Archive of Our Own

If you asked any music critic, entertainment journalist, or variety show producer across Southeast Asia, they’d tell you MARS just worked. Five members, three consecutive multi-platinum records, arena tours that crashed ticketing servers in under ninety seconds, and an unspoken, almost telepathic chemistry that corporate marketing executives would gladly sell their firstborn children to bottle.

If you asked Junn, however, he would tell you with absolute sincerity that giving his four bandmates the digital keypad code to his apartment had been the single worst decision of his twenty-four years on earth.

They were in year five of their career, which meant they were finally rich enough to graduate from communal dorm life into their own separate, meticulously styled luxury condos scattered across central Bangkok. In theory, this was supposed to mean privacy, independence, and the sweet luxury of being able to spend an evening in your own home without someone barging in. In reality, Junn had a custom velvet sectional, a kitchen so clean it looked barely used, and one fatal problem: he had absolutely no way of physically dragging four full-grown pop idols out by their collars and dumping them into the corridor. So his living room had effectively become MARs’ unofficial clubhouse.

It was a Tuesday afternoon with nothing on the schedule for the next forty-eight hours—a miracle in their industry—which meant Junn’s central air conditioning was cranked down to an arctic eighteen degrees Celsius, his designer coffee table was completely buried under greasy cardboard takeout boxes, bubble tea receipts, and discarded sheet music, and everyone was somewhere in the process of collapsing horizontally.

Pepper, the group leader who hadn't experienced uninterrupted REM sleep since their debut showcase, was sitting cross-legged on the floor against the panoramic glass. He idly picked out melodic minor chords on an acoustic guitar while FaceTiming Gam, his face softening into that embarrassingly besotted, hushed voice he reserved exclusively for his director girlfriend. Every few minutes, he’d lean closer to the screen and whisper something private that made his dimples appear, completely oblivious to everything happening around him.

On the rug below the main sofa, Nano—the chronically online and terrifyingly sharp maknae of the group—was furiously hammering out a multi-paragraph argument to Diamond, his soloist boyfriend, determined to prove that he was, in fact, right. Between furious swipes of his thumb, Nano would casually reach upward without breaking eye contact with his glowing screen and steal another handful of sour cream and onion chips directly from the bowl resting on Dylan’s ribcage.

Dylan didn’t even twitch when Nano stole another chip. He was stretched out across the sofa, completely flat on his back, bare ankles hooked over the armrest and his head resting against the side of Junn’s left thigh like that was a perfectly normal place to put it.

This was the problem with Dylan. Junn had been dealing with him for seven years now—two years as trainees, when they’d competed viciously for the same handful of vocal lines, followed by five years as bandmates, during which they’d shared everything from bleeding throats and ruined voices to screaming matches at two in the morning inside soundproofed rehearsal rooms. Somewhere along the way, whatever they’d had going on had changed. It had started with genuine dislike and competitiveness that made every shared rehearsal feel like a personal attack. Then they’d settled into a constant cycle of insults, arguments, and the occasional truce. And then, somehow, without either of them acknowledging it, it had become this.

Junn had had a crush on Dylan for so long that the feeling had stopped seeming temporary. At this point, he was fairly certain it had taken up permanent residence somewhere inside his body.

Dylan was twenty-three, annoyingly pretty, and completely convinced that Junn only put up with him because they were in the same band and had spent too many years together to start getting rid of each other now. Junn, meanwhile, was twenty-four, stubborn to a genuinely unreasonable degree, and absolutely refused to believe that Dylan’s casual little habits meant anything. Like right now. Dylan’s index finger was lazily tracing small, meaningless circles along the cotton hem of Junn’s sweatpants, apparently without a single thought behind it.

According to Junn, this meant nothing.

It meant that Dylan had no sense of personal space.

That was all.

Obviously.

"Move your head," Junn murmured, keeping his eyes firmly on his tablet. He was supposed to be reviewing wardrobe proofs, but his pulse had started doing something distinctly unhelpful in his throat. "Your hair is stabbing through my track pants."

"Your leg is taking up my entire side of the sofa, Junn," Dylan drawled, making absolutely no attempt to move. He let out a lazy breath that warmed Junn’s leg and sent his overgrown fringe fluttering. "Learn to share the upholstery. You’re like an ergonomic memory foam cushion."

"I am not an ottoman," Junn said. His fingers still didn’t move to push Dylan away.

"You're an elder by ten months. That barely makes you a toddler in leader years."

Junn opened his mouth, already trying to come up with something suitably nasty in response, when Thame shuffled into the living room looking like a man who had somehow managed to have an existential crisis while waiting for a pot of water to boil. He was holding a steaming bowl of instant ramen in both hands, his oversized gym shorts hanging low on his hips, his wide dark eyes fixed ahead of him as if he’d just learned something he wasn’t remotely prepared to process.

Thame could hit a high note that made the rest of the group stop and stare, but put him in front of someone he actually liked and suddenly he had absolutely no idea what to do. His recent, hesitant attempt at an actual relationship—specifically, dating Po, an effortlessly stylish indie cinematographer with a vintage motorcycle and a bone structure people probably complimented without even thinking—had become a source of endless entertainment for the rest of the group. Not because Thame was doing anything wrong. Mostly because he seemed to approach every single interaction with Po like it required a group consultation afterwards.

"Hey," Thame announced, stopping directly in the middle of Junn’s wool rug. He looked around at all of them, still clutching the bowl. "Did any of you know that P'Po has a cat?"

Pepper’s fingers stopped on the guitar strings. He pulled his phone away from his ear and looked over the top of his glasses. "He does? I remember him specifically telling Gam and me over drinks that his building management was psychotic about pet deposits. He said they wouldn't even let him keep a fish in a glass bowl."

"Maybe he moved?" Nano suggested without looking up from his keyboard. "Or bribed the front desk security with film festival passes."

"Gam literally had coffee with him three days ago on set," Pepper countered, his brow furrowing. "He was complaining about his kitchen sink. He hasn't moved. He hates packing boxes more than he hates low-budget lighting."

"Yeah, exactly. It’s really weird," Thame said. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, staring down at his ramen like the answer might be floating somewhere between the noodles. "I never knew he liked animals like that. He always seemed more like an expensive houseplant guy."

Dylan tipped his head back over Junn’s thigh and looked up at Thame upside down. A slow, wicked grin spread across his face. "What breed is it?"

"I don't know," Thame admitted.

Junn sighed, resting his chin in his hand as he leaned slightly over Dylan’s upside-down face. "Well, what’s the cat's name? Is it a boy or a girl?"

"I... I don't know that either," Thame mumbled. Heat crept up his neck, turning the tips of his ears bright pink.

Nano stopped typing. His thumbs hovered over the glass screen for a second before he slowly looked up. His sharp eyes settled on Thame with suspicion. "Why don't you know the name of the cat, P'Thame?"

"Because!" Thame threw his head back defensively, nearly tipping his bowl of ramen onto himself. "We had dinner yesterday, okay? It was really nice! We went to that little handmade pasta place by the river, and then I drove him back to his building. We were standing right outside his apartment door in the hallway, and we were kissing, and it was... you know. Really, really nice."

Dylan made a loud gagging sound directly into Junn’s thigh. Junn’s hand moved on pure instinct, rapping Dylan lightly on the forehead with his knuckles to silence him. "Ignore him. Go on, Thame."

"Right before I was about to say goodnight," Thame continued, his voice dropping an entire octave into hushed embarrassment, "he pulled me in close by my belt loops, looked at me through his bangs, and asked if I wanted to come inside to see his cat."

Pepper went completely still.

Nano dropped his phone onto the carpet with a dead thump.

Dylan let out a choked sound, rolled entirely onto his stomach, buried his face into the crevice between Junn’s hip and the sofa backrest, and began vibrating with hysterical laughter.

"And what," Pepper asked, his voice adopting that frighteningly calm tone that meant everyone else should probably start worrying, "did you say in response, Thame?"

Thame carefully set his bowl of hot ramen down on the coffee table before throwing his free hand into the air.

"I told him no!" he said, looking around the room for brotherhood, validation, and solidarity, only to find four people staring back at him with expressions that were rapidly shifting from curiosity to pure dread. "Because I had a six-in-the-morning heavy strength session with Coach Beam! Coach Beam would literally suspend me by my Achilles tendons from the pull-up bar if I showed up with less than eight hours of recovery sleep! So I looked Po dead in the eyes, told him that I loved domestic animals, but I really had to go home and hydrate for heavy squats!"

Silence swallowed Junn’s living room.

Then everyone lost it.

Dylan let out a high-pitched, wheezing shriek straight into the sofa cushions, his open palm repeatedly smacking the velvet as he laughed so hard his eyes started watering.

Nano groaned, the sound coming from somewhere deep in his chest, and immediately yanked a decorative throw pillow over his face like he needed to physically remove himself from the conversation. "I cannot believe you," he mumbled into the pillow.

