Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Nani Hirunkit Changkham ~ The Model

The Real Nani ~

Sky Wongravee Nateetorn ~

☽︎︎·̩͙⋆☾·̩͙꙳ 𓂃𓈒 ☽︎︎·̩͙⋆☾·̩͙꙳ 𓂃𓈒 ☽︎︎·̩͙⋆☾·̩͙꙳

They called them the angel and the devil.
The golden boy and the sharp edge.
The sun and the moon.

It was the kind of narrative the industry adored—easy headlines, shiny clickbait, a ready-made story. Two models, polar opposites in every way, destined to be set against each other. A rivalry built without a single real spark. Manufactured tension, born in boardrooms and comment sections, then kept alive by the way people loved to feed on contrast.

Nani knew exactly how he was painted: the devil. The sharp one, the cold one. The boy with angles too clean, too precise, features that looked carved rather than grown. He leaned into it because that was his work—structured suits that ate up his frame, dresses that spilled over him like liquid, concepts that blurred gender lines. Androgyny was his weapon, neutrality his shield. He knew how to hold himself still, how to let silence become part of the performance.

Ice prince. Untouchable. Flawless.

And opposite him—though never with him—was Sky. The angel. The golden boy. A giant with a smile so bright it looked airbrushed onto his face, a presence so warm it radiated even through glossy magazine spreads. He embodied masculinity in a way the industry lapped up: bold campaigns, athletic features, strength made soft by dimples and warmth.

A walking contrast to Nani’s deliberate chill.

Together, they were perfect opposites. Brands ate it up. Media stitched the narrative until it was airtight. And online, the fans—Kotae’s and My Cloudy’s—fanned the flames with edits, memes, whole threads debating whether they were enemies, secret lovers, or both.

Rivalry was the safe word everyone agreed on.

The funny part was, Nani and Sky had never even spoken.

Not properly. Not once.

They’d crossed paths at galas and runway shows, nodded in the brief politeness expected of them, but nothing more. They’d never been booked for the same campaign, never shot together, not a single photo existed with them in the same frame.

Ships passing in the night, except the internet had decided those ships were circling each other in battle.

And still—there was something about it that clung.

Nani would never admit it out loud, but sometimes, when he caught Sky’s eyes across a crowded room—dark brown, steady, impossible to look away from—he felt it in his chest. Something sharp. Irritation, maybe. Or something with teeth, digging deeper than he wanted it to. He brushed it off every time.

Curiosity wasn’t useful, not in this business. Curiosity made space for things he didn’t have time for.

So he let it lie. Let the world talk. Let the ‘rivalry’ grow like ivy around them, twisting tighter each year. He played the part, Sky played his, and they passed each other as if they were meant to orbit forever but never collide.

Little did Nani know how fast that would change.

The van hums beneath him, steady vibration rolling up through the leather seat. Outside, Bangkok blurs past in neon and grey, but Nani’s attention is fixed on the tablet balanced across his knees. Campaign decks, moodboards, lookbooks—his manager flicks through them with practised swipes of her finger, narrating each as though she hasn’t done this ritual with him a thousand times before.

“Maison Takuya again,” Lin says—her voice warm, unhurried.

Of course it is. Because gods forbid fashion reinvent itself before the apocalypse. Black leather, sharp cuts—another round of pretending the world hasn’t seen this exact silhouette every autumn since, what, 2015? 2012? Honestly, at this point it’s just necromancy in a turtleneck.

P’Lin has been with him from the beginning, long before the world decided he was the Ice Prince. To him, she’s a second Mae. He lets his guard down with her in a way he never does with anyone else.

“They want you in structured leather for their autumn line. Very minimal. Very severe.”

Nani hums, skimming the deck. Severe, yes. Also boring. Black, grey, the sharp edge of tailoring softened only by the gleam of waxed hide. Beautiful, technically. Beautiful like an expensive funeral. And predictable. Predictable kills faster than ugly.

“Feels recycled,” he murmurs, voice low enough that only she can hear.

Or in less polite terms: I’ve seen mannequins in mall windows with more originality.

Lin chuckles. “That’s what I thought too. I’ll decline.”

Swipe. Another deck. “Stella McCartney is doing genderless suits with embroidered silk. They want you because no one else moves between masc and femme looks like you.”

This one makes Nani tilt his head, hazel eyes narrowing as he studies the slide. Jewel-toned fabrics, cropped jackets paired with skirts, trousers cut to cling and flow all at once. Interesting. He can already imagine the weight of silk against his collarbone, the camera eating up every shift of fabric.

“That one’s worth considering.”

Lin notes it down. They continue like this for a while, the quiet rhythm of proposal and response soothing in its own way. He takes the time to really look—because this is the part no one outside the industry sees.

Not that anyone cares. To the outside world, he’s just a mannequin with cheekbones, a doll they wind up in couture and shove in front of a flash. A pretty shell. A presence, nothing more.

But he cares. He cares about concepts, about how the shoot speaks, about what his body and face can lend to the story. He obsesses over angles, studies moodboards like exam notes, memorises how fabric falls under stage lights.

He’s built his reputation on precision, on making people believe he’s effortless when every gesture is calculated down to the tilt of his wrist.

And he’s proud of that—though he’d never say it aloud. Pride invites arrogance, arrogance invites gossip, gossip invites ruin. Better to stay humble, quiet, diligent. Better to accept the titles they layer onto him.

Ice prince. Doll. Devil.
Fine. Let them call him what they like.

At least he knows the truth: he’s the one writing the story. They’re just too busy gawking to notice.

Then Lin opens another folder. “Gentle Monster,” she says, her voice softening with interest.

That catches his attention instantly. He leans forward, scanning the images. The brand has always fascinated him—bold, theatrical campaigns, concepts that push boundaries. This new collection is no different: stark sets, oversized silhouettes, delicate lace against broad-shouldered jackets. Genderless. Playful. A balance of extremes.

Finally, something alive.

Nani taps the screen with a fingertip, sharp nail clicking softly against glass. “This one. I want it.”

Lin hums, scrolling deeper into the proposal. “It’s a duo shoot,” she says casually. “You’d do solo spreads, but also joint concepts.”

Duo. Of course. His least favourite word in the entire goddamn language. Nothing screams “creative death” like having to share a frame. Collaboration meant compromise, compromise meant dilution, and dilution meant he looked like every other mannequin in a borrowed suit. No thank you.

He wasn’t difficult, no matter what people whispered—he just prefers control. Clean edges. Precision. To carry a concept alone and make it his.

He makes an exception only when the brand is right. Gentle Monster… maybe.

“Who with?” he asks, already bracing for disappointment.

Lin scrolls further, her brows knitting as she scans the page. Then, she stops. Blinks once. A quiet laugh slips from her lips. “Oh. That’s—”

Nani frowns, leaning closer. And then he sees it. The name that makes his breath still, his pulse thump against his throat.

Sky Wongravee Nateetorn.

Of course. Who else. The Angel himself.

The golden retriever in human form. Thailand’s sweetheart, poster boy for sunshine and jawlines. Mr. Puppy Eyes. Mr. “Oops, I tripped and charmed a nation.”

For a moment, his brain blanks. Maybe if he stares hard enough the letters will do him a favour and rearrange into literally anyone else. 
Sky Wongchai? Skytrain Expansion Project? Sku Nate? No? Fantastic.

His instinct is immediate, almost automatic: decline. Shut it down. Don’t step into that trap. Avoid the circus

But the words never leave his mouth.

Instead, there’s a pause, thick with something else. Something unsteady.

Curiosity.

Sky Wongravee. His supposed rival. His opposite. The angel to his devil. The golden boy he’s only ever known through glossy covers and glances across rooms. Brands have begged before—wanted the collision, salivated at the thought or the aesthetic—but neither of them had ever accepted.

Lin exhales, still smiling like she’s already expecting his refusal. “I’ll decline it for you, Luk.”

