Chapter Text
Best Chaichana adjusted his glasses, stylus tapping lightly against the tablet as he reviewed tomorrow’s agenda. “So, I’ve cleared your calendar for tomorrow, Gawin. No shoots, no meetings, no press calls—just as we planned last month.”
He stood at around 167 cm, was lanky, looked handsome, and had a knowing piercing stare. He liked wearing the simplest of styles: an oversized shirt, baggy pants, and boxy glasses. He wanted to be a chameleon that can disappear or peacock at any time he wished, and that style made him do it effortlessly.
“Good,” Gawin said, leaning back in the leather chair, arms folded. “And… did you get me a practice partner?”
Now Gawin Caskey was a whole different visage. Gawin carried with him a quiet contradiction. He had the height and frame of someone meant to be seen first in a crowd — broad shoulders, long lines, the kind of presence that cameras naturally obeyed — yet when he moved, it was with a softness almost at odds with his build. His steps were unhurried, his gestures careful, as if the world required him to tread lightly.
His face was carved in sharp strokes, a jaw that suggested defiance, cheekbones that caught light like polished stone. But the eyes unsettled the impression — not cold, not aloof, but searching, almost tender, betraying a young man who carried more weight inside than he ever let slip outside. And when he smiled — truly smiled, without thinking — it was never gradual. It bloomed suddenly, boyish and unguarded, the sort of thing that startled people into loving him before they could second-guess it.
To the industry he was discipline made flesh, a model of professionalism. To strangers, he was radiance, elegance, polish. Yet beneath the surface was a guardedness that clung to him, an invisible armor. There were spaces he never let anyone touch — corners of himself he walled off with jokes, with politeness, with the illusion of being endlessly put together.
That, perhaps, was his most magnetic quality. Gawin was never simply one thing. He was light bent through glass: luminous, fractured, compelling precisely because of the shadows that traveled with him.
His last question, made Best pause. He raised one eyebrow, skeptical.
“Really? Practice time again? Is it that time of the month already?”
Gawin’s lips pushed into a pout, boyish and deliberate.
“Ha ha, Phi. I just need to destress, is all.”
Best sighed, muttering something under his breath about actors and their quirks, before hugging the tablet tight. The manager continued, not bothering to hide the smirk tugging at his lips.
“You know there are plenty of men and women out there more than willing to throw themselves at your feet, right?”
Gawin turned his back on him, striding toward the floor-to-ceiling window of his suite. Bangkok’s city lights reflected off the glass, framing him in a glow that was half angelic, half troublemaker.
“I’m not sure you’re ready for scandals yet, Phi,” Gawin muttered, his tone caught between sarcasm and sincerity.
Best’s deep belly laugh filled the room, bouncing off polished marble and plush upholstery. He actually had to wipe his eyes as he walked toward Gawin’s statuesque figure. “Nong Gawin,” he said between chuckles, “I couldn’t care less if you had scandals—so long as they’re based on an actual relationship!”
Gawin shrugged his hand off his shoulder and made a face, scrunching his nose like he’d just swallowed something sour. His eyes widened in judgement.
“Ew. Relationships? Love? Double ew.”
The smaller man sighed so hard it sounded like resignation and amusement rolled into one. He tapped Gawin’s arm with his tablet in mock defeat. “Fine. I’ll send you the details of your ‘practice’ tomorrow morning.”, his hands making air quotes at the word ‘practice’.
As far as work goes, Best knew how blessed he is. As a top artist’s manager, his life should’ve been chaotic, hectice, and traumatizing, but with Gawin, it was strangely easy. The young actor was disciplined to the point of clockwork. He showed up early, stuck to schedules, and treated everyone from stylists to CEOs with the same polite, gentle respect.
Even the brands that flocked to him weren’t random endorsements. Gawin had a knack for drawing in labels that aligned with his principles, and he made sure that alignment wasn’t surface-level.
Best could never forget one of the first times Gawin surprised him in a brand negotiation. It was with a famous, progressive apparel company. Papers were nearly signed when Gawin, still barely graduating from being a rookie, raised his hand. Both CEOs — the brand’s and their agency’s — froze in surprise.
“Some of your designs in the past have been criticized as too risqué or even inappropriate,” Gawin said evenly. “Do you consider your style risqué? sex positive?”
Best had dropped his pen on purpose, just to have a chance to hide his face under the table. Who asked questions like that in a signing?
But instead of offense, the brand’s CEO threw his head back and laughed. “In my many years, no one has been courageous enough to clarify. I like it. And yes, you’re correct. Philosophically, we employ a sex positive mindset.”
That deal, Best recalled, ended up being one of their most authentic partnerships.
“P’Best, you with me?” Gawin’s voice pulled him back to the present.
Best blinked. “Yes! Yes, I’m here.”