Pepper slowly took off his wire-rimmed glasses and folded the arms with deliberate care before pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. He stared up at the crown moulding for several long seconds, looking completely defeated. "Oh, sweet boy," Pepper whispered to the ceiling. "Oh, you sweet, doomed boy."

Junn frowned, genuinely trying to work through the situation as if there were a perfectly reasonable explanation for all of this. "Wait. Thame... you could have just asked him if you could come see the cat over the weekend instead. If he adopted a pet, the animal is still going to be in the apartment on Saturday."

Nano ripped the pillow away from his face and stared at Junn like he'd just said the stupidest thing he'd heard all week. "P'Junn, shut up. Please. I am on my knees begging you to stop applying your spreadsheet brain to this situation. P'Po does not have a feline."

"He literally used the word cat!" Thame shouted, his voice cracking on the hard consonant. "Why would an award-winning cinematographer fabricate a companion animal?!"

"Ugh, I cannot do this with him; my blood pressure is spiking," Nano groaned, kicking Dylan’s shin. "P'Dylan. You are by far the most vulgar, degenerate person in this group. Translate it for him. Use monosyllables."

Dylan dragged himself up onto his forearms, wiping legitimate tears of hilarity from his eyelashes. His cheeks were flushed a breathless pink, his messy hair sticking out in three different directions. He levelled a look at Thame that was equal parts pity, amusement, and sheer sadistic entertainment.

"Thame," Dylan said, his voice dropping into an exaggeratedly serious purr. "What is a cat?"

Thame blinked. "A... a four-legged domesticated carnivorous mammal?"

"It also means pussy," Dylan stated, entirely deadpan. "‘Do you want to see my cat’ means do you want to see my pussy."

The colour drained from Thame’s face so fast he looked practically translucent, only for a catastrophic tidal wave of blood to surge back upward, flooding his throat, his jawline, his cheekbones, and the shell of his ears with crimson. "B-But—"

"It means he was asking you to sleep with him, Thame," Pepper supplied gently from the window.

"It’s Gen-Z internet slang; how are you twenty-four years old and living under a tectonic plate?!" Nano yelled, throwing both hands toward the ceiling fan. "Everyone with a functioning smartphone knows this! It’s on TikTok, it’s on Twitter, it’s in every meme format across the diaspora! How did you miss this?!"

"B-But he’s a guy!" Thame stammered frantically, looking between Dylan and Pepper as if desperately searching for the hidden cameras of a prank show. "He doesn't—he doesn't possess the anatomical equipment! It’s biologically inaccurate!"

"You don’t need the anatomical equipment to use the line, P'Thame!" Nano barked, leaning forward like he had just been told their entire argument was about to be thrown out. "If you want to get railed, you use the slang! It started with women, but gay men have been using it for ages now! It’s a flirt! It’s a coy, pretty little code word so an adult man doesn't have to look you in the eyes and say, ‘Please come ruin me on my kitchen island.’ Was he doing the face? The heavy-lidded, looking-up-through-the-eyelashes bottom face?!"

Thame looked like he was about to have a medical emergency. His knees gave out beneath him, and he dropped heavily into Junn’s armchair, staring blankly at the wall like he’d just been informed of his own funeral arrangements.

"I..." Thame whispered, staring ahead in horror. "I told him... I told him my hamstring mobility was too tight for me to miss eight hours of sleep."

"You ruined it," Dylan announced. He reached back into the bowl and popped another chip into his mouth, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "You fumbled the bag so hard it bounced into traffic, Thame."

"I ruined it?!" Thame shrieked.

His hand flew toward his pocket, and then he froze. He leaned forward just enough to grab his phone from the table and immediately started fumbling with the screen. "Oh my god. Oh my god, he thinks I rejected him for Coach Beam’s leg day! What do I text him?! Do I text him, 'I want to see your cat now'?! Does that sound deranged?!"

"Do not type that," Pepper said immediately. He lunged forward and caught Thame’s trembling hand before the message could be sent, prying the phone out of his fingers. "Give me the device."

As Thame spiralled into full-blown panic—Nano cackling mercilessly beside him, Pepper desperately trying to keep the situation from getting any worse, and Dylan laughing helplessly into the sofa cushions—Junn leaned back against the sofa and shook his head, a small smile tugging at his mouth.

Idiots, Junn thought, watching Dylan flick a stray potato chip at Thame’s ear. Absolute, chaotic idiots, the whole lot of them.

Pepper had finally managed to get a hyperventilating Thame into his car around eight that evening. It had taken some effort. Thame had drafted, deleted, and rewritten sixty-four different versions of an apology text to Po before deciding that texting was clearly no longer an option. His next idea had been to run the six blocks to Po’s condominium and beg for forgiveness in person, preferably on his knees, because apparently that was the only reasonable solution his brain could come up with.

Pepper had stopped him before he made it out the door.

Nano had been collected by Diamond not long after, leaving behind a trail of crushed potato chips, an abandoned pillow, and a group chat that had not stopped lighting up with increasingly vicious messages since the moment he left.

And Dylan.

Dylan had slung his oversized leather jacket over one shoulder and lingered by the front entryway with his sneakers only half-tied, looking far too sleepy to be trusted with his own shoelaces. Before Junn could tell him to hurry up, Dylan had looked back at him and flashed him that crooked grin that always seemed to show up when Junn was already too tired to deal with him.

Junn had ended up driving him home himself. He’d told himself it was because Dylan was half-asleep. Because it was late, because someone had to make sure he got home safely. None of those explanations made the fact that Junn had volunteered himself any less annoying.

After dropping Dylan off, Junn returned home and spent another hour putting his apartment back together. He cleared every takeout container from the coffee table, collected the empty cups and bottles that had somehow multiplied while nobody was looking, wiped down the marble surfaces, and ran the dishwasher on its silent cycle because the last thing he needed was the machine making noise at that hour. By the time everything was finally back where it belonged, he barely had the energy to shower before collapsing into his king-sized bed sometime around midnight, exhausted down to his bones.

It was three in the morning when Junn woke up with a dry throat and a mouth that felt like sandpaper. He lay there for a moment, half-asleep and trying to ignore the thirst, but it only got worse. Eventually, he pushed the covers aside and got out of bed.

He shuffled across the floor, heading into his kitchen. He didn’t bother switching on the lights. There was no reason to fill the entire apartment with light at three in the morning just because he needed water. Instead, he leaned his hip against the cool quartz island, filled a tall glass from the filter, and drank slowly. The water was cold enough to make him close his eyes for a second. When he lowered the glass, he found himself staring through the windows at the city below, where streetlights blinked between the buildings.

The apartment was completely silent except for the low hum of the refrigerator.

Staring across the dark kitchen, Junn let out a quiet laugh into the rim of his glass.

He still couldn’t quite believe what had happened on his living room rug six hours earlier. The image of Thame—a man with the emotional awareness of a startled golden retriever—standing there with his bowl of ramen and looking genuinely confused about what Po could possibly have meant by cat was going to live in Junn’s head for a very long time.

God, Thame was such an idiot, Junn thought, shaking his head with fond exasperation. How do you make it to twenty-four, survive three world tours, and still somehow fail to notice when a man is practically inviting you home with a flashing neon sign?

He smiled to himself as he set the empty glass on the counter. Then he rubbed the bridge of his nose and stifled a heavy yawn. Whatever entertainment Thame had provided tonight, Junn was officially done with it.

He turned and started down the corridor toward the master bedroom.

His bare foot caught the edge of the kitchen island barstool, and he stopped short, catching himself with one flat palm against the countertop. His eyes dropped to the island, and that was when he noticed the matte-black ceramic fruit bowl sitting directly in the centre. It had three apples, two plums, and Junn’s spare set of studio keys inside it.

He stared at it.

It was an expensive-looking piece of Scandinavian kitchenware, all soft curves and hand-thrown texture, which was almost ridiculous considering how well it fit into the otherwise hyper-modern room. Everything in Junn’s apartment had been chosen to look clean and deliberate.

Except Junn hadn’t picked it out of some designer catalogue.

He had bought it six months ago.

At IKEA.

With Dylan.

The memory came back, making Junn stand there for a second longer, his hand still resting against the countertop. He could remember the entire thing far too well, down to details he hadn’t thought about in months, as if his brain had been saving the memory specifically to ambush him at three in the morning.

Six months ago, Dylan had just signed the lease on his new apartment and had announced over company lunch that he flatly refused to hire an interior decorator because “a home needs a soul, Junn, and professional decorators only understand varying shades of soulless hospital beige.” Naturally, it took less than a week for Dylan to get Junn involved. After enough whining and dramatic sighs to wear down even Junn’s patience, Dylan had somehow convinced him to drive all the way to the sprawling IKEA in Bang Na on a Wednesday afternoon.

Four hours later, Junn had decided domestic shopping was a form of punishment.