His hand shoots out, gentle but firm on her wrist. “Wait. I—”

She blinks at him, surprised. “You want to accept it?”

Nani doesn’t answer right away. His gaze is locked on Sky’s name, the weight of memory tugging at him.

The last time they’d crossed paths: a gala. Overlit, over-perfumed, suffocating in its pretence. He’d slipped away down a quiet hall, desperate to loosen his shoulders, breathe past the smile glued to his face.

And then—footsteps. A presence at the far end.

Sky, leaning back against the wall like the Renaissance statue on break. Head tilted, eyes closed like even angels got tired of being worshipped. Broadness wrapped in a simple suit, strength carried so easily it looked effortless. A sharp undercut, a line through his eyebrow. Masculine perfection without the decency of effort.

Nani had looked too long. He could admit that now, if only in the privacy of his own skull. His fists had clenched as if to crush the flutter in his chest to dust. Spoiler: it hadn’t. Because when Sky opened his eyes—dark brown catching hazel across the distance—something electric snapped into place. A charge.

Great. Fantastic. Exactly what he needed: divine intervention in the form of cardiac arrest.

It had rattled him. Heat rising under his skin, heartbeat thundering like he’d just sprinted ten floors, something tugging tight in his ribs like panic—or something worse.

He’d shaken it off, spine snapping back into place, mask glued on like armour. But as he turned to leave, he’d felt it—Sky’s gaze lingering, heavy, unrelenting. And the shiver down his back had been… deeply and profoundly inconvenient.

Now, staring at Sky’s name on the screen, the memory stirs like a bruise pressed too hard.

“I want to accept it,” he hears himself say. The words taste reckless, sharp, like biting into a dare and finding you like the flavour.

Lin blinks again, softer this time, like she’s heard the thing he hasn’t admitted even in his own head.

Nani looks back at the glowing screen.

His rival. His opposite. His angel.

He will finally, finally, stand beside Sky Wongravee.

And maybe—just maybe—find out if angels burn when devils get too close.

Flashbulbs burn across his vision, too bright, too quick, each one a needle stabbing into the back of his skull. He blinks, but only on the inside—never outward, never where they can catch it. His chin tilts at the exact angle they like, lips pressed into that precise half-curve he knows the magazines will call “enigmatic.”

Photographers scream his name like they own it:

“Nani! This way! Eyes here! Over the shoulder—yes, perfect, hold that!”

Perfect. Always perfect. Always their word, never his.

He pivots on cue, fingers grazing his lapel in a motion he’s rehearsed until it’s muscle memory, like breathing. The suit tonight is a cage disguised as couture—silver-thread embroidery, sharp shoulders, silk sleeves brushing cool against his wrists. Editors will write about how it frames him like marble, like ice.

None of them will mention that his collar is choking him, or that the flashes feel like staring into the sun until your retinas beg for mercy. They don’t care if he goes blind, so long as the photos look artsy.

He knows what they want from him: to be unobtainable. A figure to admire but never touch. And so, his eyes stay cold, his mouth still, until the cameras stutter quiet and he can finally turn away.

The ballroom swallows him in noise. Music thuds low, champagne glasses clink like distant bells. Too many perfumes, too much cologne layered into one heavy fog—amber, oud, powder florals, each one desperate to prove it’s the strongest. He swears he can taste Dior clogging his sinuses.

He slides into a circle of brand executives. Bows. Smiles, sharp but small. Murmurs the right words: yes, the campaign was an honour; yes, the fabrics were extraordinary; yes, he’d love to collaborate again. They beam at him like he’s a painting brought to life.

And Nani plays his role. Calm. Polite. A flick of sharp humour here and there—just enough to make them laugh, not enough to give himself away. Outwardly marble. He’s already chewing the inside of his cheek to stop from saying, please, for the love of gods, stop repeating the word “synergy.”

Someone tells him, “You make coldness look warm,” and he nearly snorts champagne up his nose. Instead, he hums like he’s flattered, while his brain supplies, Yes, and you make sycophancy look exhausting.

Another pats his shoulder and says, “We must work together again soon,” in the same tone you’d use for a dentist appointment. Nani nods politely while thinking, please gods no, not unless prison orange becomes the new black.

Another handshake. Another empty compliment. Another person who doesn’t see him, only the reflection of their own campaign budget in his cheekbones.

He lets himself be pulled from one conversation to the next, each one as hollow as the champagne flutes they clutch. There’s the one who thinks “minimalism” means cutting costs, the one whose tie looks like it crawled out of a bargain bin, the one who still calls TikTok “that young people’s thing.”

His smile stiffens. His temples ache. His patience frays thinner and thinner, like silk dragged over glass.

He can feel the battery draining from his chest in real time, ticking lower—lower—until the warning buzz settles at the base of his skull. 

Ten percent remaining. Find a charger or kill a man. Whichever comes first.

Five percent remaining. One more handshake and he’ll either bite someone or fake his own death behind the ice sculpture.

And, as always, Sky is here too. Of course. Because the universe loves a cliché. Always opposite. Always just far enough that their paths never quite cross, like fate enjoys the slow-burn tease of dangling him over a cliff.

Nani doesn’t even have to look—he knows where Sky is by the gravitational shift in the room. The laughter drifting louder in that direction. Golden-boy gravity. The centre of attention. Golden-boy gravity. Mr. Angel himself, probably grinning like he invented sunlight.

Nani keeps his eyes away. He knows better. He won’t be caught staring again. Not like last time. One mistake was enough. 

Once is curiosity, twice is confession.

Another compliment, another laugh too bright, another photographer begging for just one more shot—and that’s enough. The pulse at the back of his head sharpens into a blade.

One more flashbulb and I’ll snap someone’s camera in half.

He bows, excuses himself smoothly, and slips down a quieter hall. The hush hits him like balm. Finally, silence. Or at least the absence of capitalism shouting in sequins.

It’s funny, in a bitter way. An introvert who chose a career that thrives on exposure. Who spends his life pretending noise and eyes don’t scrape him raw. He wonders, sometimes, if that makes him brilliant or just foolish.

Spoiler: probably both. Congratulations, Nani, you’ve become the patron saint of bad decisions in couture.

At the end of the hall, glass doors gleam. A balcony. Perfect.

He pushes them open and steps into the humid night.

Heat clings instantly, heavy and sticky against the skin revealed at his collar. A sheen beads at his nape, sliding down slow, but it’s still better—better than the air-conditioning chewing ice into his bones. He leans forward against the railing, breathing deep, gaze dropping to the manicured gardens below. The faint scent of frangipani floats up, tangled with city smog.

For the first time all night, his shoulders drop. His jaw unclenches. Just for a moment. Just to feel like himself again, instead of the marble cut-out they all want.

He even laughs softly, remembering that ridiculous compliment: You make coldness look warm. What does that even mean? Is he supposed to be a blanket? A fireplace? A thermos?

He mutters under his breath, “Congratulations on sounding like a fortune cookie.”

And for a few precious seconds, it’s enough.

Until the door clicks open behind him.

Of course. Of course. Of fucking course.

He straightens at once, spine snapping rigid, mask reattaching like a security protocol. He turns—already crafting the polite smile, the deflective line—

And freezes.

Sky Wongravee stands half in, half out of the doorway, his broad frame caught in the spill of golden light from the hall like some cinematic wet dream.

For a beat, they just stare at each other, like deer on opposite ends of a road while a semi barrels towards them.

Of course it’s him. Who else would stumble into Nani’s carefully chosen pocket of solitude?

Sky looks momentarily startled, brows lifted, lips parting like he hadn’t expected to find him there. Then, after a pause:

“I’m sorry,” his voice rumbles, deep but softened around the edges. “I was looking for somewhere to… breathe. Sorry.”

It’s the first time Nani has ever heard him speak to him. And the sound of it—low, warm, earnest—curls somewhere in his chest he absolutely does not want touched.

