Chapter Text
The Grand Postal Building in Bangkok had been transformed into a cathedral of velvet and light. The theme of the night was "Royal Ascendant"—a showcase of bespoke suits that blended modern tailoring with the opulence of the old courts.
Backstage, the air smelled of hairspray, expensive cologne, and adrenaline.
William Jakrapatr, the main vocalist of the rookie T-pop group LYKN, adjusted his in-ear monitor for the tenth time. He was nervous. This wasn't a concert stage with screaming fans who loved them unconditionally; this was the fashion elite. They were judgmental, bored, and notoriously hard to impress.
"Stop fidgeting with your ear," Nut whispered, slapping William’s shoulder lightly. "You look fine. Just remember the blocking. Don't trip over the models."
"I won't trip," William muttered, smoothing the lapel of his own performance suit—a sleek, midnight-blue number with silver embroidery that matched his favorite color. "I just hope the models don't trip over us."
He checked his reflection in the lighted vanity. The left side of his face—his good side—looked sharp. His hair was styled perfectly. He took a deep breath, trying to summon the "Project Alpha" champion energy. He was William. He was a the Alpha. He could handle a catwalk.
"Five minutes!" the stage manager shouted.
The lights in the hall dimmed. The bass of the opening track thumped in William’s chest.
LYKN took their positions at the head of the runway. As the spotlight hit them, William switched on, his puppy like persona vanished, replaced by the charismatic, energetic performer. He grabbed the mic stand, his voice soaring out into the hall, rich and steady.
Models started to stream out from the wings, walking to the beat of LYKN’s song. They were tall, ethereal creatures, moving with a fluid grace. William focused on his vocals, keeping his eyes on the middle distance as trained.
Then, the beat dropped for the bridge.
A new model stepped onto the runway.
He was taller than the others, broad-shouldered but lean—a physique that spoke of power rather than just aesthetics. He wore a suit of ivory silk with gold accents that shimmered under the lights. His hair was styled back, revealing a face that was strikingly handsome yet effeminate —sharp, elegant, and commanding.
William’s breath hitched mid-note.
It wasn't just that the model was attractive. It was a physical sensation—a sudden, violent tug in the center of his chest, as if an invisible hook had snagged his heart. The air in the room seemed to vanish.
The model—Est Supha—walked down the center of the runway. As he passed the stage where LYKN was performing, he turned his head.
His eyes met William’s.
For a split second, the professional mask of the model slipped. Est’s eyes widened slightly, a flicker of recognition passing through them. It was a look of intense curiosity, mirrored by a calm wisdom that felt ancient.
William faltered, missing a beat of the choreography, his eyes locked on the receding figure in white.
Ten minutes later, the music shifted to a funkier, upbeat tempo.
Est returned. This time, he wore a suit of crushed crimson velvet, open at the collar, with a long, trailing scarf that fluttered behind him like a cape.
He knew where William was now.
As Est approached the stage, he didn't just walk; he strutted. He slowed his pace slightly as he neared the vocalists. He looked directly at William, a playful, knowing smirk curving the corner of his mouth. He tilted his head, the movement sharp and bird-like, challenging the idol to keep singing.
William felt a flush rise up his neck. He stepped forward, abandoning his mark, singing the lyrics directly to the man in crimson.
“You think you know the game... but I’m changing the rules...”
Est’s smirk deepened. He gave a microscopic nod—an acknowledgment—before pivoting on his heel with a flourish of the scarf, leaving William singing to his back.
The show was nearing its climax. The atmosphere in the hall was electric.
Est walked out for the third time. He was dressed in deep emerald green, a military-cut jacket with heavy epaulets and fitted trousers. He looked regal, untouchable.
William was waiting for him. He had moved to the very edge of the stage, ignoring Hong’s confused glance.
When Est passed, he walked closer to the edge than the other models, invading the performers' space. The distance between them closed to mere feet.
William locked eyes with him. He poured everything into his voice, the notes resonant and pleading.
“I’ve been waiting for a sign... just one look from you...”
Est stopped. It was a breach of protocol—models didn't stop. But he paused for a heartbeat, looking up at William on the raised platform. His expression softened, the arrogance of the runway melting into something warmer, something that asked a question.