Dylan had treated the showroom like an amusement park. He spent forty-five minutes testing every mattress on display, which mostly involved grabbing Junn by the wrist and dragging him down onto whichever duvet he happened to be lying on. Every time Junn tried to get up, Dylan would start laughing again, cheeks pink, until eventually they were both staring at the warehouse ceiling from yet another ridiculous mattress while yellow discount tags dangled overhead.

Then Dylan found the mugs. He picked up a matching pair of ceramic coffee cups and tapped the rim of a deep forest-green one against the tip of Junn’s nose. “This is your colour. Looks serious and all sophisticated. Completely unlike you, obviously, but I think you can pretend when you're drinking coffee in the morning.”

Junn had rolled his eyes and put the mug back. Dylan had immediately picked it up again.

By the time they reached the kitchen section, Junn was too tired to argue with anything. He wandered past the faux Swedish countertops and staged dining tables, barely paying attention to Dylan debating between two sets of plates, when a ceramic bowl caught his eye. He picked it up without really thinking, turning it over in his hands before running his thumb along the uneven rim.

“You like it?” Dylan asked.

Junn looked up.

Dylan had appeared behind him so quietly that Junn hadn’t heard him approach. He was standing close enough that Junn could feel the warmth of his chest through the heavy cotton of his hoodie, and when Dylan leaned in, his breath brushed against the sensitive shell of Junn’s ear.

“Buy it. It’ll look gorgeous on your kitchen island. I’ll come over whenever you're making breakfast and eat fruit out of it like a pampered prince.”

Junn had bought the bowl.

Immediately.

He could blame the kitchen, the apartment, or the fact that Dylan had been particularly annoying that day. None of those explanations would have been true. He’d bought it because Dylan had said he would come over and eat fruit from it, and apparently that had been enough to make Junn forget how to say no.

Later, while they were stuck in the endless checkout line with a cart piled high with velvet throw blankets, utensils, and a ridiculous mountain of vanilla-scented candles Dylan had murmured were necessary for “creative feng shui, that's it,” an elderly woman standing behind them gently tapped Junn on the elbow. She beamed up at them, then glanced at their overflowing cart with an affectionate smile before pointing at it.

“First home together? You two boys make such a handsome couple. Hold onto each other tight—the first year of marriage is always the sweetest.”

Junn nearly choked on his own saliva. Heat rushed straight into his face, flooding his cheeks and climbing all the way to his ears and neck. He opened his mouth, desperate to correct her before this somehow became an actual conversation. No, no, we're just bandmates, we work together, we're coworkers— But before he could get a single coherent word out, he glanced at Dylan.

Dylan hadn't corrected her. Not even once.

He simply lowered his head, and Junn caught the tiny crinkle at the corners of his eyes. Then, with the calmest expression imaginable, Dylan leaned against Junn’s shoulder, settling his weight there like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Thank you, auntie. He’s the boss of the house, so I just buy whatever he tells me to.”

Junn had no idea what to say to that. His brain had completely stopped cooperating. He stood there beside their cart while the elderly woman smiled at them like she had just witnessed something adorable, and Dylan remained comfortably against his shoulder, apparently having decided that letting Junn suffer was an acceptable use of an afternoon. By the time they finally left the store, Junn was still too embarrassed to look directly at him.

He spent the entire forty-minute drive back into central Bangkok gripping the leather steering wheel so hard his knuckles went white. His ears were still burning, his blood seemed to be rushing in his ears, and his heart kept giving these strange thumps against his ribs every time he remembered Dylan leaning into him and calmly calling him the boss of their imaginary household. Dylan sat in the passenger seat as though nothing remotely interesting had happened, quietly humming along to the radio and watching the city pass outside the window, leaving Junn to suffer alone.

When Junn had finally pulled his SUV up outside Dylan’s condominium tower, the rain had settled into a steady mist against the windshield. Junn had put the car in park, keeping the engine idling, and reached for his seatbelt buckle to help Dylan carry the heavy blue IKEA bags up to the front desk.

Dylan hadn't moved to get out.

Instead, Dylan had slowly unclipped his seatbelt, turned sideways in the passenger seat, pulled both knees up against the dashboard, and rested his chin over his crossed forearms. The amber streetlights of Sukhumvit had filtered through the rain-streaked glass, catching the glossy sheen on Dylan’s lower lip and an unusually soft, deeply vulnerable glimmer in his eyes.

Dylan had looked up at Junn through his long lashes. “Uh... P'Junn?” Dylan had murmured, his voice dropping into a hesitant register. “Do you... do you wanna come upstairs? See my cat?”

And Junn—brilliant, diligent, hyper-competent, utterly brain-dead Junn—had given the leather steering wheel a cheerful slap, flashed a bright, blindingly oblivious smile, and said.

“Some other day, Dylan! I promised Thame I’d log on for a five-stack in Overwatch by nine. If I'm even five minutes late, that idiot will solo-queue into competitive and tank our team ranking before we even start. See you at choreography tomorrow at ten!”

Junn’s breath hitched violently in his throat.

The memory snapped into sharp focus.

He remembered the way Dylan’s relaxed posture had instantly, rigidly locked up. He remembered the infinitesimal fracture in Dylan’s smile—the brief flash of hurt that flickered across his face before it was hastily, defensively replaced by a breezy smirk.

“Oh,” Dylan had said, his voice tightening by several octaves into something brittle. “Oh. Right. Of course. Go carry Thame’s Genji, then. Don't let me keep you from your video games.”

Dylan had yanked his bags from the footwell, slammed the passenger door with unnecessary force, and practically hurried through the automated glass lobby doors into the building without turning back once.

Junn stood completely still in the middle of his dark kitchen, his right hand hovering a couple of inches above the ceramic bowl. His fingers had started trembling slightly in the cool air, but he barely noticed. He was too busy staring at the bowl and trying to work out why a memory from six months ago had suddenly become so important.

Wait.

His brain went into overdrive, dragging up every interaction he’d had with Dylan over the past five years and sorting through them one by one. Wait, no. Dylan had a cat. He had to have had a cat. Maybe he was fostering one for a friend. Maybe he was petsitting for his older sister. Maybe—

Then another memory surfaced.

Two months ago.

His older brother’s small outdoor wedding in the hills of Chiang Mai. Dylan had been Junn’s plus-one, mostly because everyone else had assumed he would be there anyway and because Junn had wanted someone familiar beside him through the endless family photos and speeches.

After the ceremony, they had all moved into the garden for the reception. At some point, Junn’s new brother-in-law had brought out his snow-white ragdoll cat, Hana, and Dylan had practically disappeared.

For forty minutes, Junn had watched him crouch on the manicured grass in his tailored suit, completely unconcerned about the inevitable grass stains. Dylan had fed Hana freeze-dried treats one by one and stroked behind her ears with such concentration that he barely seemed aware anyone else was watching. Hana had purred against his hand like she had known him for years.

Eventually, Dylan had looked up.

The warm evening light caught in his hair, and there was something soft in his expression that made Junn stop mid-sip of his champagne.

“Junn,” Dylan had sighed, watching Hana rub her head against his palm. “I really, really want a pet cat one day. When our schedules finally slow down. Do you think I’d make a good cat dad? Do you want one?”

Junn had laughed and swirled the champagne in his flute. “I want a cat and a dog.”

Dylan had looked down at Hana, then back at him, his head tilting slightly. “Can cats and dogs even live together peacefully without destroying the furniture?”

“Hana and Parker live together without any bloodshed,” Junn had replied, gesturing across the lawn toward the golden retriever, who was snoring peacefully beneath the dessert table. “They’re significantly calmer together than my brother and his husband.”

Dylan had asked him if he would make a good cat dad one day.

Because Dylan didn’t have a cat.

Dylan had never had a cat.

If Dylan actually had a four-legged resident in his condo, Nano would have known about it before Dylan did. Nano ran an unhinged, extremely active private finsta dedicated entirely to documenting the pets owned by Thai entertainment figures. A cat belonging to one of their own members wouldn’t have just made the account; Nano would have turned that animal into the official mascot of their five-year anniversary livestream.

There was no cat.

Dylan did not own a cat. Dylan had never brought one home, never mentioned adopting one, never even set foot inside an animal adoption agency.

And Junn suddenly knew exactly what that meant.

Dylan had sat in the passenger seat of Junn’s car six months ago, flushed pink, biting his lower lip, giving him heavy-lidded, looking-up-through-the-eyelashes eyes, and asked Junn to come upstairs to see his cat.

The realisation hit Junn all at once.

The air left his lungs in a sharp gasp, and his knees nearly gave out beneath him. He grabbed the edge of the kitchen island with both hands, gripping it hard enough to steady himself as he stared at absolutely nothing. It was 3:10 in the morning. And somehow, standing there in his kitchen, Junn finally understood what Dylan had been trying to say to him six months ago.

He covered his face with both hands and made a strangled noise into his palms.