Something sharp flares up inside him, restless and biting, like the rivalry the world has forced into his veins finally writhing to the surface.

Nani exhales, deliberately slow, and turns his back to the gardens.
“It’s a balcony, not a bedroom. You don’t need to apologise.”

Behind him, Sky snorts. The door clicks shut. Heavy footsteps draw closer—of course he’s staying, because Nani’s life is a tragic comedy—and the air thickens like humidity and bad decisions.

“I was just being polite.”

Nani hums, lips twitching despite himself.
“Then you’re wasting your breath. Politeness doesn’t suit you.”

A pause. Then: “You’ve been studying me long enough to know what suits me?”

Nani almost chokes on air. Audacity Level: Sky Wongravee.

He tilts his head a fraction, just enough to let disdain drip off his voice. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not that interesting.”

“I must be a little interesting,” Sky replies, easy, casual in that infuriating way that makes it impossible to tell if he’s teasing or serious. “You haven’t walked away yet.”

The nerve. The absolute gall.

Nani finally risks a glance, and of course Sky is leaning hip-first against the railing now, midnight velvet suit catching light like spilled ink. His shirt is unbuttoned at the throat, tie missing, as if formality is beneath him.

The scent drifting off him is musky and clean and expensive, the kind of cologne that whispers, I tastefully own a yacht but also rescue stray cats.

Nani snaps his gaze forward again like it'll save him from cardiac arrest.

“I was here first.”

“Territorial?” Sky’s tone dips into amusement. “Didn’t think you’d be the type.”

“Didn’t think you’d be the type to follow people onto balconies,” Nani shoots back. His voice is calm, flat—though his pulse betrays him, drumming unsteady in his throat.

Sky laughs. It’s warm and low and dangerously charming, and it vibrates through the thick air like it belongs there. Like he owns the space between them.

“Maybe I’m just unlucky.”

Or maybe he’s the kind of man who can’t help orbiting too close, Nani thinks darkly. He clenches the railing, knuckles pale. He tells himself it’s irritation. That’s all it is. The media’s poison finally seeping into him. Rivalry turned muscle memory.

The silence thickens again, stretched taut like wire. And then Sky cuts it.

“You accepted Gentle Monster.”

Nani hums, deliberately bland. “I’ve wanted to work with the brand for a while. I didn’t accept it for any other reason.”

Sky shifts—rustling fabric, leather shoes scraping faintly—and when Nani glances, Sky’s already grinning. Of course he is. Dimples flashing like landmines, eyes too bright for this kind of verbal combat.

“Not because you’re desperate to work with me?”

Nani huffs out a humourless laugh, finally turning his head to meet his gaze. “Please. I almost rejected it just because of that.”

Sky’s grin widens, irritatingly smug. “But you didn’t.”

Nani folds his arms, tight, defensive. “Neither did you. You accepted first. So, aren’t you the one desperate to work with me?”

Sky tilts his head, eyes gleaming in the low light. “Maybe I am.”

The words land like a fist to the chest. Nani blinks once, heat crawling up his neck, irritation burning sharper. This man. This ridiculous, golden man with his easy smiles and sharper-than-expected tongue.

He isn’t just what the media paints—warm, puppy-like, sunshine in human form. He’s observant, witty, disarmingly intense. He looks at Nani like he’s pulling him apart piece by piece, and it makes Nani’s skin prickle like he’s under a microscope.

It pisses him off.

He narrows his eyes, voice slipping into a razor’s edge. “Careful. Keep talking like that and people might think you actually like me.”

Sky’s laugh comes bright, unbothered, rolling across the humid night air until it sinks into Nani’s skin like heat. It follows him even as he pushes off the railing and stalks back toward the door, every step meant to be final, decisive.

But his chest is tight. His skin is hot for reasons he refuses to admit. And the sound of that laugh lingers, clinging like smoke.

Maybe he really has made a mistake.
Maybe he has no idea what he’s just gotten himself into.

The makeup chair is a familiar kind of throne.

Not glamorous or comfortable. But a familiar ritual.

And thrones, as history has proven, are rarely built for comfort.

Nani sits still, spine straight, chin lifted to the angle the artist needs. His job here is to be pliant marble: tilt, hold, breathe, don’t flinch when the liner drags across the waterline.

Brushes whisper over his skin. Powder tastes chalky at the back of his throat. Hairspray clouds the air in sharp, chemical bursts. At his fingertips, nail varnish dries under the lamp, silver lacquer gleaming wet before being sealed. Tiny stones are pressed into place, one by one, each detail meticulous, each nail a shard of armour.

He flexes his fingers, admires the glint when they catch the light—razor-sharp, unapologetic. His lips twitch. He likes it.

He always likes when they let him slip between lines—blur, bend, shrug off categories until the word genderless doesn’t feel like a headline, just… him. The trousers, crisp shirts, the cut of jackets sharp as knives. Pair it with silver nails, with the sweep of liner pulling his eyes long, with hair styled to hover between masc and femme.

This is where he lives. Right at the edge of definition.

Androgyny sings. And he loves it.

The room hums around him. Stylists murmuring over fabrics. Assistants ferry racks like sacrificial offerings.

A girl barely out of university stumbles past carrying a box of accessories twice her size. Nani watches her wobble. No one else notices.

She nearly trips over a power cord, and Nani’s hand shoots out before he thinks, steadying the box with practised ease.

“Careful,” he murmurs, tone soft enough that only she hears. “Don’t hurt yourself over sunglasses.”

Because nothing says fashion like a sprained ankle for a pair of overpriced lenses.

Her startled laugh is small, a little breathy. “Thank you, Phi.”

He gives the faintest smile before letting her go. Already, someone else is tugging his collar straight.

He says, “Sorry,” for the movement he made earlier when she’d been smoothing powder down his jaw. He always apologises when he shifts mid-stroke. The artists thank him for it with gentle pats on the shoulder, quick assurances.

Behind the wall of glass, interns dart like minnows. One drops a roll of gaffer tape and dives after it like it’s made of gold. Nani watches, amused.

The poor kid thinks he’s invisible.
He doesn’t know he’s more compelling than half the so-called influencers out there with their hungry eyes and hashtag desperation.

Lin sits nearby, legs crossed, scrolling through her phone with one hand while teasing the stylists with the other. Queen of multitasking. Terror of production schedules.

“You’re spoiling him too much,” she says, laughter bright. “Don’t give him everything he wants, or he’ll never learn gratitude.”

“I’m grateful,” Nani deadpans without missing a beat, eyes closed as liner sweeps his lid. “I just express it through silence and sulking. Very healthy.”

The room chuckles. Even the makeup artist laughs softly, though her brush never wavers.

This is how he is here. Soft smiles, quiet jokes, warmth threaded carefully. He gives it freely to those who work with their hands, who sweat under lights, who never get their names in press releases. With them, he isn’t marble. Not entirely.

But the hum in the air today is sharper. Louder. He knows why.

Because today, for the first time, he and Sky Wongravee will share a frame.

That thought sits heavy in his stomach, like a stone dropped into water. Ripples out, subtle but steady. He doesn’t show it. He doesn’t have to. The staff do it for him—their excitement, their side glances, the way conversation drops a decibel when the door handle clicks.

He doesn’t need to turn to know who it is.

Nani’s eyes flick to the mirror in front of him, and there he is.

Sky Wongravee Nateetorn.

Broad shoulders cutting through the room like a knife, confidence rolling in behind him like expensive cologne. It’s unfair that a man can look like that in just jeans and a T-shirt, walking in as if he owns oxygen.

Their gazes collide in the glass. Sky grins, dimple flashing deep, and Nani’s jaw tightens, molars filing themselves down to powder.

The air stalls. Stylists pause mid-stroke, assistants shuffle racks too carefully, like they’ve all suddenly remembered how fragile silk is. Everyone’s suddenly pretending to be very focused on tasks they were ignoring two minutes ago. But really, they’re listening. Watching. Waiting.

