Chapter Text
CHAPTER 1
He wasn’t dazzlingly handsome or extraordinarily beautiful, but he had the kind of face you’d never grow tired of looking at.The elevator chimed softly as it reached his floor. Peach walked to his unit, tapped his card against the smart lock, and pushed the door open when he heard the click.
His condo was a standard studio—not very big, but just right for one person. The layout divided the space into a living area and a bedroom, with a small kitchen on one side and a bathroom on the other. At the end, there was a tiny balcony, just big enough for a washing machine, a drying rack, and a few small plants that added a touch of green to the space.
Peach’s room was simple and understated, just like him. Peach organized his things; he prided himself on being quite tidy, though his version of "organized" often made sense only to him. After putting everything in place, watering his plants, and grabbing something from the fridge to prevent his stomach from growling later, he headed to his closet to pick an outfit for the night. Sliding open the closet door, he was met with his usual collection of plain, solid-colored T-shirts in dark shades and a row of well-fitted jeans. He decided to stick with the same pair of jeans he was already wearing and swapped his casual T-shirt for a short-sleeved button-up.
He left two—maybe three—top buttons undone, just enough to reveal a hint of his fair chest. After a quick spritz of cologne, he was ready to head out. Honestly, Peach hadn’t been too surprised when his last girlfriend left him two months ago. His life was simple—probably too simple— just like his personality.
He wasn’t one for grand gestures or flashy displays. What he offered was stability—someone who appreciated the little things and took care of daily life together. Most people described him as the perfect confidant—someone who gave great advice, made others feel at ease, and radiated warmth. Reliable, dependable… but never someone to fall in love with. The thought made him chuckle to himself, recalling the exact words his ex had used to break things off.
The phrase had almost made him blurt out a sarcastic response: "Oh, so you want someone unreliable? Should I be a parasite instead to be the chosen one?" Of course, he hadn’t said any of that at the time. When it came down to it, all he managed was a sad smile as he watched her walk away, hand in hand with her new boyfriend. Ah, the tragic love life of Peachayarat. He thought, pushing aside the lingering frustration and getting back into his car. Two months after the breakup, Peach had more or less returned to normal. Sure, he wasn’t exactly eager to run into his ex, but at least he could think about it without cringing. Sliding back into the city’s congested traffic, he reminded himself why Friday nights were pure chaos. It was as if the entire city had collectively decided to let loose after an exhausting week. The roads were packed, with barely an inch of space between cars.
After nearly an hour of stop-and-go agony, Peach finally arrived at the restaurant and headed inside to join his friends at their table, ready to let the night unfold. The place was a restaurant-pub with live music, not the kind of crowded, chaotic spot you’d call a full-on club. It was lively enough to feel energetic, making finding his friends’ table a rather cozy experience. Tonight’s gathering was a wrap party for the autumn collection photoshoot, which featured a full set of perfumes and matching accessories—almost ten complete looks. The shoot had taken nearly a week, combining both video commercials and still photography. Sure, there was still a mountain of editing and post-production work ahead, but celebrating what they had accomplished so far was a great morale boost.
Peach was led to a seat near the head of the table. He offered a polite, subdued smile and sat down quietly. Across from him was Aran, the campaign’s star model, who greeted him enthusiastically, like an excited puppy seeing its owner. Unfortunately, Aran didn’t seem to notice the piercing glare Peach was receiving from Tawan, the model’s boyfriend, sitting right beside him. "If you stare at me any harder, Tawan, I might end up pregnant," Peach joked with a smile as he reached for the cocktail ingredients to mix his own drink. There was no way he was trusting his team with that; they were always scheming to spike his drinks for fun. Tawan responded with an exaggerated glare, his sharp eyes narrowing in mock warning. One arm rested on the back of Aran’s chair in a way that made it clear exactly who the model belonged to. Peach chuckled to himself, keeping his thoughts to himself this time. It wasn’t surprising, though—Aran was dazzling. His beauty had a softness, with large doe-like eyes that shone with warmth and charm. Yet, the sharp definition of his jawline gave him an undeniable masculinity. It was an irresistible combination, drawing the attention of everyone in the room, both women and men alike.
Peach glanced at Tawan—a man who embodied masculinity in the most traditional sense. His sharp, angular features, toned muscles, and imposing 183 cm height practically screamed "alpha male." There was a slight intensity to his demeanor—a fiery temper that Peach had had to rein in more than once to keep things under control. He’s a main character, no doubt about that. Peach, who had recently gotten hooked on a new series, shook his head slightly. If he had to evaluate it, those two were destined to be in the spotlight—leading roles from beginning to end. Meanwhile, he was more like the supporting cast—the best friend who gives wise advice, lights the way for the hero, or sometimes stirs things up just for fun. He didn’t mind playing that kind of role, but every now and then, it felt a little lonely. After filling up on food and satisfying his hunger, he lingered for a while with a drink. But soon, he decided to call it a night. He had driven here himself and still had work to do later.