"HOLY SHIT," Junn choked out to the empty room, his voice carrying across the apartment. "I PLAYED OVERWATCH INSTEAD OF SLEEPING WITH DYLAN!"

Junn didn’t collapse to the floor, but only because both hands were locked around the edge of the island. His knuckles had gone white from how hard he was gripping it, and for several seconds he just stood there, trying to convince his body that this was not, in fact, a medical emergency.

The apartment had somehow gone from peacefully quiet to unbearably loud. The refrigerator hummed in the background, the sound suddenly impossible to ignore. Even the IKEA fruit bowl seemed to be staring at him from the middle of the island, sitting there like a permanent reminder of the day he had apparently missed the most obvious invitation of his life.

Inhale, Junn told himself.

Nothing.

Exhale.

Still nothing.

His lungs had decided they were no longer taking instructions. Instead, Junn stood there taking short, useless little breaths, his chest rising and falling too quickly as he stared at the bowl and tried very hard not to have a complete breakdown in his own kitchen.

Normal people got five stages of grief, while Junn had to work his way through the Five Stages of Catastrophic Gay Panic.

Did Dylan just want to hook up with him? Was that Dylan’s extremely indirect way of asking if Junn wanted to blow off some steam after an exhausting album cycle? Two consenting bandmates with seven years of unresolved tension finally deciding to stop pretending there was nothing between them for one reckless night? Maybe Dylan had wanted something simple. No relationship, no awkward conversations, no complicated aftermath. Just the two of them finally crossing that line for one reckless, sweat-slicked night and seeing what happened when all that tension actually had somewhere to go.

Did Dylan still want to? Six months had passed. Half a year! One hundred and eighty-two days of Junn walking around central Bangkok completely oblivious, making polite small talk in rehearsal studios, sharing earbuds on long-haul flights to Tokyo, and treating Dylan like a normal coworker while Dylan secretly harboured the memory of being flatly rejected for an online multiplayer shooter! What if the window had closed? What if Dylan had looked at Junn’s cheerful, brain-dead dismissal and decided, “Never mind, this man has the romantic bandwidth of a microwave, I am revoking the invitation to my bed forever”?

Would Junn have even survived a casual one-night stand? Junn asked himself this while staring wild-eyed into the dark pantry. The answer was an immediate, resounding, catastrophic no. If Dylan touched him once—if Dylan pulled him into his sheets, tangled their limbs together, and let Junn taste the strawberry lip balm he constantly reapplied during soundcheck—Junn would be ruined for every other human being on planet Earth. He would be spiritually, emotionally, and physically tethered to Dylan for the remainder of his natural life.

Could he have lived with just one night? No. He would have wanted breakfast. He would have wanted to buy matching coffee mugs in forest green. He would have wanted to wake up to Dylan hogging the duvet and whining about the morning sunlight for the next fifty years. One night with Dylan wouldn't have been a fun memory; it would have been the beginning of a lifelong obsession.

What if Dylan actually liked him? What if it hadn't been a whim at all? What if Dylan had spent months working up the courage to say something, meticulously laying out an entire domestic fantasy in the aisles of IKEA, only for Junn to smash it to pieces with a sledgehammer forged from idiocy? Six months of holding hands. Six months of shared hotel suites on tour. Six months of forehead touches and whispered inside jokes behind backstage curtains that could have been theirs.

“I could have gone upstairs,” Junn whimpered aloud, his voice cracking. “I literally could have walked through the lobby. I didn't even need to know the slang! I could have just followed him up to look for a furry quadruped, realised there was no animal in the living room, and boom. No cat. Get naked. Bang, bang, bang. Fall in love. Get married in Chiang Mai.”

Instead, he had chosen Overwatch.

Rage suddenly seized Junn’s chest.

Overwatch.

He had turned down the love of his life, the prettiest rapper in Southeast Asia, to log onto Discord and play a digital capture-the-flag simulator with Thame.

And the worst part? They hadn't even won the fucking match.

Thame had picked Genji on defence, missed three consecutive Dragonblades into a brick wall, panicked over team voice chat, and gotten them decisively steamrolled on King’s Row in under six minutes. Junn had lost fifty competitive rank points and his shot at romantic fulfilment before ten o'clock.

“I am uninstalling the fucking game,” Junn hissed violently, turning on his heel and marching at full speed down the hallway toward his bedroom. “I am throwing my gaming PC off the balcony. I am never touching a mouse and keyboard again.”

Junn stormed into his bedroom, grabbed his smartphone off the nightstand, and unlocked it with a thumb that was shaking so badly he mistyped his passcode twice.

He needed to talk to someone. Immediately. He needed an actual human being with enough common sense to tell him whether he had just spent six months missing the most obvious sign in the history of obvious signs. Someone who understood the strange little ecosystem of MARs, someone who had known him long enough to tell him when he was being an idiot, someone who could listen to this entire disaster without immediately making it worse.

Junn hit speed dial.

He dragged a hand through his hair and chewed anxiously at the cuticle of his thumb.

By the fourth ring, he had already crossed his bedroom twice, and the call finally clicked through.

“Pepper?” Junn gasped into the receiver, clutching the phone with both hands like a lifeline. “Pepper, you have to wake up. I'm dying. I'm actually having a cardiovascular event—”

“Pepper sleeps like the dead, Nong Junn,” an utterly unbothered female voice responded through the speaker. “As does every sensible human being in the Kingdom of Thailand at three-twenty-four in the morning.”

Junn froze mid-stride.

“P’... P’Gam?”

“The one and only,” Gam replied, the soft rustle of silk sheets audible in the background, followed by the muffled snore of MAR’s fearless leader, dead to the world beside her. “Did someone get arrested? Did Nano post an unapproved statement on Twitter? Did Thame get stuck in a chimney trying to deliver an apology letter to Po?”

“I—no, I’m sorry,” Junn stammered, the blood rushing into his face in a burning wave of mortification. “I’m so sorry, P’Gam, I didn't mean to wake you—I didn't look at the clock, I just—”

“Junn,” Gam’s tone shifted instantly. “Take a breath. You are hyperventilating. Are you hurt? Do you have chest pain? Do I need to wake Pepper and call an emergency ambulance to your condo?”

“No! No ambulance!” Junn squeaked desperately, collapsing onto the edge of his mattress and clutching his forehead. “It’s not... It’s not physical. It’s mental. I remembered something from six months ago, and my brain has completely short-circuited. I think... P’Gam, I think I ruined my only chance with Dylan.”

A beat of silence stretched over the line. Then, Gam let out a long, exceedingly patient sigh.

“Nong Junn,” she said softly. “Sit your ass down, take three deep belly breaths, and tell me everything from the beginning.”

And Junn, broken and desperate, spilt his entire soul into the receiver.

He told her about the IKEA trip. He told her about the ceramic fruit bowl currently taunting him from the kitchen counter. He told her about the elderly auntie in the checkout line, Dylan’s smug “he’s the boss of the house” quip, the rain-slicked drop-off circle outside Dylan’s high-rise, and Dylan sitting sideways in the passenger seat with heavy-lidded eyes asking if Junn wanted to come upstairs to see his cat.

He told her about Thame’s Genji throwing the match on King's Row.

And finally, through choked breaths, he laid out his five stages of terror: the fear that it was just a meaningless hookup; the fear that Dylan didn't want him anymore; the absolute certainty that if it was just a fling, Junn’s heart would shatter into a million irreparable pieces because he was hopelessly, pathetically in love with him.

When Junn finally finished his breathless, ten-minute monologue, he was panting softly, waiting for Gam’s verdict.

On the other end of the line, Gam let out an affectionate scoff.

“Junn,” she said, her voice dripping with amusement. “You are a brilliant singer, a world-class dancer, and quite possibly the densest homosexual to ever walk the streets of Bangkok.”

“P’Gam—”

“A one-time thing?” Gam interrupted, her tone sharp with certainty. “Do you genuinely believe Dylan wanted a one-night stand with you? Dylan? The boy who refuses to go to any event unless you are his confirmed plus-one?Dylan, who spent an hour in my editing room when you had the flu last winter, terrorising my assistant because you were craving Phetchaburi-style khao chae? He eventually made the poor man drive two hours out of Bangkok to find it and bring it straight to you”

Junn’s breath hitched. “He said his manager was in Phetchaburi ...”

“His manager was in Phuket, Junn. Dylan paid for the food with his own black card and then booked my assistant a spa day and a five-star dinner for the trouble.” Gam said mercilessly. “And what about that red thread he wears around his left wrist? The one you wear too? Did you know it was not his mom who got it?”

Junn’s grip tightened around his phone. “No,” he whispered.

“He went to make merit at the temple for your birthday and had two red threads blessed. One for himself and one for you,” Gam said, her voice softening with fond exasperation. “He didn’t get one for Pepper, Nano, or Thame. He only brought one back for you. He has been down horrendous for you since your second year as trainees, you absolute fool.”

Junn sat frozen on his mattress, his grip on the phone going entirely slack. “You... you’re sure?”