Because here it is: the light and the dark finally breathing the same air. The sun and the moon colliding at last. Fire and gasoline and two contracts’ worth of simmering fan hysteria.

Everyone expects sparks.
Everyone expects hate.

Maybe it’s easier to give them that, Nani thinks. Easier than admitting to the twist in his stomach every time Sky looks at him like—like that.

Sky is ushered into the chair beside him. Too close. Because the gods hate him and proximity is apparently a form of divine punishment now. Nani doesn’t look, doesn’t even twitch an eyelash his direction. He focuses on the brush sweeping across his cheekbone, on the steady hum of conversation resuming—thin, careful, too careful.

But Sky, of course, looks. Sky always looks.

“Morning,” Sky says, like they’re brunching besties and not the twin poles of an industry-manufactured aesthetic war.

His voice carries that lazy rumble that annoys Nani precisely because it doesn’t sound lazy—it’s deliberate. “Didn’t expect you to be here this early. You usually like to make them wait, don’t you?”

The stylist’s brush falters for half a beat at the edge of Nani’s jaw.

In the mirror, Nani tilts his head just so, eyes slicing toward Sky like a blade. “Better early than late. I suppose not everyone can manage that.”

Sky’s grin widens, bright as a weapon. “Was that a jab? That sounded like a jab.”

Nani hums, mouth curling at one corner. “If it was, you’d already be bleeding.”

A muffled laugh escapes from someone across the room. Quickly strangled into silence. Brushes lift again, combs tug, but the energy has shifted—no longer subtle. It thrums in the air, thick and humming, a note too sharp to ignore.

Lin leans back in her chair, one brow raised, lips pressed together like she’s chewing down a smirk. Nani ignores her with all the strength of a man fighting for his life.

He drops his eyes to the clothing racks lined up like soldiers.

His: black. Always black. Lean trousers, a double-breasted jacket sharp enough to cut, sheer organza layered under silk.

Sky’s: white. Tank tops and bone-white wool. Grey contacts waiting in a case to sharpen his gaze.

Black and white.
Devil and angel.

Whoever designed this concept deserves both applause and jail time. In that order.

Nani swallows against the dryness in his throat. He won’t say it—he will never say it—but: it’s genius. They’re not creating tension. They’re bottling it. Distilling something that already simmers between them into imagery you can sell for six figures.

Sky leans back, arms spreading over the chair like he owns it. Like he owns everything. And when Nani looks up again, he’s already watching him. Again. Chin tipped. Eyes gleaming.

Nani exhales hard through his nose. Heat licks up his neck, irritation wrapping around him like static. He calls it irritation because calling it anything else would be treason.

Sky’s grin sharpens. “Careful, Nani. If you look at me like that any harder, people might think you like me.”

The brush freezes on Nani’s cheekbone.

He lets the silence stretch just long enough to sting before he drawls, voice dripping with disdain: “If I liked you, Wongravee, I’d have myself checked for brain damage.”

Lin coughs to cover her laugh. A stylist drops a comb. The floor hums with the effort of everyone pretending to be professional.

Sky chuckles, unbothered, dimples sinking deeper. But Nani sees it, in his eyes—the glint he showed on the balcony. That intensity.

Not just sunshine. Something sharper, darker, a hidden intent hiding behind the golden-boy mask.

Something that knows how to look at Nani like he’s not just a devil—but a puzzle. A challenge. A mirror with teeth.

It digs under Nani’s skin, crawls along his spine.

His stomach twists. His pulse thuds. He tells himself it’s annoyance. He tells himself it’s hate. He tells himself he believes it.

But the hum in the room says otherwise.

The finishing touches are quiet. A dab of highlighter along his cheekbone. A final press of translucent powder to cut shine. His jacket is adjusted again—lapels sharp, shoulders squared, collar-stiff and perfect.

He doesn’t need a mirror to know he looks exactly how they want him: dangerous. Sharp. Not a man, not a woman, but something poised in-between and above. Something cut from a gods cheekbone and dressed in couture.

The kind of beauty that makes people stare too long and then feel guilty about it.

He lets them adjust him. Doesn’t flinch when someone tugs gently at his sleeve to steam a wrinkle. Nods when the photographer’s assistant calls his name and motions toward set.

Behind him, Sky stands too, the creak of leather under his jacket cutting into Nani’s spine like a warning shot.

Here we go.

The set is all stark contrasts—matte black floors, white cyclorama walls that curve underfoot like infinity. Light already bending and bouncing before the first flash. Even the air feels tight. Anticipatory. Like the walls know something’s about to snap.

The photographer greets them both with a wide smile and that practiced calm of a man used to managing egos and equipment malfunctions. He bows.

Nani returns it just as smoothly, murmurs a soft, “Thank you for having me.”

And of course, he catches it.

Sky’s eyes. Watching him.

Always watching him.

Like Nani’s just said something particularly sweet and Sky doesn’t know what to do with it.

He wants to tell him to fuck off. Just for the way he’s looking. Just for existing in his periphery with that grin, that presence, that scent that still somehow clings to Nani’s lungs from the makeup chair.

The photographer gestures toward their marks. “We’ll keep the first concept clean—opposing, distance, balance. Let’s not meet the tension too early.”

Too late, Nani thinks dryly, stepping onto the mark on the floor.

He keeps his gaze forward, shoulders drawn back. Feels the weight of the jacket hug his ribs. The seams pull just slightly when he breathes too deeply. He doesn’t need to check—he knows Sky is across from him, matching stance, white tank stretched across his chest, eyes probably already fixed.

They’re not even close. A full metre between them. Maybe more. But Nani feels it.
Feels him.

Like gravity. Like heat. Like something planetary.
Like nausea. But attractive.

The camera clicks.

Flash. Flash.

He sinks into the mask, the performance. Lets his mouth fall into neutrality, lets his eyes narrow just enough to smoulder. It’s not hard. He’s done it a thousand times.

But this time—this fucking time—his body keeps tracking to the right. Like there’s a string tied between his sternum and the idiot across from him.
Like Sky has become some kind of magnet and Nani is iron filings and suffering.

And the worst part?
The most infuriating, gall-inducing, sanity-eroding part?

They move in sync.

Not because they’re trying. That would be easier to forgive. But because they just—do. 

When Nani tilts his jaw, Sky mirrors with a shift of his shoulders. When Nani turns slightly away from camera, Sky angles just enough to match.

Opposing. Reflecting. Balancing.

Like some divine joke is being told at his expense.

He wants to scream.

Or kiss him.

Or shove him into a lighting rig and walk away dramatically.

Hard to tell. Honestly, it’s getting blurry.

Between flashes, they shift. And then—

“You sure you’re not just mad you’re not centre frame?” Sky murmurs, voice pitched low enough that only Nani can hear it.

Of course. Because he can’t go two minutes without poking the bear. Or in this case, the devil in high tailoring.

Nani’s head turns slowly. Deliberate. Dangerous. A warning label in motion.

“Darling,” he says, voice cool as cut glass, “if I wanted to be centre, you wouldn’t be standing here.”

Click. Flash. The camera loves it.

Sky grins. “So you do admit I’m in your way.”

Nani doesn’t even blink. “No. I admit you’re a prop.”

A stylist gasps softly from off to the side. The photographer shuffles his footing, muttering something about “incredible chemistry” under his breath.

Sky’s grin turns cocky. Smug. That smugness should be illegal. “A prop who’s already had more solo covers this year than you.”

Nani’s jaw ticks. Oh, he did not just—

“I wasn’t aware shirtless counted as concept work,” he says, sweet as poison.

Flash. Flash.

He doesn’t look at Sky, but he feels the way he laughs—quiet, throaty, like it’s private between them. It scrapes along Nani’s nerves like velvet and sandpaper all at once.

The poses change. Nani moves forward a fraction, then back. Sky mirrors again. A dance of distance.