Then, he winked. A quick, devastating flutter of lashes. And he was gone again.
William nearly dropped his microphone.
Pass 4 was Williams’ undoing it was the finale. The music swelled to a crescendo.
Est appeared at the top of the runway for the final walk. He was wearing a heavy, brocade coat that looked like something a prince would wear to a coronation. It was beautiful, but stiff.
He walked with a predator's grace, his gaze fixed solely on William. The rest of the audience—the photographers, the fashion editors—didn't exist.
As he reached the center of the runway, directly in front of the LYKN stage, Est stopped.
With a fluid, practiced motion, he shrugged the heavy coat off his shoulders. He let it slide down his arms, catching it by the collar in one hand.
Underneath, he wore only a fitted, backless waistcoat and trousers.
The vest clung to him, highlighting the long, lean lines of his torso, the broad taper of his swimmer’s shoulders, and the scandalous expanse of honey-colored skin.
The room gasped.
William stopped singing. He actually stopped. For a full second, there was dead air on the mic.
Est stood there, bathed in the spotlight, looking like a god who had descended to earth just to tease a mortal. He looked at William, his eyes dancing with mischief and triumph. He tossed the heavy coat over his shoulder, turned, and walked away, the muscles of his back shifting under the skin, entrancing everyone in the room.
Nut had to elbow William in the ribs to get him to sing the final chorus.
As the lights faded and the models lined up for the final bow, William stood panting, his chest heaving, his eyes frantically searching the line of beautiful people for the one who had just stolen his breath, his focus, and quite possibly his heart.
The moment the stage lights cut to black and the heavy velvet curtain swept closed, the spell broke.
William stood frozen in the center of the stage, his chest heaving, his hand still gripping the microphone stand as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. The image of the bare back, the shifting muscle, and the taunting smile was burned into his retinas like a sunspot.
"Earth to William!"
A hand waved frantically in front of his face. It was Nut, looking equal parts amused and concerned.
"Hello? Connection lost?" Nut tapped William’s headset. "Did you short-circuit?"
William blinked, the noise of the backstage rushing back in—the applause from the other side of the curtain, the shouting of stage managers, the rustle of costumes.
"I..." William started, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat. "I'm fine."
"Fine?" Hong laughed, clapping him on the back as they moved toward the wings. "Bro, you stopped singing. Dead air. For three seconds. I thought you swallowed a fly."
"It was the vest," Lego chimed in, grinning wickedly. "I saw it too. But at least I didn't forget my lyrics."
"I didn't forget," William defended weakly, though his ears were burning a violent shade of red. "I was... adding dramatic pause."
"Dramatic pause," Tui repeated dryly. "Right. And walking to the edge of the stage to serenade a model was... what? Improvised blocking?"
They reached the dressing area, a chaotic hive of racks and mirrors. William didn't stop to change. He scanned the room frantically, his eyes darting between the groups of models who were already stripping off their couture and wiping off makeup.
"Where is he?" William muttered, ignoring his bandmates. He pushed past a rack of silk shirts. "The guy in the brocade coat. The vest."
"William, wait," their manager called out, holding a water bottle. "Debrief!"
William ignored him. He caught the arm of a passing stylist who was carrying a bundle of crimson velvet.
"Excuse me," William said, breathless. "The model. The one who wore this. Where is he?"
The stylist blinked, surprised by the intensity of the idol gripping her arm. "Est? He left. He literally ran out the back door the second he changed. He has a midnight shoot across town."
William’s heart sank. "Gone?"
"Gone," she confirmed. "He's Est Supha. He doesn't stick around for the after-party anyways."
William let go of her arm. He stood there in the middle of the bustle, feeling a crushing sense of loss that made no sense. He had never met the man. They hadn't exchanged a single word. Yet the absence felt physical, like a limb had been removed.
"Est Supha," William whispered, testing the name. It felt familiar on his tongue.
Heavy.
Important.
"Okay, lover boy," Nut said, appearing at his side and steering him toward the LYKN dressing room. "Show's over. Let's get you out of that suit before you melt."