“I have directed four of your music videos, Junn. The way that boy looks at you through a camera lens is practically straight out of a Jane Austen novel. He yearns for you,” Gam said with finality. “Now. Listen to me very carefully.”

“I'm listening.”

“You are not going to call Dylan right now,” Gam commanded, her voice turning into pure director-mode. “You are not going to send a three-page text message at three in the morning like Thame did. Tomorrow is a scheduled free day for the entire group. You are going to close your eyes, and you are going to get at least four hours of sleep so you don't look like a ghost.”

“And then?” Junn asked, his heart thumping erratically against his ribs.

“And then, at a civilised hour—say, ten in the morning—you are going to drive your car to Thonglor, knock on Dylan’s front door, talk to him about your feelings and tell him you are finally ready to see his cat.”

A strangled noise escaped Junn’s throat.

“Understood?” Gam asked.

“Understood,” Junn breathed.

“Good. Goodnight, Nong Junn. And if you call this phone again before eight in the morning, I will personally come to your apartment and slap you.”

The line clicked dead.

Junn slowly lowered the phone from his ear and sat there for a moment, staring at the dark screen. The apartment was still just as quiet as before, but the awful panic that had been squeezing his chest in the kitchen had finally eased. In its place was something warmer, far more dangerous, and annoyingly impossible to ignore—a nervous little flutter low in his stomach that made him want to laugh and hide under the bed at the same time.

He dropped onto the mattress, falling against his pillows as he stared up at the white ceiling. He still had absolutely no idea what he was going to do about Dylan. He didn’t know how he was supposed to look at him in the morning after finally understanding what that invitation six months ago had actually meant without giving himself away in the first thirty seconds.

He let out a long, miserable sigh, pulled the duvet up to his chin, and squeezed his eyes shut. Sleep was obviously going to be impossible now, but he was going to try anyway.

Morning couldn't come fast enough.

The digital clock on the dashboard of Junn’s SUV ticked over to 10:02 a.m. as he pulled into the underground visitor parking of Dylan’s condominium.

Junn had not slept four hours. He was reasonably certain he hadn’t even slept four consecutive minutes. He had spent the hours before dawn taking two scalding showers, ironing a casual linen button-down, and standing in front of his bathroom mirror rehearsing thirty-two different ways to open the conversation without sounding like a complete idiot. At some point around six in the morning, he had also decided that the entire situation was somehow Blizzard Entertainment’s fault.

The private elevator carried him up to the thirteenth floor in complete silence, which was probably for the best because Junn could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. By the time the elevator chimed softly and the doors opened, he was gripping his phone in one hand and mentally running through his carefully prepared first sentence for what had to be the twentieth time.

Just be normal, Junn told himself as he stepped into the corridor. You are an adult man. You do not get intimidated by twenty-three-year-old rappers in private residential corridors.

He made it to Dylan’s unit, stopped outside the door, and took one long breath. Then he pressed the doorbell.

The door opened.

Every single sentence Junn had prepared disappeared from his brain.

Dylan stood in the doorway looking unmistakably fresh out of bed. He was wearing a thin, ribbed white tank top that followed the lines of his lean chest and shoulders, along with a pair of short cotton lounge shorts that left most of his thighs bare in the cool hallway air. His hair was a complete mess, falling over his forehead in soft, uneven strands, and his eyes were still heavy with sleep.

“Junn?” Dylan blinked, covering a small yawn with the back of his hand. “What are you doing here so early?”

Junn stared at him. His eyes made one deeply unhelpful trip down the length of Dylan’s bare legs before he forcibly dragged them back to his face. “I…”

“Are you going to come in, or are you just admiring the hallway wallpaper?” Dylan asked, the corner of his mouth lifting into a lazy smirk as he stepped aside.

Junn practically tripped over the threshold. He caught himself, stepped into the entryway, and heard the heavy latch click shut behind him. Then he stood there on the polished marble floor with absolutely no idea what to do next.

Dylan turned and leaned his hip against the entryway console, folding his arms loosely across his chest. “So? What brings you here”

Junn straightened, squared his shoulders, and took a breath. He had spent the entire morning rehearsing this conversation. He had considered possible responses. He had even planned where to stand. None of that helped now.

“We have to talk.”

Dylan’s brows lifted. “About?”

“About the IKEA trip six months ago.”

Dylan went still. For a second, the sleepy expression disappeared from his face. Surprise flashed across his eyes before he let out an almost disbelieving laugh and pushed himself away from the console. “I expected you to figure it out yesterday during Thame’s meltdown,” Dylan murmured. There was fondness beneath the exasperation in his voice. “But you really are dense, aren’t you?”

“I am,” Junn admitted immediately. His voice was tight, but there was no hesitation in the answer. “I'm the densest idiot in Bangkok. And I'm sorry.”

Dylan's eyes searched Junn’s face, the teasing expression fading as something more serious settled in. “You're sorry?”

“I'm sorry I refused you that day,” Junn said quietly. He took a step farther into the living room, finally forcing himself to hold Dylan’s gaze. “I didn't understand. I thought you actually meant a cat. I thought you wanted to show me a kitten, and my brain was so fried from the album cycle that I just…” He exhaled through his nose, embarrassed even now. “I prioritised an online video game over you.”

Dylan stared at him for a moment. Then something shifted in his expression, a slow warmth appearing in his eyes. “And are you here to see if the offer still stands?”

“No,” Junn said firmly.

The answer came quickly enough that Dylan’s expression changed. The warmth disappeared, replaced by a brief flicker of uncertainty. “No?”

“I'm not here just to take you up on a six-month-old proposition,” Junn said. His voice dropped, losing the frantic edge it had carried since he arrived. “I'm here to talk to you about my feelings for you.”

Dylan stared at him.

Neither of them said anything for several seconds. The easy teasing that had filled the apartment a moment ago was gone, replaced by something quieter and much harder to ignore. Seven years of arguments, late-night rehearsals, stolen touches, private jokes, and moments neither of them had ever named seemed to sit between them now, suddenly impossible to pretend away.

Dylan finally glanced toward the sofa overlooking the skyline. “Living room,” he said quietly, gesturing toward it. “Let's sit down.”

They walked into the sunlit living room. Junn sat on the plush sofa, his hands resting on his knees, his fingers digging slightly into the denim of his jeans. Dylan sat down beside him—not on the far cushion, but close enough that the bare skin of Dylan's thigh brushed against Junn’s leg.

"Talk to me," Dylan murmured, turning sideways to face him.

Junn looked at Dylan—really looked at him. The sharp curve of his jaw, the faint beauty mark, the effortless warmth that had anchored Junn through every brutal practice session, every exhausting tour, every high and low of their youth.

"I spent the last seven hours thinking I ruined my only shot with you," Junn confessed, the words spilling out raw and unfiltered. "And the worst part wasn't just the embarrassment. The worst part was realising how terrified I was that it had only been a passing mood for you. Because for me... Dylan, if I had gone upstairs with you six months ago, I wouldn't have been able to treat it like a casual fling."

Dylan’s breath hitched softly. "Junn..."

"I've spent seven years telling myself that what I feel is just band loyalty or competitive adrenaline," Junn said, his voice trembling slightly with the weight of the truth. "But it's not. I don't want a one-time thing with you. I want the breakfast. I want shared space. I want the whole noisy apartment with the cats and the dog. I think... no. I know. I am completely, irreversibly in love with you."

The room fell dead silent.

Outside the windows, the morning sun washed over Bangkok, but inside the penthouse, the world seemed to narrow down to the space between them.

Dylan’s eyes were wide, glassy with unshed moisture, his lips parted in disbelief. Then, a soft laugh escaped him, and he buried his face in his hands for a brief second before looking back up at Junn.

"Seven years," Dylan whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “Seven years of me dropping every hint known to mankind, dragging you to lifestyle stores, buying matching things, tagging along on your family vacations because I wasn’t sure if you felt the same way…” Dylan shook his head, a disbelieving laugh slipping out. “And you finally figure it out because Thame doesn’t know gay slang.”

Junn managed a weak, self-deprecating smile. "I told you. I'm an idiot."

"You're my idiot," Dylan said fiercely, reaching out to cup the side of Junn’s jaw, his palm warm and steady against Junn’s skin. "I love you, Junn. I have been in love with you since we were teenagers, bleeding our feet raw in the dance studios. It has never, ever been a one-time thing."

Junn felt a shuddering breath leave his lungs, the last remnants of the suffocating terror melting away into radiant warmth.

His eyes dropped to Dylan's lips, glistening soft and pink in the sunlight.

"Dylan?" Junn murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Yeah?"

"Can I kiss you?"

A gorgeous smile broke across Dylan’s face. "Fuck yes."

Junn didn't wait. He leaned forward, catching Dylan’s face in both hands, and brought their mouths together.