Getting drunk wasn’t an option. Standing up, Peach headed to the restroom, planning to splash some water on his face and freshen up before leaving. But the moment he opened the door, he was met with an unexpected sight—Aran, the petite model, cornered by three men dressed in black. What the hell is this mess now? Peach cursed internally but quickly stepped in, his long legs closing the distance in seconds. At the back of his mind, he silently swore at Aran’s scowling boyfriend—so quick to glare at him with contempt, yet apparently nowhere to be found in a situation like this. Outwardly, however, Peach kept his composure, forcing a slight smile as he tried to defuse the tension in the room. "Hey, Ran, why have you been gone so long?" he called out casually, though he had no idea when Aran had even left the table. Smoothly, he reached for the younger man’s arm and maneuvered him behind himself as naturally as possible.
"Are you drunk? Are you okay? You didn’t bother these gentlemen, did you?"
Peach kept talking, acting as if he hadn’t noticed Aran opening his mouth. Before the younger man could say a word, Peach tightened his grip on his arm—a silent warning. He knew just how sharp Aran’s tongue could be. If he let him speak, this situation would spiral out of control. Turning to the men surrounding them, Peach offered a polite smile, hoping to ease the tension. That was when he finally noticed the figure casually leaning against the sink at the back of the room.
The man looked mixed-race, with straight black hair slicked back, revealing a broad forehead. Under the neon lights, his hair shimmered with hints of brown. His sharp, commanding eyes were the color of storm clouds, and his chiseled jawline only added to his intimidating presence. He wore a long-sleeved shirt with the top three buttons undone, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing firm muscles and a glimpse of tattoos.
Flanked by two burly men in black suits, he exuded an air of authority that made the small bathroom feel even tighter. The scene screamed danger—so much so that Peach felt an overwhelming urge to run right then and there. "It seems my friend here caused you some trouble. I’m very sorry about that. Please don’t take it to heart," Peach said, tightening his grip on the other man’s arm and inclining his head politely.
Peach wasn’t the type to escalate situations, especially when the other side radiated that kind of threat. If a quick apology could smooth things over or give him a chance to escape, he would gladly take it. "Well, if you’ll excuse us," he added with a forced smile, turning on his heel and pulling Aran out of the restroom without waiting for permission. He dragged the smaller model with him, not letting go until they were safely out of danger. So much for freshening up before driving home.
That little scare had sobered him up more effectively than a splash of cold water. Once they reached a quiet spot, Peach finally turned to face the younger man, questions piling up. "What the hell happened back there, Ran? Who were those guys?" "I have no idea! I didn’t do anything!" Aran huffed indignantly, his cheeks flushed—partly from anger and partly from the alcohol running through his veins. "That mafia-looking guy tried to touch me! So, I fought back. Then he called his goons to scare me. What an asshole!" Peach resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands. Sure, he knew this kid was good-looking—enough to attract the kind of sleazy guys who thought with their egos and hormones. But Aran’s idea of conflict resolution clearly needed some work. Barely bigger than a bean, alone in a room full of dangerous-looking men, and still talking back? It was a miracle he hadn’t ended up dead or worse. Did this guy have no survival instincts at all? He was about to say something to defuse the situation when, suddenly, he was yanked back.
A strong hand grabbed his shoulder hard enough to hurt before shoving him aside without a shred of compassion. Luckily, he managed to keep his balance, but not before the railing he grabbed for support scraped his palm, leaving a stinging cut. His arm throbbed from where it had hit the edge. Peach turned around, his heart sinking in fear at the thought that the dangerous man from earlier had followed them. But to his surprise, the person glaring at him, ready to tear him apart, was none other than the stern celebrity. Tawan stood there, holding the petite model against his chest. His rough, biting tone didn’t match the protective gesture. "What the hell is going on here?" Tawan growled, his voice like a whip. His grip on Aran tightened as if to keep him from escaping. "You’ve been gone for ages—turns out you were off messing around with this damn photographer, huh?" "Tawan, listen to me!" Aran struggled in the iron grip, trying in vain to break free. "It’s not what you think! Peach helped me, that’s all!" Aran’s protest only seemed to fuel the fire.