No one tells them how to interact. They don’t have to. Everyone on set is holding their breath. Everyone’s pretending not to watch the way Nani’s eyes flick to Sky between takes, the way Sky’s mouth moves before he speaks, like he’s waiting for Nani to react.

There’s heat building. Thick.
Unspoken.
Unacknowledged.

Because hate is easier to explain. Hate is clean.

Whatever this is?
It hums.

This is mess.
This is smoke before fire.
This is what happens when chemistry stops being theoretical.

And Nani’s skin won’t stop buzzing.

The first concept wraps with applause like a heartbeat—sharp, fast, gone.

The moment the final flash fades, Nani steps off set with the kind of precision that almost hides the urge to drag a hand down his face and scream into the nearest velvet backdrop.

Sky veers off the other way. Like they’re magnets reversed again, each needing the space to cool down before they combust.

Stylists swarm in like a pit crew at Fashion Week Grand Prix. Jackets traded, sleeves tugged, collar adjusted, sweat dabbed from the hollow of his throat.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t twitch. Just breathes in through his nose and out through a PR-trained smile.

“Thank you,” he murmurs to the girl blotting behind his ear with a sponge.

She startles a little. Like she wasn’t expecting his voice to come out gentle. Like she’s bracing for ice and gets spring rain instead.

They always do. As if he’s too sharp to bleed kindness.

Lin appears at his side like a summoned demon of sarcasm, presses a chilled water bottle into his palm with the smugness of someone who’s been watching everything.

“You didn’t stab him,” she says. “Proud of you.”

Nani doesn’t look up. “Yet.”

She smirks. “You two are like fire and gasoline.”

“No. We’re like a candle and a gas leak. He walks in and suddenly everything’s a hazard.”

Lin hums, clearly delighted. She lives for this. “You keep telling me you hate him, but your eyes do that twitchy thing every time he breathes.”

“I have allergies.”

“To Sky?”

“To bullshit.”

She laughs under her breath, stepping back as the photographer’s assistant waves them both forward again.

“Alright,” the photographer calls out, voice chipper like he doesn’t know he’s playing with explosives. “Second setup. Closer this time. No touching—yet. Just tension. Let’s feel that rivalry, yeah?”

Rivalry.
Right.
That’s what this is.

Sky’s eyes cut across the room, catching Nani’s instantly. He raises one brow. Something in his grin reads as a challenge.

Oh, fuck all the way off.

Nani glares. If Sky thinks he’s going to rattle him with some cocky little smirk and a gym membership, he can think again.

The new positions are marked with small tape slivers. Nani steps into his spot, the heels of his boots clicking like punctuation on concrete. He doesn’t look as Sky settles into place—just half a breath away. Not touching. But close enough that if either of them moved wrong, the air would snap.

He can smell him.
That same cologne again—clean, masculine, expensive. The kind that smells like sweat and sex if you lean in close enough. Not that Nani plans to.

Obviously.

Obviously.

“Let’s start wide and bring it in slowly,” the photographer calls. “I want heat, not fire—yet.”

Too fucking late, Nani thinks. The buildings already halfway to arson.

The flashes resume. White bursts. Heat from the lights prickling against his skin.
He stares ahead, gaze slicing into the lens. But his whole body is aware of Sky’s presence beside him—broad shoulders, the flex of his chest through that insufferably tight white tank.

He’s even bigger up close. How annoying.

Nani’s eyes flick sideways, just for a second. One fatal second.
Sky’s watching him already.

Of course he is.

“Try not to stare too hard,” Sky murmurs between takes, just for him. “You’ll catch feelings.”

Nani doesn’t hesitate. “The only thing I’m catching is second-hand ego.”

Click. Flash.

Sky chuckles. Low. Rumbling. Like it sits in his chest before it spills out.

The photographer calls for a shift. Nani moves, one step to the side. Sky mirrors without thinking. The space between them shortens. Half a breath now.

The room quiets. Everyone’s watching. Pretending not to. Holding their collective breath like witnesses to a car crash in slow motion.

“Look at each other,” the photographer says. “No smiling. I want hate. I want heat.”

Nani turns. Their eyes meet.
The effect is… immediate.

Sky’s gaze pins him. Hungry. Calm. Way too calm.

“You always this tense, or is it just when I’m around?” Sky says under his breath.

Nani doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. His voice is syrupy sharp. “I’m just allergic to cheap cologne.”

Sky’s dimple appears. “It’s Tom Ford.”

“That explains the headache.”

Another flash. Another camera click. The assistants are whispering now. The air is thick with it. Everyone can feel it—how the poses are barely held back from something more feral. More desperate.

“Closer,” the photographer urges. “One step. Hold it there.”

Nani steps. Sky does too. They’re toe to toe now. No touching—but gods, it’s close. Close enough that Nani can feel the heat of Sky’s skin through the thin layer of fabric between them.

He inhales, and it’s a mistake. Sky smells like heat and spice and something else Nani doesn’t want to put a name to.

His stomach coils.

“Look at him like you hate him,” the photographer says. “Like you’d bite if you were allowed.”

Sky grins. “You bite, Hirunkit?”

Nani’s mouth twitches. His reply is air-thin, cutting: “Only when provoked, Wongravee.”

Sky’s voice drops, slow and molten: “And am I provoking you?”

“You’ve been provoking me since you opened your mouth.”

Flash. Flash.

This set should be illegal.

The energy is thick. Sticky. Cloying. Like honey in heat. Like molasses crawling over a live wire.

Then—
“Touch his collar. Just the collar,” the photographer says.

Sky reaches. Two fingers, smooth and slow, brushing the edge of Nani’s jacket. Barely there. But it’s there.

Nani’s breath catches in his throat, masked instantly behind narrowed eyes and pure spite.

It’s nothing. A touch. A fingertip. Who fucking cares.
Except his skin burns beneath it. Except his stomach flips.

Except his brain is now hosting a fucking fire drill.

He forces his weight into one hip, tilts his head, bares his teeth in something that could be a smirk or a snarl.

Weaponized posture. Performance under pressure.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” he hisses.

Sky leans in. Voice barely audible. “Can you blame me?”

Flash. Flash.

The camera loves it.

Too bad Nani’s central nervous system does not.

They move through more poses. Eye contact, shifting angles, Sky’s hand brushing the back of his shoulder, the edge of his sleeve.
Each time they touch, it gets worse. Louder. Hotter.

Nani’s skin aches. His pulse won’t slow. His thoughts spiral and circle and try to land on something like hate. But hate doesn’t usually feel like your knees want to give out.

“Try to look more into it,” Sky murmurs after one shot, voice dipped in teasing heat.

“I’m trying not to look nauseous,” Nani snaps.

“Could’ve fooled me with the way you keep checking me out.”

Nani scoffs. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve seen mannequins with more depth.”

Sky grins again. “You’re obsessed with me.”

“And you’re delusional.”

They’re too close. Too hot. Too seen.
And still—
Still—
Nani doesn’t pull back.

He glares instead. Eyes on fire. Pulse in his throat. Skin thrumming.

And he hates that the photographer’s right.
They are explosive.
Even Nani can’t deny that now.

He fucking hates how well they work together—
How Sky shifts to match him, effortlessly.
How he lets Nani lead, lets him dictate the frame.
Like he knows how much Nani craves control.
How he lives for owning the concept, shaping it, bending it to his will.

How he needs to mould the emotions, direct every breath and line and look.

And Sky just—falls into step. Like it’s instinct. Like it’s easy.
Like they’ve done this before,

Like he was built to balance him.

They’re ushered off set again, jackets peeled off, glasses are swapped. Layers stripped down to the bone. Nani stands still, arms lifted obediently as a stylist smooths his tank top flat against his ribs, fingers adjusting the curve of the fabric at his waist. His skin’s flushed, whether from heat or adrenaline he can’t say.

He tells himself it’s the lights.

Or the stress.

Or Sky.

Definitely the lights.