It began soft—sweet, tender, and trembling with the relief of seven years of restraint finally shattering. Dylan let out a breathy gasp against Junn’s lips, his fingers tangling instantly into the hair at the nape of Junn’s neck, pulling him closer, deepening the angle.

The sweetness lasted approximately four seconds before the fire caught.

Dylan shifted with urgency, swinging one leg over Junn’s lap until he was straddling him completely. Junn’s hands instinctively dropped to Dylan’s waist, fingers gripping the bare skin exposed above the hem of the shorts, anchoring him down.

Dylan broke the seal of their lips with a needy moan, immediately slanting his mouth sideways to part Junn’s lips with his tongue. Junn met him eagerly, drawing Dylan’s bottom lip between his teeth, tasting the intoxicating sweetness of strawberry balm and warm mint.

The kiss turned ravenous. Dylan whimpered into the back of Junn’s throat, his hands sliding from Junn’s hair down to the collar of his linen shirt, tugging at the buttons with frantic, impatient fingers. Every time Junn’s tongue stroked against his, Dylan rocked his hips down against Junn’s lap with deliberate pressure that drew a ragged groan straight from Junn’s chest.

"Junn... fuck," Dylan gasped against his mouth, grinding down steadily, his head tilting back as Junn trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses down the sensitive column of Dylan’s neck, sucking a dark, flushed mark right over the pulse point beneath his jaw.

Dylan’s fingers dug hard into Junn’s shoulders, his breath hitching in ragged gasps as he rolled his hips against the solid, growing heat beneath Junn’s jeans. Saliva shone on their parted lips. Junn pulled back just an inch, his hands sliding up Dylan’s bare thighs, feeling the smooth, burning heat of his skin, both of them panting heavily.

Dylan looked down at Junn through heavy-lidded eyes—flushed crimson from collarbone to cheekbones, lips swollen and glistening, hair completely dishevelled. A teasing smirk curved Dylan’s bruised lips.

"So, P'Junn," Dylan murmured, his voice husky, raspy, and dripping with invitation as he gave one slow roll of his hips against Junn’s lap. "Do you want to see my cat?"

Junn’s hands tightened on Dylan’s waist, a chuckle vibrating in his throat.

"God, yes," Junn growled.

And before Dylan could say another word, Junn surged upward, capturing his mouth in another bruising, reckless kiss and lifting him effortlessly off the sofa toward the bedroom.

Junn carried Dylan into the bedroom, Dylan’s arms wrapped tightly around his neck and his legs hooked around Junn’s hips. They were still kissing, breathless and messy, neither of them seeming particularly interested in stopping long enough to think. When Junn finally lowered him onto the middle of the bed, the mattress dipped beneath Dylan’s weight and the sheets bunched around him.

Dylan landed on his back, chest rising and falling quickly as he tried to catch his breath. His hair had fallen messily across the pillows, strands scattered around his face, while his lips were flushed from kissing and still parted slightly. He looked up at Junn with an expectant expression.

Junn stood at the foot of the bed, one hand tightening around the hem of his linen shirt as his attention drifted toward the side wall.

The entire left side of the bedroom was covered by the expansive sliding doors of Dylan’s walk-in wardrobe, all of them made from floor-to-ceiling mirror. From where Junn stood, the glass reflected almost everything: Dylan stretched across the rumpled bed in his thin white tank and lounge shorts, his silver hair spread over the pillows, and Junn himself standing over the mattress.

He stared at the reflection for a second too long.

Seeing Dylan there, watching him watch Dylan, sent a sharp rush of heat through him. The thought of seeing Dylan unravel in front of that glass—of watching every expression, every flush of red across his pale throat—threatened to snap the last fragile thread of Junn’s self-control.

Before Junn could take another step toward the bed, Dylan shifted.

Dylan slid forward to the edge of the mattress. Without breaking eye contact for even a second, he sank down onto his knees on the plush rug, right between Junn’s parted thighs.

Junn’s breath caught in his throat. "Dylan..."

Dylan didn't answer with words. A knowing smirk played at the corner of his lips as his hands reached out, palms flat against Junn’s hips before his fingers found the waistband of Junn’s denim.

With deliberate slowness, Dylan popped the button of Junn’s jeans and slid the metal zipper down. Dylan’s hands gripped the denim and the cotton of Junn’s briefs together, tugging them down past Junn’s thighs in one smooth motion.

Junn’s length sprang free—heavy, rigid, and flushed. A glistening bead of pre-come shone at the broad tip.

Dylan’s pupils dilated instantly. He tilted his head back, dark eyes wide with hunger, letting out a breathy sigh against Junn’s bare skin.

"Look at you," Dylan murmured, his voice a raspy purr that vibrated directly against Junn’s inner thigh. "You kept this to yourself, phi."

"Dylan—" Junn groaned, his hands instinctively reaching down to rest against Dylan’s shoulders.

Leaning in, Dylan extended the pink tip of his tongue and licked up the underside of the shaft, from the base straight over the hypersensitive ridge of the crown, catching the slick moisture at the slit.

Junn’s hips bucked forward involuntarily, a choked gasp tearing from his throat. His fingers immediately tangled into Dylan’s soft hair, anchoring him close.

Dylan hummed and parted his lips. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss against the head before slowly drawing the broad crest past his lips and onto the flat of his tongue. The heat was instantaneous and overwhelming. Dylan’s mouth was slick, tight, and scalding, working with a focus that left Junn seeing stars behind his eyelids. Dylan swirled his tongue around the head, his cheeks hollowing slightly as he sucked, taking another inch, and then another, sliding Junn deeper into the wet cavern of his mouth.

"Fuck, Dylan..." Junn growled, his voice dropping into a ragged rasp. His knuckles tightened in Dylan’s hair, not pulling away, but urging him closer as the friction threatened to drive him entirely mad.

Dylan looked up through his thick lashes, holding Junn’s gaze while his mouth worked relentlessly. He brought one hand up to grip the base of Junn’s shaft, his palm warm and firm, pumping in seamless harmony with the wet bobbing of his head.

Every slide forward took Junn deeper. Dylan relaxed his throat, taking in inch after heavy inch until the blunt head bumped against the very back of his throat. Dylan’s breath hitched, a muffled sound of surrender vibrating through him, yet he didn't pull back—he held Junn completely buried inside his mouth, letting his tongue massage the underside while his hand stroked the exposed length at the base.

Junn tilted his head toward the side wall, his gaze locking onto the massive mirror.

The reflection was devastating.

Junn could see the sculpted curve of Dylan’s back arched on the floor, the messy tangle of locks under Junn’s trembling fingers, and the breathtaking devotion on Dylan’s flushed face as he took every single inch Junn had to give. The contrast of Dylan’s pale skin against the dark rug, the shine of saliva glistening on his lips, and the uninhibited desire radiating between them made the room feel like an inferno.

Dylan picked up the pace, his mouth sliding up to the crown before engulfing the entire shaft again. The wet sounds filled the bedroom, punctuated only by Dylan’s low whimpers of pleasure and Junn’s ragged, uneven pants.

"I'm close," Junn warned, his voice cracking with the strain of holding back. His hips twitched, his entire body wound tight like a coiled spring. "Dylan, stop, you don't have to—"

Instead of letting go, Dylan gripped Junn’s thighs tightly, his fingers digging into Junn’s skin, and sank down entirely, taking Junn as deep as his throat would allow, sucking with urgency.

That broke Junn completely.

With a guttural groan that echoed off the glass, Junn’s hips surged forward, his climax hitting him in a blinding wave of pure ecstasy. He pulsed hard, spilling hot and heavy straight down Dylan’s throat. Dylan didn't flinch. He swallowed eagerly around the rigid length, his throat rippling as he took every drop, his mouth continuing to suckle gently until the last shuddering pulse subsided.

When Dylan finally slid his mouth off, a thin strand of saliva connected his lower lip to the glistening crown. Dylan licked his lips clean, panting heavily, his cheeks painted in a beautiful crimson, his dark eyes sparkling with triumphant satisfaction.

Junn stood trembling, chest heaving in ragged gasps, his heart hammering against his ribs like thunder.

Dylan pushed himself up from the floor, resting his palms flat against Junn’s broad chest, leaning up onto the tips of his bare toes to brush a warm kiss against Junn’s parted lips.

Junn didn't hesitate for even a fraction of a second. He caught Dylan’s jaw in one hand, deepening the kiss instantly, humming low in his throat as he tasted the salty heat of his own release still lingering on Dylan’s tongue. Sliding both hands down from Dylan's jaw to the hem of his tank top, Junn slipped his warm palms underneath the cotton. His thumbs grazed upward, finding Dylan’s hardened nipples and pinching them firmly between thumb and forefinger.

Dylan gasped violently into Junn’s mouth, a shuddering moan vibrating deep in his throat as his back arched involuntarily against Junn's hold.

"Greedy," Junn murmured against his lips, his voice husky with fondness. "You took every single drop and you're still shivering for more."