Tawan’s frustration grew as he responded, and then, without another word, he took the smaller man with him, his arm wrapped around him as if he were a possession. Before disappearing, Tawan shot Peach a glare so sharp it felt like a dagger to the gut—a clear warning to stay away. Peach remained frozen, trying to process the whirlwind of chaos that had just erupted. Were his thoughts lagging behind the storm of emotions that had just unfolded?! A part of him wanted to scream about the hellish mess that had just swept through the room. But all he did was let the yellowed, worn-out pages flip through his hands. A part of him wanted to express what he felt, but he didn’t. On the way out, he started wondering if maybe he should take on fewer jobs related to Aran. He didn’t want to be the reason for more misunderstandings or tensions between them. Besides, he wanted to make it clear to Tawan that he had no interest in getting involved in their drama.
The problem was that Aran had just become the brand ambassador for Arseny. With a full contract tying him to the entire autumn collection, avoiding the couple was going to be nearly impossible. Peach sighed again, a resigned "whatever" settling in his chest. He hadn’t done anything wrong, but trouble kept finding him.
At this point, all he could do was shrug it off and focus on work. The rest? That was no longer his problem. He walked to his car and stopped beside it. Just as he was about to get in, a sharp pain in his arm reminded him of the cut. Changing his mind, he rummaged through the trunk for a bottle of water, thinking it would be a good idea to rinse the wound. He also figured he might need to stop somewhere for a tetanus shot. It was too dark to see what had cut him, and if it had been rusty metal, that could be a real problem.
Peach grabbed the water bottle and awkwardly tried to unscrew the cap without using his injured hand. His clumsy fumbling made him think about the man he had encountered earlier in the bathroom— the one with the dangerous vibe. He had to admit, the guy was ridiculously handsome, no doubt about that. But the air of danger surrounding him was hard to ignore. Still, what had impressed Peach the most weren’t the man’s looks, but his smoke-gray eyes. They were stunning, almost hypnotic—the kind of eyes that made you stop in your tracks. He even caught himself wishing he had a camera to capture them. There was also something eerily familiar about them, as if he had seen them somewhere before.
Their beauty, almost like shifting smoke, was rare enough to ignite the photographer’s spark in him. "Need help with that?" The deep voice startled Peach. He looked up and flinched slightly when he found himself face-to-face with those same smoke-gray eyes he had just been thinking about. Great. Looked like that troublesome freshman was dragging a new mess straight to him.
CHAPTER 2
of his small car. The way this conversation was going, it was going to take way longer than he had planned. He still had work to finish tonight, but clearly, that wasn’t happening anymore. "It’s just a one-night stand. Why make such a big deal out of it?" "Even if it’s just a one-night thing, sex should be about mutual satisfaction. It’s about enjoying the moment together, not one person taking what they want while the other just goes along with it —or worse, using it as some kind of bargaining chip. Where’s the fun in that?"
Peach’s tone was serious now, his expression as sincere as he could manage. To him, sex was something that should happen between two consenting, willing parties. The idea of forcing someone, pressuring them, or even throwing money around to get his way—it all made his skin crawl. "It’s just sex," the wannabe mafioso muttered, though he sounded a little less fiery this time. Still dismissive, sure, but quieter. "Have you ever actually tried it?" Peach shot back, raising an eyebrow. "Sex where both people are into it, both having fun, not just rushing to get it over with. I’d bet it feels way better." He sounded like an expert, but the truth was his experience was almost laughably minimal. He’d had three relationships, none of which had ended well. Sure, he’d had a couple of one-night stands in his day, but that felt like a lifetime ago. These days, he was too busy to even think about hooking up. Mr. Mafia’s face went blank as he sank into deep thought, his dark brows furrowed as if trying to solve an impossibly complex puzzle. Peach could only stand there, waiting. He couldn’t help but let out a soft yawn. He had been running on fumes for days, pulling all-nighters and working non-stop.
Today had started with a morning photoshoot and had dragged on until… well, now. Peach wanted to tell Mr. Mafia to go home and think things over there. He’d also like to go home, honestly—he was about to pass out from sheer exhaustion. "Give me your phone." Peach, who was on the verge of dozing off where he stood, snapped back to attention. He blinked at the outstretched hand, confused about how their conversation had somehow turned to his phone. When the guy repeated the order, his deep, authoritative tone brooked no argument. Peach sighed and pulled out his phone, unlocking it without protest. What could he say? The guy was at least twice his size, had two bodyguards flanking him, and—oh yeah—both of them were armed. Whatever this mafia-type guy was planning, he definitely wasn’t trying to steal an old, beat-up phone like his. Peach stood there, watching as the man fiddled with his phone.
