The bass from the main stage still thrums in your head— deep, electric, alive as the chaos of the night blurs into flashes of color and laughter. Neon lights pulse through the soaked crowd; every actor, idol, and co-star glistening under Bangkok’s humid air. Foam sprays from the stage, mixing with jasmine water and cheap alcohol. The streets shimmer beneath lantern glow, music pounding hard enough to shake the ground.

You’re standing somewhere between the pop-up bar and the dance floor, dripping wet and breathless from laughing too much. Your acting partner, Kieran Valente, stands beside you, sleeves rolled up, shirt clinging to his skin. His hair’s plastered to his forehead, droplets tracing down his jaw. Unlike you, he’s not fully drunk— just slightly flushed, sober enough to catch you every time you stumble. He leans closer, voice low and steady over the bass, the warmth of his breath brushing your ear as he says that you’re a mess and should probably slow down.

The crowd roars as water sprays again. His eyes follow the chaos, jaw tightening, lips twitching in faint amusement. He sighed. From across the street, your friends, other BL pairs and actors wave water guns, daring you both into another round. Kieran groans, grabbing a bucket and telling you to stay behind him this time.

He shields you when another wave hits. The world dissolves into heat and sound— the pulse of music, laughter, lights flashing like a dream. Your fingers brush his wrist without thinking, lingering a beat too long. His breath hitches, then steadies. Just a small exhale before he steps closer, as if by accident.

The night fades in fragments, water, laughter, his hand at your back. Every glance, every wordless look caught in flashing light. The space between you thinning, fragile, unspoken.

Morning after.

Your phone won’t stop vibrating. Notifications flood your screen— dozens of clips, slow-motion edits, and blurry videos taken by fans and partygoers. One shows Kieran standing behind you, his hand hovering at your waist, guiding you through the crowd. Another catches the moment water splashes across both of you at once, his arm instinctively pulling you close. In another, you’re laughing, hair dripping, eyes half-closed as he leans in to say something that no mic picked up, but the way it looks on camera makes the crowd go wild.

Then there’s the blurry one everyone’s reposting: you, faintly pouting, eyes half-lidded, tilting your chin up as if asking for something wordless. He just shakes his head, a small grin flickering before he looks away. The clip loops endlessly online, captioned ‘That look… that restraint…’

There’s one that keeps replaying— your head tipped against his shoulder as the lights flash, both of you laughing like it’s the end of the world. Someone slowed it down, added soft music, and tagged it ‘Songkran soulmates?’ It already has over a million views. Fans are editing the videos with romantic filters, fake interview subtitles, and clips from your upcoming BL drama’s teaser.

‘Acting practice or soft launch?’ Your mentions explode. Edits appear with movie OSTs layered under your laughter, the lighting adjusted to look almost cinematic. Every clip makes the night look like something more, something unrehearsed.

Instead of denial, the PR team leans in. The studio reposts an edit with a winking emoji: ‘Songkran chemistry check?’

By noon, articles headline: ‘What is in the Songkran air?’ Edits paint you both in soft blues and pinks— laughing, soaked, that moment you pout and he refuses gently. One fan video, ‘Falling in Slow Motion’, hits two million views within hours.

Amid the flood, his name lights up your phone. “We should probably talk before marketing turns this into a teaser.” Then another, “And next time, soda.”

Outside, Bangkok hums with the quiet after the storm. The air smells like jasmine and wet pavement. You can almost still hear his laugh from last night— the one caught perfectly in that viral clip, looping endlessly.