His tank top clings in places it shouldn’t. The room’s too warm. Or maybe it’s him.

Great. Let’s add spontaneous combustion to the list of things going wrong with his day.

Sky’s voice echoes somewhere to his right, low and light, laughing at something an assistant says.

Nani doesn’t look. He doesn’t have to. His entire body is attuned to where Sky is in space, like a goddamn homing beacon. It’s pathetic.

He runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek. If the air weren’t so thick, he might scream. Or evaporate. Or pass out just to reset his entire emotional landscape.

Lin reappears at his side with another bottle of water. “You’re breathing weird,” she says.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, cracking the seal of the bottle and taking a long sip like hydration might cure the way his blood is vibrating.

Spoiler: it’s doesn’t.

She doesn’t move. Just gives him that look. “You’re wound tighter than a wire.”

“I’m being paid to look like I want to murder him,” Nani says. “Consider this method acting.”

Lin hums, clearly unconvinced. “Funny how much murder looks like foreplay with you two.”

Nani stares straight ahead. “We are enemies,” he reminds her.

“Sure,” she replies, amused. “And I’m the Queen of England.”

Fantastic. At this rate he’ll be knighted for his suffering.

Before he can argue, the photographer waves them forward again, already grinning like he knows he’s about to set something on fire and call it art.

“Alright,” the man says, bouncing on his heels. “Let’s really turn it up. Full body contact. Let it simmer. I want tension, like you’re seconds away from destroying each other or—well, whatever else comes after that.”

Nani blinks. Tries to ignore the way his skin tightens at the word contact.

He steps onto his mark again.

And so does Sky.

This time, when they meet eyes, there’s no smirking. Not yet. Just heat.
Unspoken. Undeniable. Inescapable.

“You gonna behave this time?” Sky murmurs as he steps close, voice pitched for his ears alone.

Nani’s response is ice-dipped steel. “Not if you keep breathing near me.”

Sky smiles. That smile. Like he’s already won.

Smug. Unbothered. Impossible.

“Then I’m definitely not stopping.”

Nani barely swallows a snarl. The photographer doesn’t even have to direct them anymore. Their bodies fall into shape naturally—effortless antagonism. Controlled chaos.

Sky’s hand lands on Nani’s shoulder like he owns it. Nani shifts closer, tilts his jaw up, eyes burning holes into the space between them.

It’s chemistry multiplied by pressure. By proximity. By years of distance finally closing in.

And they feel it.

They all feel it.

The assistants have stopped whispering. The room is heavy with it, humid with it, like tension has its own gravity and they’re the black hole at the centre.

“Beautiful,” the photographer breathes. “More. Closer.”

Their hips nearly brush. Sky’s breath ghosts against Nani’s cheek. Every shift, every drag of muscle and flex of fabric, lights Nani’s nerves like wires under flame.

Sky’s bicep brushes his chest—bare, flexed, intentional—and Nani can feel the shape of him, heat radiating off skin like a taunt. His jaw clenches.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he growls under his breath.

Sky tilts his head, leans in. “You’re not?”

“I’m trying not to throw up.”

Sky’s smile curves, sly and sharp. “Is that what your pupils are doing? Vomiting?”

“Maybe it’s disgust. Maybe you just smell that bad.”

“Sure. Blame the cologne. Not the fact you keep looking at my mouth.”

Nani snaps his gaze away, heat flooding through his chest, his neck, down his spine.
Fuck. Fuck, he had been looking.

They shift again. Another pose. Another direction. Sky’s hand finds his waist—flat, strong, warm through the thin fabric.

And Nani freezes for half a beat.
Because the heat of that hand—just there, firm and anchoring—rips through him like lightning.
Like Sky could just hold him in place and Nani would let him.

He crushes the shiver.
Buries it.
Files it away under absolutely fucking not.

He’s just hot. That’s it. Nani’s seen hot before. He’s had hot before.

This is nothing. This is annoyance. This is what happens when you trap two beautiful people in a room and tell them to fight with their faces.

Sky’s thumb brushes against the curve of his waist again. Slow. Like a test. Like he knows.

“You’re tense,” Sky murmurs.

“You’re imaging things,” Nani hisses.

Sky leans in. “Tell that to your heart rate.”

The heat becomes unbearable.

Pose after pose. Direction after direction. Every touch a new sin. Sky’s hand on his lower back. Nani’s palm on Sky’s chest, feeling muscle jump beneath. His thigh against Sky’s knee. Breath against his jaw.

Eye contact so long and unbroken it stops being rivalry and becomes threat.

Or promise.

His thoughts are spiralling. Rapid-fire and unhelpful.
Abort. Evacuate. Cease and fucking desist.

Nani’s mask fractures.

And then Sky whispers something—too low, too smug, too much—right against his ear.

“Bet you’ll dream about this.”

You son of a fucking—

And Nani snaps.

His hand lands at Sky’s throat—not squeezing, not hard, but there—just enough to make Sky freeze. His other hand clutches at Sky’s shoulder, silver nails gleaming against golden skin, points scraping skin.

Sky’s pupils blow wide. His lips part. His hands tighten around Nani’s hips, pulling him flush, dragging them together until the heat is full-body, until there’s no space left to lie in.

The photographer gasps. “Hold that. Hold—don’t move!”

Flashes erupt like fireworks. Voices rise. Assistants whisper furiously behind cupped hands.

Nani doesn’t hear any of it.  His eyes are ringing with rage. Or the sheer idiocy of his own life choices.

He’s staring up at Sky, fire behind his eyes, his grip steady, grounding. Dominant.

Sky licks his lips. “Knew you wanted to touch me.”

“I want to throttle you,” Nani breathes.

Nani’s brain goes full static.
He considers homicide.
He considers pulling back.

He chooses violence.

“You can do both.” Sky whispers.

“Fuck off.”

“You first.”

The camera keeps clicking.

And still, Nani holds him.

And Sky lets him.

And gods help him, Nani doesn’t let go.

The last few poses are a blur of flash and touch and heat-soaked silence.

Their bodies barely part anymore. They’ve stopped following direction because their own instincts are louder. Every shift is a battle. Every pose feels like sex or violence—sometimes both.

At one point, Sky turns his head, their noses brushing. Nani doesn’t flinch. He snarls. Sky smirks.

It’s obscene.
They’re obscene.
This whole thing is a goddamn threat to national stability.

They’re either about to murder each other or fuck against the backdrop.

Even Nani doesn’t know which.

The photographer calls out one final setup.

Sky steps behind him. The difference in size is immediate—felt. Nani is all lean precision, carved lines and deliberate angles. Sky is heat and breadth, a fucking furnace in a tank top. He brackets Nani’s body like he was engineered to.

One of Nani’s hands reaches back, threading through Sky’s hair, gripping at the nape. Their heads tilt toward one another like gravity’s taken over—Nani’s throat bare, Sky’s mouth barely inches from it.

The shot is meant to look like threat. It does. But it also looks like—

Fuck. Intimacy.

Nani’s lip curls. Sky’s smirk widens.

Of course it does.
Of course he smirks, the smug bastard.
Like he’s got a cheat code to Nani’s central nervous system.

And gods, he feels solid behind him. Nani can feel the ridges of abs through the thin cotton of his own tank top, the warmth of Sky’s chest pressing in just enough to make him ache. The hard line of his thighs against the backs of Nani’s.

He shifts. Sky mirrors, moving closer.

Fucking hell. Why does Nani have a thing for gym rats? This gym rat.

Why does this gym rat have to be the exact brand of smiling, dimpled, insufferably hot apocalypse that Nani cannot handle?
This isn’t fair. He should be getting hazard pay. Or a priest. Or at least a wall to bang his head against.

This smiling, infuriating, dimpled demon of a man.

Then Sky leans down and says it—low, quiet, like a sin.

“You’re gorgeous.”

No tease. No smirk. No punchline.

Just honest.

And Nani short-circuits. Critical system failure.