With one tug, Junn pulled the tank top over Dylan’s head and tossed it carelessly across the floor. He took a half-step back, kicking off his denim jeans and briefs where they were pooled around his ankles, stripping off his linen button-down until he stood entirely bare.

Dylan’s gaze dragged greedily down Junn’s naked frame—the broad shoulders, the chiselled lines of his abdomen and the flushed length against Junn's lower stomach. Dylan swallowed dryly, his throat clicking, his pupils blown so wide the dark irises were almost swallowed whole.

"Get on the bed," Junn ordered. "I want you looking at the mirror."

Dylan scrambled onto the mattress without a second of hesitation, his knees sinking deep into the memory foam.

Junn walked around to the far side of the bed, gathering two firm pillows. Dylan watched him through hooded eyes, his breath hitching as Junn climbed onto the mattress behind him, hooking his fingers into the waistband of Dylan’s shorts and underwear. Junn tugged them down past his thighs, stripping Dylan completely bare before sliding the pillows firmly beneath Dylan’s ribs.

"On your fours, baby," Junn commanded softly, his warm fingers brushing along the smooth curve of Dylan’s lower back, feeling the fine tremors running under the skin. "Ass up. Didn't you want to show me a cat?"

A delicious shiver racked Dylan’s frame. A breathless chuckle escaped him as he pushed onto his knees, planting his elbows deep into the mattress, resting his chin on his crossed forearms. He arched his lower spine, proudly displaying the tight, pale pink entrance tucked between sculpted curves.

Junn leaned over him, his broad chest brushing against Dylan’s warm back, one hand tracing the sharp ridge of his spine from nape to tailbone. "You have lube? Condoms?"

"Top nightstand drawer," Dylan panted, his voice raspy and thick with mounting need. "Just lube, though. I haven't slept with anyone in... god, in forever. I'm completely clean."

"So am I," Junn murmured, his lips grazing the sensitive skin behind Dylan’s ear, making Dylan shudder. "Celibate and tested."

Dylan let out a teasing hum, giving a deliberate wiggle of his hips back against Junn’s thigh, testing the heat radiating from Junn's heavy shaft. "Then go raw, phi."

Junn gave Dylan’s ass a sharp spank that cracked through the quiet bedroom and left a pink handprint blooming across the pale skin.

Dylan yelped—a needy noise that ended in a muffled whimper—his hips jerking high into the air, the arch of his spine deepening.

"Impatience won't get you taken care of properly," Junn chided with a low growl.

He reached over to the nightstand, sliding open the top drawer. Inside sat a bottle of lube and a lilac dildo. Junn picked up the toy, lifting it into the filtered sunlight with an appraising eyebrow.

"This is a bit small, don't you think?" Junn joked, a low rumble of amusement vibrating in his chest as he weighed the toy in his palm.

Dylan twisted his head around, glaring through his messy bangs with mock indignation, his cheeks flushed hot. "Well, if you had taken the fucking hint six months ago, I would've been using you instead of that stupid thing! Do you know how humiliating it is to buy plastic because your crush is busy playing Overwatch?!"

Junn chuckled, a warm laugh that softened the sharp edges of seven years of tension. He set the toy aside and threw the lube on the bed. Crawling back over the mattress, Junn positioned himself directly between Dylan’s spread knees, his hands settling firmly over Dylan’s hips to anchor him in place.

"Look at the mirror, Dylan," Junn instructed. "Keep your eyes open and watch yourself while I take care of you."

Dylan lifted his head, his glassy eyes locking onto their reflection in the glass.

Junn leaned down, his hands gripping Dylan’s soft cheeks and parting them wide, exposing the tight entrance to the cool air-conditioned breeze. Dylan’s breath hitched in his throat as Junn lowered his mouth, pressing the warm, flat expanse of his tongue directly over Dylan’s puckered ring.

"Ah—fuck!" Dylan cried out, his knuckles clutching the sheets until his fingers turned stark white.

Junn didn't hold back. He swirled his tongue in deliberate circles around the rim, coating the sensitive folds in hot saliva before pushing the pointed tip inside with steady pressure.

Dylan watched it all through the mirror. His own ass arched high in the air, his skin glistening under the morning light, and Junn—gorgeous, focused, and thoroughly devouring him—buried between his thighs like a starving man offered a banquet. Every slide and flick of Junn’s tongue sent electric shocks firing straight through Dylan, making his toes curl hard against the mattress.

"Junn... P'Junn, please," Dylan whimpered, his hips twitching against Junn’s mouth, trying desperately to roll back into the wet heat. "It's too much... it feels so fucking good..."

Junn gave one last slow lap up Dylan’s slit, lapping from perineum to tailbone before finally pulling back with a wet sound. Dylan let out a low whine of immediate protest, but the sound was instantly cut short as Junn uncapped the lube, squirting a generous dollop across his fingers.

Junn rubbed his palms together, working the gel to warm it up, his gaze locked unflinchingly with Dylan’s reflection in the glass.

"Still watching?" Junn murmured, raising his slick hand.

Dylan nodded frantically in the glass, his cheeks painted crimson, chest heaving in shallow pants.

Junn pressed his lubricated thumb against Dylan’s entrance, circling the wet rim, soothing the twitching muscles before smoothly sinking his long finger inside up to the first knuckle.

Dylan groaned, his head falling back for a second before his eyes snapped back to the mirror, mesmerised. The tightness was incredible—warm and clenching around Junn’s digit like a vice, clamping down with desperate spasms.

"Relax for me, baby," Junn coaxed softly, leaning down to press a trail of open-mouthed kisses along Dylan’s trembling spine. "You're so tight. Open up and let me in."

Junn twisted his finger slowly, coaxing the stubborn ring of muscle to yield, before sliding a second finger in beside the first. He spread them gently, scissoring inside to stretch the tight walls, working the slick lube deep into the tight channel.

Dylan let out a ragged sob of pure pleasure, his forehead dropping against his crossed forearms. "Junn... fuck..."

"Look at me, Dylan. Head up, eyes on the mirror," Junn commanded, his voice firm and unyielding.

Without giving Dylan time to recover, Junn added a third finger, pressing past the tight resistance.

Dylan forced his head up, trembling from head to toe. In the reflection, he saw Junn’s knuckles disappearing inside him; the stark visual contrast of Junn’s large hand working him open with relentless care made Dylan's head spin.

Junn curled all three fingers upward in a beckoning motion, his knuckles brushing firmly against an intensely sensitive spot.

Dylan’s entire body seized. A high-pitched cry tore from his throat, his back arching so hard his ribs strained against his skin, his toes digging violently into the duvet.

"Right there?" Junn whispered, a wicked smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he saw Dylan's pupils blow wide in the mirror. "Found your little spot?"

"Yes—ah! P'Junn, don't stop, right there—fuck!"

Junn didn't stop. He pushed forward, adding a fourth finger, his hand filling Dylan to the absolute brim, stretching him wide with wet squelching sounds that echoed off the high ceiling. Junn began to pump his hand with steady force, his fingers bending and rubbing directly over Dylan’s prostate with every merciless thrust.

Dylan was losing his mind. His cock, completely untouched and pressed flat against the cool linen sheets beneath his stomach, was dripping pre-come, weeping from the sheer sensory overload of Junn's hand inside him.

"Look at how wet you are for me," Junn growled against Dylan’s ear. "All that, Dylan... all those months dropping hints... you were just waiting for me to take you apart like this, weren't you?"

"Yes! God, yes, Junn, please—" Dylan choked out, his hips bucking back onto Junn’s hand, chasing the internal friction with sobbing desperation. "I'm gonna—I'm gonna come, Junn, I'm gonna—"

"Come for me, baby," Junn whispered, thrusting his four fingers deep, crooking them hard against the sweet spot over and over without mercy. "Don't hold back. Let me see you break."

With a shattered wail that echoed through the penthouse bedroom, Dylan’s climax ripped through him.

He clenched violently around Junn’s buried hand. Dylan’s untouched cock spasmed against the mattress, shooting thick, hot ropes of release across the sheets and his own stomach in shuddering pulses. His entire body shook with violent aftershocks, his vision blurring with tears of pleasure as he collapsed limp onto the pillows, panting in ragged, ruined gasps.

Junn gently slid his fingers free with a wet slide, leaving Dylan thoroughly prepped and completely undone.

Leaning down, Junn pressed a reverent kiss to Dylan’s sweaty shoulder, his rigid length pressing against the curve of Dylan’s thigh.

Dylan lay draped over the pillows for several long seconds, his chest heaving in shuddering hitches, his skin glistening under a fine sheen of sweat. The heat of his first climax still thrummed violently along his nerve endings, leaving his limbs delightfully heavy, his core loose and dripping slick.

Behind him, Junn shifted, every motion unhurried. He pushed himself back against the headboard, sitting upright with his legs parted. The morning light caught the carved ridges of his torso and the dark flush creeping across his neck. Reaching over, Junn grabbed the bottle of lube, pouring a generous puddle directly into his palm. With slow, firm strokes, Junn worked the gel from the thick base of his shaft all the way to the weeping crown, coating his vein-ridged length until it gleamed.