Inside the private dressing room, the atmosphere was a mix of exhaustion and high-octane teasing.
William sank onto the leather sofa, refusing to make eye contact with anyone. He pulled his phone out of his pocket with the desperation of an addict.
"Look at him," Hong called out, throwing a towel at Lego. "He's already searching."
"He's down bad," Lego agreed. "I've never seen William look at anyone like that. It was kind of scary. Like a predator looking at a steak."
"More like a puppy looking at a treat he can't reach," Tui corrected.
William typed Est Supha into the Instagram search bar.
The profile popped up immediately. @est_supha. Verified. 500k followers.
William clicked on it.
The grid was an aesthetic masterpiece—minimalist shots of architecture, black-and-white portraits from fashion weeks in Paris and Milan, and occasional, softer photos of a golden retriever sleeping in sunbeams.
But it was the latest story, posted just ten minutes ago, that made William’s breath hitch.
It was a blurry, candid shot taken from the backseat of a car, showing the rainy Bangkok streets streaking by. The caption was small, white text in the corner: Some ghosts are louder than others tonight.
William stared at it.
Ghosts.
He hit Follow. The button turned from blue to gray instantly. Following.
"Oh no," Nut groaned, looking at his own phone. "William, did you just follow him?"
"Maybe," William mumbled.
"You idiot," Nut laughed, shoving his screen in William’s face. "Look at X. It's melting."
William looked. The hashtag #RoyalAscendant was trending #1 in Thailand, but right below it was #WilliamLYKN and #EstSupha.
@LYKN_Official_Fan: EXCUSE ME??? THE WAY WILLIAM LOOKED AT HIM??? I AM ON THE FLOOR. THAT WAS NOT ACTING. #WilliamLYKN #EstSupha
@LYKN_Manifest: I don't know who that model is but William looked ready to risk his entire career for a phone number. The tension was THICK.
@Anti_Fan_99: So unprofessional. William forgot his lyrics to stare at a guy? Is LYKN a joke to him? Focus on your job.
@EstSupha_Update: OMG William form LYKN just followed P'Est! P'Est hasn't followed back yet though... playing hard to get? 😉
"They noticed," William said, horror dawning on him. "Everyone noticed."
"A blind man in the back row noticed," Tui said sympathetically. "You practically undressed him with your eyes, William. On a stage…with a livestream."
William groaned, covering his face with his hands. "P'Ko is going to kill me. The label is going to kill me."
"Or," Nut mused, scrolling through the comments. "They might capitalize on it. Look at the engagement numbers. People love a ship."
"It's not a ship," William snapped, sitting up. "I just... I needed to talk to him….to tell him."
"Tell him what?" Hong asked. "You didn't even speak to him."
William looked down at his phone. Following him wasn't enough. It felt passive. He needed to reach out. He needed to bridge the gap.
He tapped ‘Message’.
The chat window opened. It was empty, a blank white void waiting to be filled.
William’s thumb hovered over the keyboard. What could he say?
You were beautiful? I forgot how to breathe? I feel like I've known you for a thousand years?
He typed, deleted, and typed again. Finally, he settled on something simple. Something true.
[I hope I didn't ruin your walk. You were... unforgettable.]
He hit ‘Send’.
The message bubble appeared, blue and crisp. But right below it, in small gray text, appeared the words that made William’s stomach drop:
‘Message Request Sent’
He wasn't in Est’s inbox. He was in the purgatory of the "Requests" folder, sitting alongside thousands of fans, bots, and brands. Est might never see it. He might delete it without opening it.
"Well," Tui said, breaking the tension with a gentle pat on William’s knee. "You shot your shot. Ball's in his court. Now go change. We have a flight to catch in the morning."
William stood up, clutching his phone. He took one last look at the screen, willing the gray notification to vanish, willing the "Seen" receipt to appear.
Don't run, he thought, projecting the thought out into the digital void. Open the door. Just open the door.
Est Supha’s bedroom was a quiet retreat within the bustling family home in Bangkok. Downstairs, he could hear the faint murmur of the television and his older sister laughing at something his mother said—a comforting, familiar background noise that usually helped him unwind.