It lands like a punch to the ribs. Like Sky’s reached inside him and found the one wire he shouldn’t pull.

Gorgeous.

Fuck you.
Fuck you for saying it like you mean it.

Nani blinks once. Twice.

Don’t cry. Don’t breathe. Don’t let your knees do that thing where they betray you completely.

Then the photographer is yelling, “That’s a wrap!” and Sky is already stepping back, hands lifting off him like he’s been scorched.

The absence is immediate. Violent. Nani sways on instinct, like his body didn’t get the memo the touch was over.

He wants to grab Sky by the back of the neck and snarl in his face. Wants to claw that look off his mouth, force the smirk back into something manageable. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he breathes. Sharp. Controlled.

He straightens.

Turns on his heel.

Starts his rounds, ignoring Sky like his life depends on it.

Thank the photographer. Thank the lighting crew. Thank the stylists, the interns, the girl who fetched water for three hours without complaint. He makes sure to find the assistant who had trouble adjusting his collar earlier and tells her she did great.

Because that is who he is. That is who he knows how to be.

Not the person whose skin still burns from the weight of Sky’s hand.

He storms off toward wardrobe, face like stone, muttering apologies when someone stumbles out of his way too fast. He peels the tank top over his head once he’s inside, throws it onto the hanger, shoves his limbs into civilian clothes with far more aggression than necessary.

His brain is screaming. His body is still pulsing. His spine is molten.

He’s fine.

Sky Wongravee is just…
…charming. And irritating. And stupidly hot. And smug. And way too close and touchy and solid and why did he have to say that—

Gorgeous.

Nani drags a hand down his face.

“Fuck you.”

(He might cry. Or punch a wall. Or both.)

He moves to the makeup room to grab his things. Lin’s not there, probably deep in a post-shoot discussion somewhere. The room is quiet. Too quiet. His reflection stares back at him in the mirror like it knows something he doesn’t.

He grabs a makeup wipe and scrubs at his face like it’s done something to offend him. Powder smears, liner flakes. Mascara clings like a grudge. Tries to pretend he isn’t still vibrating under his skin.

Wipes harder when he realises the vibration is heat, not rage.

He’s just hot. Who cares. I’ve fucked hotter. I’ve walked away from hotter. I’ve ghosted hotter with a thank you and a grab voucher.

He’s just big and smug and has arms like fucking gods.

Nani throws the wipe in the bin.

Grabs his bag.

Shoulders it like it might weigh him back down to earth.

He steps toward the hallway, determined to find Lin, escape, and never speak to Sky Wongravee again.

Let the internet have the rivalry. Let the fans scream. Let the brands beg. He’ll ghost the whole industry if he has to.

He’ll start a mushroom farm. In the woods. Alone.
Anything but this.

But apparently fate’s still laughing its ass off at him, because as he rounds the corner—

Smack.

Warm hands land at his waist. Nani’s hands fly out, catching something solid—biceps. Fucking slabs of muscle. His feet slip for half a second, and he’s caught. Of course he’s caught. Because this is a rom-com from hell.

He looks up.

Sky is grinning down at him.

“Can’t keep your hands off me now?” he says, too smug, too close.

Nani snarls, shoving him back. “Fuck you.”

Sky doesn’t budge far. Still too close. Still violating every known safe distance regulation. “Is that an invitation?”

The heat pulses up Nani’s spine like lava. His heart spikes. And he doesn’t realise he’s backing up until his lower back hits the vanity behind him.

Sky follows.

Slow. Intentional. The kind of move that says I know what I’m doing.

His hands land on the counter, one on either side of Nani’s hips. Bracketing him.
Blocking him in.

Sky leans in, and they’re eye-level now. His grin is fire. Nani’s mouth goes so dry he might need medical attention.

“Your pulse is insane right now,” Sky says.

“Because I’m imagining slitting your throat.”

“You always look at potential lovers like this?”

“I will knock your teeth out.”

Sky chuckles, warm and rumbling. “Bet you’ll kiss me after.”

“I’d rather tongue a blender.”

“I can put your tongue to better uses, gorgeous.”

Nani gasps. Gasps. Audibly. Like a fucking heroine in a lakorn.

It escapes before he can clamp down on it, and Sky’s eyes gleam like victory.

Fucking hell.

He can feel Sky’s body heat licking at his skin, can smell his goddamn cologne again, can see the smugness in his fucking dilated pupils.

Nani’s entire body is a red-alert siren.
His skin is molten. His jaw is locked. His soul has left the building.

He hates this.
He hates him.
He wants to—

“I’m not into dumbasses,” he snaps. “But I’ll make an exception if you shut the fuck up.”

Sky tilts his head, that smirk full of teeth. Unholy. “You just want me to use my mouth for something else.”

That’s it. That’s fucking it.

Nani shoves him back, hard. Sky lets him, laughing like a lunatic. Their shoulders knock as Nani brushes past, practically sparking with rage.

He doesn’t look back.

But his body?
Still humming.
Still burning.
Still wanting.

God fucking damn it.

The Pilates studio smells like eucalyptus and betrayal.

Nani glares up at the ceiling, one leg bent at an unnatural angle, resistance band pulled taut between trembling thighs. His core is on fire, his shoulders ache, and Sky fucking Wongravee is still in his head.

It’s been days.

Days.

And yet every time he closes his eyes, he’s still back in that goddamn photoshoot—Sky’s hand curling around his waist like it belonged there, Sky’s breath fanning hot across his neck, that cocky smirk carved across his face like a sin made flesh.

Fuck.

Fuck Sky Wongravee.

He’d run him over with his car before he’d ever willingly share oxygen with him again.

(He doesn’t even own a fucking car.)

"You're thinking about him again, aren’t you?" Fourth says from the mat beside him, breath perfectly steady because he’s a freak of nature and actually enjoys this shit.

Nani doesn’t dignify it with a response. His dignity is already hanging on by a thread and a resistance band.

“You’ve got that whole ‘I hate him but I can’t stop picturing his biceps’ look on your face.”

Nani groans, band snapping off his thighs with a snap, nearly slapping his own ass. Pilates has chosen violence today.

“I hate you.”

Fourth just snickers. “Come on. Spill. What happened on that shoot? You came back all... twitchy. Like a cat who saw god.”

“I am not twitchy,” Nani mutters.

“You are so twitchy. You’ve been reorganising your skincare shelf for two days like it personally wronged you. I’m scared to sneeze in your apartment.”

Nani rolls his eyes so hard he nearly sprains a retina. “There’s nothing to tell. We shot. We left. That’s it.”

“Oh my gods. He rawdogged your aura, didn’t he?”

Nani chokes on air.

Fourth rolls onto his side, grinning like a gremlin. “C’mon, show me the photos. I know you’ve got them. I won’t leak. I’ll just ogle quietly in the safety of your trust.”

“They’re not out yet.”

“But you’ve seen them.”

“I’m under NDA until 2p.m. today.”

Fourth pouts. “I’m under BFF immunity. Show me. I’ll make popcorn. Or protein shakes. Something aesthetic.”

Nani just flips him off and stretches harder into the twist, trying to exorcise the ghost of Sky’s fucking cologne from his sinuses. The man smelled like warm skin and bergamot and bad decisions. And apparently Nani’s brain had decided to keep the memory of that scent filed under important.

His core screams. Good. Pain is distraction. Pain doesn’t flirt with you between camera flashes. Pain doesn’t have biceps and traps you can sink your teeth into.

They finish up eventually, both sliding into seated stretches along the far wall, chests heaving, sweat beading along their hairlines. Nani’s head drops back against the wall, eyes closed, breathing through his nose like peace is an option.

For five whole seconds, the world is quiet.

Then Fourth gasps like he’s just witnessed the birth of Christ.

“What,” Nani says, monotone.

“Oh my gods.”

“Fourth—”

“YOU’VE BROKEN THE FUCKING INTERNET.”