"Dylan," Junn rumbled. "Come here."

Dylan turned his head, looking over his shoulder through damp bangs. His eyes were glassy and completely wrecked from the prep. When his gaze dropped to Junn’s fully prepped cock standing proud against his sculpted abdomen, Dylan swallowed dryly, a fresh tremor running straight down his spine to settle heavily in his gut.

Pushing up on trembling hands, Dylan crawled backwards over the mattress, dragging his knees through the rumpled duvet until he was hovering directly over Junn’s lap. Reaching out, Junn gripped Dylan’s narrow waist and hoisted him upward with effortless strength, settling Dylan’s thighs over his own until Dylan was straddling his lap, their sweat-slicked chests inches apart.

"Look at that mirror, baby," Junn murmured, his voice dropping into a purr against Dylan’s hot cheek, his warm breath fanning across the sensitive skin beneath Dylan's ear. "Look how open you are for me. All these years of waiting... now take what’s yours. Ride me."

Dylan’s breath caught sharply in his throat. He glanced sideways at the mirror, his pulse leaping at the breathtaking sight of himself perched over Junn’s lap.

"You're too big, phi," Dylan whimpered softly, a delicious shiver racking his frame, though his hands were already moving contrary to his words—his fingers wrapping around Junn’s rigid shaft to steady it, guiding the blunt, wet crown directly against his throbbing entrance.

"You're stretched wide open, Dylan. You can take it," Junn challenged with a wicked smirk, his thumbs digging into the soft dip above Dylan's hip bones, anchoring him in place.

Dylan bit his trembling bottom lip, squeezed his eyes shut for a fractured second, and pushed down.

The initial stretch was breathtaking, stealing the air straight from Dylan's lungs. Dylan let out a gasp, his head thrown back as the broad head breached his tight hole.

"Ah—fuck, Junn—" Dylan sobbed, his fingernails digging deep into Junn’s shoulders as he forced himself to breathe, relaxing his core against the overwhelming fullness, sinking down another inch, and then another.

Junn’s jaw clenched so hard the muscles jumped beneath his golden skin. A guttural groan tore from his throat, his hips twitching upward involuntarily as the warmth of Dylan’s walls clamped down around him like a heated vice, pulsing in greedy ripples against his sensitive ridges.

"God, Dylan... you feel unbelievable," Junn rasped, his knuckles whitening where he held Dylan's hips, his vision blurring slightly around the edges from the suffocating tightness. "So fucking hot. Take all of it."

With a ragged whimper, Dylan dropped his weight completely, bottoming out until the base of Junn’s shaft was buried all the way to the hilt inside him.

For several long seconds, neither of them moved.

Dylan collapsed forward, resting his forehead against Junn’s damp collarbone, panting in shallow gasps as his walls fluttered and clenched in frantic spasms around the massive intrusion. Junn’s arms wrapped firmly around Dylan’s back, his large hands splayed wide over Dylan’s shoulder blades, holding him steady, grounding him while their bodies adjusted to the overwhelming friction.

"You okay?" Junn whispered, his lips brushing Dylan’s damp temple with infinite tenderness, despite the untamed hunger vibrating beneath his skin.

Dylan nodded against his chest, letting out a wet laugh that trembled with pure adrenaline. "I'm... god, I'm full. It feels so good, P'Junn."

Dylan slowly raised his head, locking eyes with Junn, a slow smirk returning to his flushed, beautiful face.

Pushing his palms flat against Junn’s defined chest, Dylan braced himself and began to lift his hips. He rose slowly, dragging his tight walls along Junn’s ridges until only the swollen head remained seated within his heat, before slamming back down with a wet slap.

"Ah!" Dylan cried out, the impact sending a blinding jolt of pleasure straight to his core.

"Fuck—yes, just like that," Junn growled, his hands sliding down from Dylan’s back to grip his waist firmly. "Keep going, baby. Don't stop."

Dylan found his pace. He began to bounce on Junn’s lap, lifting and dropping his weight with steady friction. Every downward plunge drove Junn’s heavy length deep against his prostate, drawing out a continuous stream of broken whimpers from Dylan’s swollen lips.

The wet, slick sounds of their bodies colliding filled the quiet room.

"Look at the mirror, Dylan," Junn commanded darkly, his hands guiding Dylan’s hips in a circular grind that hit the sweet spot with every stroke. "Look at how good you look riding my cock."

Dylan turned his head, his glassy eyes fixing on the smoked mirror. The sight pushed him even closer to the edge—the stark visual of his thighs straddling Junn’s lap, his glistening ass bouncing relentlessly over Junn’s thrusting pelvis, and Junn’s possessive gaze devouring every inch of him in the glass.

Junn reached one hand down between their slick, colliding bodies. His long fingers slipped under Dylan’s balls, fondling and rolling them with a pressure that sent sharp sparks along Dylan's lower stomach.

Dylan let out a choked, high-pitched scream, his back arching dramatically, his pace faltering into uncoordinated stutters as the dual stimulation threatened to overload his brain completely.

"Junn—ah! Don't, it's too much—fuck, phi, please—!"

Junn released his hold below, his hand coming back up to tangle deep into Dylan’s damp hair. With a firm tug, Junn pulled Dylan’s head back, exposing the pale line of his throat to the morning air.

Junn leaned forward, sinking his teeth into the soft skin along Dylan’s collarbone, biting down hard enough to leave a stinging bruise before soothing the mark with a hot, open-mouthed lap of his tongue. He trailed his mouth downward, capturing Dylan’s sensitive left nipple between his lips, sucking with greedy suction while flicking the rigid bud with his tongue.

Dylan wailed into the air, his fingers clutching Junn’s hair as pleasure tore through his chest. Junn switched to the right nipple, biting and suckling with unrelenting heat before trailing hot, wet kisses back up the column of Dylan’s neck to his jaw.

Dylan was completely coming apart. The overstimulation was driving him to the absolute brink.

Overwhelmed and desperate for an anchor, Dylan leaned down and bit hard into Junn’s bicep, muffling a ragged sob against Junn’s golden skin as his riding pace slowed from pure physical exhaustion.

"Tired already?" Junn growled affectionately against his temple, his hands immediately moving to grip the full curves of Dylan’s ass.

Junn squeezed the cheeks tightly, parting them slightly wider, and took complete control of the movement.

Bracing his heels firmly against the mattress, Junn began to buck his hips upward, ramming deep into Dylan with heavy force.

Every upward drive bottomed out with staggering intensity, Junn’s blunt head striking Dylan’s prostate over and over without mercy. Dylan’s teeth slipped from Junn’s arm as a string of shattered wails tore from his throat, his hands clutching Junn's shoulders.

"P'Junn! Junn! I'm gonna—I'm—I'm coming—!" Dylan screamed.

"Come for me, Dylan! Look at me and come!" Junn commanded, driving up harder, faster, his knuckles turning white as he held Dylan’s ass locked against his thrusts.

With a final clench of his entire body, Dylan shattered.

He clamped down around Junn’s buried shaft. Dylan’s cock erupted between their pressed stomachs, spilling white ropes of release all over Junn’s abdomen and Dylan’s own chest, his vision whiting out with ecstasy.

The tight spasms of Dylan’s climax were the final straw for Junn.

With a deep grunt that rattled his chest, Junn surged upward one last time, driving his length to the absolute deepest point possible. His climax tore through him in a blinding torrent, his hips locking hard against Dylan as he filled Dylan raw with pulsing waves of heat.

Junn shuddered violently, his head falling back against the headboard, chest heaving in ragged, desperate gasps as the aftershocks rippled through them both, their bodies locked tight in the quiet bedroom.

Dylan collapsed entirely limp against Junn’s chest, his arms hanging weakly over Junn’s broad shoulders, his forehead resting in the hollow of Junn’s neck. Both of them were slick with sweat and release, their erratic heartbeats thumping in synchronisation against each other's ribs.

Junn wrapped his strong arms around Dylan’s waist, holding him tightly against his chest, refusing to let an inch of space come between them. With careful movements, Junn shifted his hips, sliding gently down the headboard until he was lying flat on his back in the centre of the mattress, carrying Dylan with him so Dylan remained draped comfortably over his chest, their bodies still joined.

Junn pressed a lingering kiss into Dylan’s damp hair, his thumb tracing the curve of Dylan’s spine with unhurried tenderness.

"You're mine now," Junn murmured into the quiet room, his voice raspy, heavy with emotion and absolute certainty. " It's going to be just you and me."

Dylan let out a muffled breath against Junn’s collarbone, a soft smile spreading across his lips as his fingers tangled gently into Junn’s hair.

"I was always yours, P'Junn," Dylan whispered softly, nuzzling deeper into the crook of his neck. "Took you long enough to claim it."