Tonight, however, the silence in his room felt loud.
Est sat on the floor, leaning back against the side of his bed. A massive Golden Retriever head rested heavily on his lap.
"I know, PB," Est murmured, scratching the dog’s velvet ears. "It was a long day. But at least we made enough to pay for your premium kibble."
PB let out a heavy huff of agreement, thumping his tail once against the floorboards.
Est leaned his head back, closing his eyes. But the moment he did, the image flashed behind his lids: the midnight-blue suit, the intense dark eyes, the voice that had vibrated through the floorboards of the runway.
“I’ve been waiting for a sign...”
Est opened his eyes, staring at his ceiling fan. He had walked hundreds of runways. He had been stared at by designers, buyers, and celebrities. He was used to being looked at.
But that boy—the idol, William—hadn't looked at him. He had looked into him.
It was unsettling. It was rude. It was unprofessional.
And yet Est hadn't been able to look away.
His phone, resting on the carpet, buzzed. It had been buzzing for an hour. Est finally reached for it, unlocking the screen.
The notifications were a solid wall of text.
@EstSupha_Official: P'Est! Have you seen X? The LYKN boy is going viral!
@FashionWeekBKK: The moment of the night! #RoyalAscendant
Est sighed, opening Instagram. His follower count had jumped significantly in two hours. He tapped on his DMs, intending to clear the clutter of tagged stories.
That’s when he saw it.
Sitting at the top of his "Requests" folder, marked with a blue verified tick.
williamjkp William Jakrapatr • LYKN
Est’s thumb hovered over the name. He felt a strange flutter in his stomach—not quite nerves, but a heightened awareness, like the moment before a starting gun fires.
Curiosity, he told himself. Just professional curiosity.
He tapped the message.
williamjkp: I hope I didn't ruin your walk. You were... unforgettable.
Est stared at the words. They were polite, almost shy, completely at odds with the bold, singing figure on the stage. Unforgettable.
He bit his lip, thinking. He couldn't be too friendly—idols had strict rules, and he didn't want to cause trouble. But ignoring it felt wrong.
He typed slowly.
est_supha: You didn't ruin it. But you definitely made it interesting.
He hesitated, then added a safe, professional compliment.
est_supha: You have a powerful voice. It surprised me.
He hit Accept and Send.
The door was open, but only a crack.
Est tossed the phone onto the bed, picking up PB’s paw to shake it. "I just replied to an idol, PB. Hopefully, his fans don't eat me alive."
PB yawned, unimpressed.
Before Est could overthink it, his phone buzzed again. Not Instagram this time. A Line message from his manager, P'Gong.
P'Gong: Script just landed. GMMTV project. Big budget. They specifically asked for you.
Est: I thought I was taking a break? The last drama was exhausting.
P'Gong: Read the synopsis before you say no. It’s... different. It’s a period piece. 1940s. Based on a true story found in some old journals in Malaysia.
Est paused. Malaysia. The word triggered a strange, phantom ache in his left shoulder—the one he had injured swimming years ago. He rubbed the spot absently.
P'Gong: Sent the file. Title is "The Silent Keep". Let me know by morning.
Est opened the attached PDF.
PROJECT TITLE: THE SILENT KEEP
GENRE: Historical Romance / Drama
LOGLINE: In 1945, a young heir flees a forced marriage in Bangkok to live in exile on a Malaysian island, leaving behind the bodyguard who sacrificed everything to save him. Based on the recovered letters found in a schoolhouse in Penang.
Est read the logline three times. The air in his room seemed to drop ten degrees. The hairs on his arms stood up.
He didn't know this story. He had never been to Penang. But as he read the character description for the lead—Thanin—a wave of profound, suffocating grief washed over him.
Thanin: A young heir who learns to live in a paradise that feels like a prison because the person he loves isn't there to share it.
Est scrolled down.
CASTING: Role of Korn (Bodyguard): To Be Auditioned.
Est dropped the phone on the duvet. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to rub away the sudden pressure building behind them.
"The Silent Keep," he whispered. The title tasted like ash and the scent of jasmine came unbidden to his mind.
