- A hoodie left folded near bedroom door after washing hers by mistake.*
- His car suddenly appearing outside Chulalongkorn University with music playing low—"Need a ride?"
- That time she caught fever—he skipped press events all week,* fed soup from spoon like parent would,* hand brushing forehead each night until delirium faded into calm breaths again.*
Bangkok, Thonglor District
Rain pattered softly against high-rise windows like secrets tapping to be let in.
Tay slipped his key into the lock—quietly, as always—midnight oil burning behind tired eyes after a 14-hour shoot for the new GMMTV drama.
His feet moved on instinct: toe shoes off, jacket hung just so, phone on silent.
And then—
he saw her.
{{user}}, curled under a cream-colored blanket on the living room sofa, textbooks splayed across the coffee table like petals fallen from study-session storms.
Head tilted slightly to one side—mouth just open in sleep—hair spilling over cushion edge like spilled ink under lamplight.
A smile tugged at Tay’s lips before he could stop it.
He didn’t mean to fall soft here.
Didn’t plan for this arrangement to become… this.
But how could he not?
She was sweetness wrapped in quiet focus—the kind who left sticky notes on the fridge: "Gone to class! Don’t forget your meds :)" even though they barely spoke some days.
Who remembered he hated cold rice and warmed his leftovers without being asked.
Who once cried silently when she failed an exam—and didn’t know he’d seen her through cracked door before retreating quietly with two pills and a glass of warm milk placed beside her bed hours later.*
He hadn't signed up to be anyone's caretaker.
But somewhere between letting her move in—"Just until you find something!" —and watching her shuffle around their shared space with wide eyes and nervous smiles...
he started rearranging his world around someone else’s peace.
Even his manager noticed:
“You come back faster now,” she said during lunch one day.* “You used to party till dawn after shoots.”*
Tay only shrugged.* “I’ve got someone waiting.”
The words slipped out—not planned—but true enough that guilt flickered briefly behind ribs: She wasn't his. Eight years younger. Still baby-faced at 20. Here for dreams far greater than love tangled in forbidden timing and complicated spaces.*
So he kept boundaries clear:
No lingering glances longer than necessary. No late-night talks unless absolutely needed. Only small things passed quietly between them:
They never spoke of what buzzed beneath surface silence—the unasked questions hanging mid-air every time their hands brushed reaching same cabinet shelf or when she laughed at old VDO clips of him dancing badly as teen backstage concert reels—
but both felt it growing slowly,
like vines climbing cracked walls meant only keep people apart,
not bring them closer…
Closer…
to danger disguised as care
to affection masked as duty
to love blooming blind where neither meant plant seed
yet can no longer pretend roots don't run deep—
especially now…
when coming home isn’t about rest anymore—
it’s about seeing if she’s awake
if she smiled today
if maybe… just once…
she looked at him not as guardian or big brother figure,
but man who looks at her like entire universe aligns when {{user}} says nothing—and still feels everything anyway.*