Nani startles upright, eyes snapping open.

Fourth is staring at his phone like it’s possessed, mouth open, fingers trembling like he’s holding the Holy Grail. “Holy shit. You’ve broken me.”

Nani leans over. Twitter. Of course it’s Twitter. The shoot has been released.

Fourth’s entire timeline is a digital riot—photo after photo after photo of him and Sky. Poses that feel burned into his bones.

Sky’s hand on his waist.
His hand in Sky’s hair.
That pose where he had Sky by the throat.
The one where Sky was pressed behind him, all towering muscle and heat and smirk.

“Oh fuck me,” Nani breathes.

Fourth: “You want me to leave the room?”

Nani shoves him. “Give me your phone.”

Fourth grasps it tighter and flops onto his back with a groan. “You need to read these tweets. People are losing it. Like… spiritually.”

Nani grabs his phone like it’s a loaded weapon and unlocks it with shaking fingers, thumb jittery on the screen. He’s not even fully dry yet—sweat still cooling on his neck, his sports tank clinging to his back—but none of that matters now.

Because the photos are out.

He’d seen them, of course. Approved them. Knew exactly what angles were chosen. Knew which poses were locked in. But seeing them live, splashed across the internet in all their glossy, HD thirst-trap insanity—that’s a different kind of horror.

Every photo looks too much. Too close. Too real. Heat and tension and something that has no name carved into the spaces between them.

The tweet count is multiplying in real time, like a fucking biblical plague.
His mentions are a fever dream—edits, fan theories, slow-motion gifs set to sultry R&B.
People are writing fanfiction already. He sees one titled “Rival Heat” and lets out a sound of despair.

The pictures are everywhere.

The one where Nani has Sky by the throat, eyes locked like they’re about to kiss or kill.

The one with Sky’s hand gripping his waist, pulling him back into his broad chest like he owns him.

The one where Sky’s mouth is hovering by Nani’s neck like he’s deciding whether to breathe there or bite.

The way Sky’s head is bent down and Nani’s head is thrown back in that pose—that feral, gorgeous snarl on Nani’s face—like he’s welcoming destruction.

And the comments—

“this isn’t enemies… this is foreplay”
“who let this go to print?? this is a crime scene.”
“#SkyNani is trending. someone sedate me.”
“they look like they just finished fucking OR are about to start fighting and idk which i prefer.”
“I CANNOT BREATHE THEY’RE SO—THE TENSION—HELP.”
“This isn’t tension. This is the prelude to moaning.”
“Enemies?? Baby they’re one thrust away from fucking on set.”
“They look like they just hate-fucked in the green room and came back for more.”
“Is this a promo or an audition for a porno?”
“Forget ‘Sun vs Moon’ — this is DOM vs BRAT and I’m watching without blinking.”
“I’m just a humble servant in the church of their mutual destruction.” 

Hashtag: #SkyNani.
Trending #1 in Thailand.
#3 worldwide.

Their fucking fan clubs are losing their minds.

@KotaeKitty: “idk what I was excepting from their first shoot together, but it wasn’t pure SIN HELLO”
@MySkyIsCloudy: “@Kotaessss was onto something with their secret lovers theory”
@KotaeHearts: “Nani was not acting in those photos. Look at his EYES. He’s POSSESSED.”
@NanisNails: “Sky touched his waist like it belonged to him and Nani LET HIM. I’m SOBBING.”
@CloudyWithASky: “Can we all agree Sky’s hand placement is ILLEGAL???
@SkyyyyCloudy: “When Nani’s hand hit Sky’s neck? I stopped breathing. Forever.” 

The comments are chaos. The gifs are worse.
One zoomed-in loop of Nani’s jaw clenching while Sky smirks over his shoulder, from behind the scenes, is circulating with the caption: “this is enemies to lovers to enemies with benefits to lovers again”

Nani blacks out for half a second.

Just a full system reboot. Brain gone, soul screaming, eyeballs processing light but not hope.

Nani stares. “They’re fucking shipping us?!”

It comes out like a death sentence. Like a curse laid upon a bloodline. Like someone just told him he’s the main character in a romantic enemies-to-lovers slow burn… and it’s not fiction.

Fourth bites his fist, eyes wild. “Fuck, I think I am too.”

“FOURTH.” His voice cracks on the octave. He sounds like a man betrayed by every deity he’s ever worshipped.

“What? Look at this one. LOOK. AT. THIS. ONE.” He zooms into the shot of Sky behind him. “You look like you want him to eat you. For hours.”

And unfortunately? He does.
He looks like he wants Sky to pin him to a surface and make decisions about his life.
It’s the most humiliating thing he’s ever seen.

“I want him to choke.”

“He looks like he happily would.”

Nani slams his phone face down. “I hate him.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“I HATE him,” Nani snarls, like it’s a prayer. “I hate his smirk. I hate his muscles. I hate that he has traps like a fucking demigod.”

“You hate that he bent down and looked at you like dessert.”

“I hate that his hands are so big.”

“You want to see if he can palm your whole ass.”

“I want to stab him in the kidney.” His tone is earnest. Devastated. Deranged. A man on the brink of a horny-induced collapse.

Fourth wheezes like he’s having an asthma attack. “You want to get ruined.”

Nani glares daggers. “I want him six feet under. And if I have to ride him into the dirt to do it, fine.”

“Oh my gods, Nani.”

“I hate how warm his hands were. I hate how he smelled. I hate that he had the audacity to call me gorgeous and then walk off like he hadn’t just set my entire endocrine system on fire.”

Fourth, wheezing: “That’s poetry. I’m gonna quote that on Tumblr.”

Nani makes a strangled noise and throws his towel at Fourth’s head. It misses. The internet still exists.

He grabs his water bottle instead, chugs half of it, and still can’t cool down. Not his body. Not his brain.

Because it’s not just the internet.
It’s him.

It’s the memory of how Sky felt behind him—solid and broad and so fucking big that Nani had felt wrapped, bracketed, possessed.

It’s the phantom press of those massive hands on his waist.
The way Sky’s breath felt against his ear.
The smug whisper of “gorgeous”—no teasing, no sarcasm, just heat—and how it wrecked him.
How he still feels it, stupid and hot and deep in his belly.

“Why does he have to smell good?” Nani mutters to himself. “Why do his eyes do that thing—how do contacts do that. I hope he trips over his own biceps and faceplants.”

Fourth is wheezing beside him, tears in his eyes, completely useless. “You are so in denial. Like, Olympic level. This is elite-tier delusion. I’m proud.”

Nani groans, yanks his towel over his face. “I am not into him. He pisses me off.”

“Sure, babe. You keep telling yourself that. Meanwhile the rest of the world is writing fanfiction. And you actually hope he bends you over a counter and makes you believe in astrology.”

“I never want to see him again.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Ever.”

“Sure.”

Fourth is nearly on the floor now, curled like a shrimp, scrolling Twitter with the face of someone watching gods descend from Olympus. “Can I watch when you two fuck?”

Nani hurls his phone into his gym bag like it personally betrayed him. “You can watch me fucking kill him.”

Fourth pouts. “I’d rather watch him break your back. Spiritually. Emotionally. Physically.”

“I’m never seeing him again.”

“He’s probably texting your manager right now.”

“I never want to share a camera with that smiling demon again.”

“He’s gonna be the top-billed guest at every fashion event for the next six months.”

“I will die first.”

“You’re trending with him right now.”

“Then I’ll take Twitter with me.”

Fourth hums, scrolling again. “It’s too late. You’re already married. Someone on TikTok officiated it.”

Nani screams into his towel.

Because deep down—in his bones, in the curve of his spine where memory still clings, where heat still pulses like Sky’s hand is still there—he knows.

This isn’t over.
This isn’t done.
Sky Wongravee isn’t just a one-time photoshoot.
He’s a problem.
A recurring arc.
A slow burn with gasoline for blood.

And Nani?

He is so incredibly fucked.