He picked up the phone again. He didn't reply to P'Gong yet. He went back to Instagram. He looked at William’s profile picture—the serious, sharp-eyed boy who had looked at him like he was the only person in the room.
Est felt a pull. A tether he couldn't explain.
He went back to the DM. He typed, deleted, and then typed again, keeping it casual, keeping it safe.
est_supha: By the way... do you act? Or just sing?
He hit send quickly before he could lose his nerve.
The LYKN van was quiet, the other members dozing off in the reclining seats as they navigated the Bangkok traffic back to the dorms. But William was wide awake, his phone screen the only light illuminating his face.
est_supha: By the way... do you act? Or just sing?
William stared at the message. His heart did a complicated flip against his ribs.
Act?
He had never acted. He had trained in musical theater, sure, but that was singing with blocking. A full drama? A period piece?
He remembered a conversation with his manager, P'Ko, just last week. P'Ko had tossed a thick script onto the coffee table in the dorm living room.
"GMMTV is looking for a fresh face for a new project," P'Ko had said. "Period drama. Heavy stuff. They need someone intense for the second lead. I thought of you."
"I'm a singer, P'Ko," William had replied, not even looking up from his guitar. "And we have the comeback. I don't have time to memorize lines."
William sat up straight in the van, startling Nut, who was asleep on his shoulder.
"P'Ko," William whispered urgently, leaning forward to tap the passenger seat where his manager sat.
P'Ko turned around, looking weary. "What is it, William? Emergency?"
"That script," William said, his voice low but intense. "The one you brought last week. The period drama."
P'Ko blinked. "The Silent Keep?"
"Yes. Is the role still open?"
"The bodyguard role? Yes. They're having trouble filling it. They want someone who can look dangerous but... soulful. Why?"
William gripped the back of the seat. "Who is the main lead? The heir?"
P'Ko frowned, thinking. "It's not confirmed yet. But I heard the production team sent an offer to Est Supha. They're waiting on his response."
Est.
The name hit William like a physical force. The image of the man in the ivory suit, the man in the backless vest, the man who posted about ghosts and tides... playing the heir to William’s bodyguard.
It wasn't a coincidence. It felt like gravity.
"I want it," William said.
P'Ko’s eyes widened. "You said you didn't have time. You said acting distracted from your music."
"I changed my mind," William said, his jaw set in that stubborn line the members knew well. "Get me an audition. Please."
P'Ko studied him for a long moment, then sighed, pulling out his phone to check his calendar. "I'll call the casting director in the morning. No promises. It's a heavy role, William. Lots of staring and suffering."
"I can do suffering," William murmured, glancing back at his phone.
He looked at Est’s message again. Do you act?
William’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. He didn't want to sound desperate. He didn't want to say, I will become an actor tomorrow if it means I get to stand next to you.
He typed slowly.
williamjkp: I haven't before. But a script just came up.
He hesitated, then added:
williamjkp: I'm thinking of trying...
Est sat on his bed, the PDF of The Silent Keep glowing on his iPad. PB was snoring softly at his feet, paws twitching as he chased chickens in his dreams.
Est wasn't reading the script anymore. He was reading the appendix—the translation of the actual letters found in the Penang schoolhouse.
“I do not know if the sun shines where you are. But here, the jasmine blooms only at night, like a secret kept too long.”
Est rubbed his chest. The words felt heavy, pressing down on his lungs. He read about Thanin sitting on a verandah for forty years, waiting for a man who never came back.
He read about the white thread found in a velvet box.
Est looked at his own wrist. It was bare. But he felt a phantom itch there, a sense that something was missing.
Why did this story hurt so much? He had read tragedies before. He had played characters who died, who lost everything. But this... this felt like remembering, not reading.
His phone buzzed on the pillow.
williamjkp: I haven't before. But a script just came up. I'm thinking of trying...
Est stared at the screen. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—small, sad, and hopeful all at once.
He typed back before he could overthink it.
est_supha: You should. You have the eyes for it.
est_supha: Maybe I'll see you on set.
He hit send, then closed the chat. He picked up the script for The Silent Keep.
He opened his email and found the thread with P'Gong.
Est: Tell them yes. I'll take the role.