The boy was good. Too good. Which is why Best sometimes wished Gawin would let his guard down more often — outside of brand meetings, outside of cameras, outside of the world. And maybe that’s why, every so often, Gawin asked for “practice” dates. Not romance. Not attachment. Just the privacy to be human.
As Best proceeded to exit Gawin’s lavish unit, he paused at the doorway and turned back.
“Have you ever just wanted to use Grindr or Tinder to find your practice partner? Or maybe even a proper date?”
From the bedroom, Gawin’s voice rang out, half exasperated, half amused. “No, P’Best! I don’t like talking to other people that way!”
“Fine! I’m going now!” Best called, stepping into the hall and locking the door behind him.
The moment he was alone, he pulled out his phone and typed away. A single contact stared back at him: Cupid.
Need a consensual partner. Tomorrow at 7PM, he typed.
Cupid was the woman for the job. She kept a private, invite-only registry — not escorts, not random hookups, but a circle of adults who all knew the rules: no strings, informed consent, absolute discretion. A verified wellness network, built from friends-of-friends who believed intimacy could be raw, safe, and free from pretense.
Even Cupid never asked who Best represented when he texted. There was no money exchanged, no paper trail, just a trust built over time.
Moments later, her reply buzzed onto his screen.
Ooh, that’s a quick turnaround, Best. Not sure if I can pull it off, but I’ll do my best.
Best smiled faintly, sliding the phone back into his pocket. The Cupid always landed her arrows. Gawin would get his “date.” And once again, the world would be none the wiser.
After a few minutes of making calls, Best found himself at his car, ready to drive off. tablet balanced on one knee as he reviewed his familiar checklist before starting the engine.
Hotel suite: booked.
Small Conference room: reserved, where he’d wait with the NDA packet neatly stacked.
Lavish meal: ordered — chef’s special, nothing too heavy but indulgent enough to feel memorable.
Great wine: vintage red, Gawin’s preference.
Candles and roses: already on standby to be delivered in time for tomorrow.
Condoms and lube: discreetly stashed at the glove box.
His voice was calm and practiced as he called in the requests, but beneath the efficiency ran a current of unease. He drove off. The sound of the engine didn’t drown out the question that lingered in his head.
Why was he still enabling this?
He told himself, as always, that Gawin treated intimacy as a basic human need. Like sleep, like exercise, like food. A way to vent pressure and balance the life of being idolized from every angle. There was nothing wrong with that. Nothing immoral. The “wellness circle” was consensual, safe, discreet.
And yet.
Best knew it wasn’t just about need. Gawin wasn’t reckless; he was deliberate. He chose this pattern, clung to it, insisted it was the only way. As though he was hell-bent on proving that affection could only be fleeting, transactional, a candle that burns and gutters before morning.
It wasn’t Gawin’s innocence that Best wanted to protect anymore. It was something darker — a young man so jaded he had convinced himself that intimacy had no deeper meaning. That it could never last, never be real, never deserve permanence.
Best drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, wondering — not for the first time — why Gawin allowed himself to suffer this much. Why he carried that tangible darkness so close, like a second skin. Why he had never once heard his little boy ask if there could be more.
Best exhaled, forcing himself back to the present. He had a job. The suite would be ready by seven. Gawin would get his “date.” And Best would once again be left to wonder if he was doing right by him… or just helping him run further from the truth.
As his car merged into evening traffic, something in the rearview mirror froze his breath. A black hoodie. Oversized. Slouched shoulders. That walk.
His heart sank.
Best’s hands jerked the wheel as he pulled to the side of the road, hazards flashing. He fumbled through his pockets, desperate for his phone. He had to call Gawin. Now.
Today had been harmless — an exclusive, invite-only, whole-day, brand event for a skincare line. Smaller audience, more intimate vibe. Best had even relaxed, appreciating the easy rhythm of the day. But that was his mistake. Smaller crowds made it easier for predators to watch unnoticed from the edges.
And this one was no stranger.
The man in the hoodie. The sasaeng. The one they’d nicknamed Black Rabbit. Always draped in anonymity, always lurking. Best had prayed they’d never see him again.
But the way the man walked — there was no mistaking it. He’d waited for Best to drive away from the condominium complex, then slipped in like a shadow.
Memories crashed over him: Gawin trembling, wide-eyed, a blade pressed close to his chest as the deranged fan whispered a confession twisted into threat. The aftermath — sleepless nights, moving from apartment to apartment, the slow erosion of comfort. The reason Gawin never decorated his unit anymore. Why every space he lived in felt temporary.
Best’s fingers finally closed around his phone — and his stomach dropped. It was dead.
Cursing under his breath, he shoved it back into his pocket, slammed the car door, and ran. He didn’t care that traffic honked and cursed as he sprinted along the sidewalk. His legs ached but his chest burned worse — with the knowledge that Gawin was alone and tired in his own home, and that the Black Rabbit was already on his way.