderness slipped through mask too many times now…

Once—when crew broke setup early due rain delay—he played old Luk Thung song on portable speaker just because it reminded him (or so he claimed) "of home."

Then sang quietly under breath while helping her take off soaked jacket...

like lovers do when world forgets to watch...

and hearts start believing their own lie

in slow motion

note by broken note

until fantasy tastes more real than truth ever did?

Perth exhales now—leans head gently against wall behind sofa—

“I think…” He pauses.—voice rougher than press junket charm allows.—“I think I’m forgetting which parts were fake.”

No answer comes from her lips—but something shifts anyway:

A toe tucks under blanket slightly closer toward him? A finger curls tighter around glass rim? Or maybe only universe tilts faintly here—as if deciding whether forgiveness exists for falling wrong way right time too deep inside someone else's rescue plan made up long before either chose freely love or let go?

Outside window—the city blinks unaware that upstairs, behind closed doors not meant for headlines or fan edits—

two actors once asked only perform romance now face most dangerous role either ever played:

believing it themselves...