Those smoky gray eyes held a strange familiarity, a feeling tugging at the edges of Peach’s mind, refusing to fade. It only grew stronger with each passing second. When his phone was handed back to him, Peach took it absentmindedly, his exhaustion mixing with that nagging sense of recognition. Before he could stop himself, the words slipped out. "You look a lot like someone. Have we met before?"
Mr. Mafia froze, a flicker of something—disappointment, perhaps— flashing in those gray eyes before it vanished behind a wry smile. "That's the dumbest pickup line I've ever heard. What, have you been watching too many soap operas?" Peach blinked a couple of times, then burst into laughter—the kind that left him doubled over, wiping tears from his eyes. His genuine amusement instantly wiped the smile off the other man's face, replacing it with a confused frown. "Sorry, sorry," Peach said quickly, trying to compose himself before things got tense.
The last thing he needed was for Mr. Mafia to get offended and start waving his gun around. "I wasn't laughing at you, it's just that, man, that was so over-the- top. I swear I wasn't trying to flirt with you or anything. Promise." He finally managed to control his laughter, though the grin stubbornly remained on his face. "I asked because you really do look familiar. I feel like I've seen you somewhere before—maybe in a magazine? Your eyes, that smoky gray color… they're really striking. I guess they just stuck in my head." Mr. Mafia's frown eased, the sharpness in his gaze softening as if he was lost in thought. Peach stood there, waiting. He wanted to beg for permission to go home and sleep, but he was too afraid that he might end up sleeping permanently. Not an option. He still had a ton of work waiting for him.
"I'll think about it," the mafia man finally said, then turned and walked away, his men following behind him. Peach didn’t release the breath he’d been holding until they were completely out of sight. Relief hit him so hard it felt like a mountain had been lifted off his chest. The entire time they had been talking, he'd been terrified of ending up dead. But between his usual personality, the lingering buzz of alcohol in his system, and extreme exhaustion, he had somehow managed to act braver than he really was. At least he hadn’t done anything too reckless. That was what he told himself as he got into his car and headed back to his condo. Right now, all he could think about was his soft bed and the sweet, icy embrace of the air conditioning.
………………
Theerakit Kian Arseny was a businessman in his early thirties who was currently making waves in the public eye—not just for Arseny, his highly popular perfume and jewelry brand, but also thanks to his striking looks and ever-changing list of celebrity girlfriends. But few people knew the truth about the Arseny family. The perfume and jewelry business wasn’t their first venture. The name Arseny had been a big deal in the black market for years as one of Russia’s largest arms suppliers.
They didn’t just trade weapons—they invested heavily in research and development, driving new technologies forward. What began as an arms trafficking business expanded into the tech world, and now, with the eldest Arseny son at the helm, they had a legitimate luxury goods brand. On the surface, it was just a front, but the massive profits exceeded expectations, making it one of the crown jewels of the Arseny empire.
With everything in his favor—power, wealth, influence—it was no surprise that the man often called "the mafia boss" rarely encountered something he wanted but couldn’t have. He tapped his fingers slowly, rhythmically, against the desk, leaving the document on the screen unsigned. For the first time, he couldn't focus on work. His mind was tangled with thoughts he couldn’t shake, no matter how hard he tried. That fiery little model had caught his attention—those large, expressive eyes, flushed cheeks, and that smart mouth. There was a challenge in his demeanor, almost provocative, wrapped in a small body that seemed so easy to overpower. He had to admit—he was intrigued. He couldn't help but wonder what it would feel like to have that stubborn little thing trapped beneath him, writhing and giving in to his control. When he wanted something, he got it. And the more someone resisted, the more satisfying it was to claim them. But… something was strange.
The image of that model lingered in his mind, refusing to fade. And yet, oddly enough, another thought had started creeping in—a warm, steady voice, calm and constant like a gentle stream. Just a few words, accompanied by a bright, genuine laugh, had managed to extinguish his boiling temper in an instant. The one who had laughed at him, who had told him off so casually, and had stood his ground without angering him. If anything, the man’s unshakable yet disarming attitude had made him yield.
No one else had ever spoken to him like that and lived to tell the tale. Yet here this photographer was—very much alive and in one piece. At first glance, he wasn’t even that remarkable. He wasn’t dazzlingly handsome, nor someone you couldn’t take your eyes off. And yet… being near him had been oddly calming. "Sir, here are the background reports you requested." His assistant stepped forward, placing two files on the desk. Each had a name written clearly on the cover. Thee hesitated. Honestly, he’d been questioning himself ever since last night, when he had ordered the background checks. His intention had been to investigate the model’s history.
But somehow, he had also told them to look into the photographer. Even now, a part of him wondered what the hell he wanted with the photographer’s file. And yet, when his hand moved, it skipped over the model’s file—the one he had been so sure he wanted—and picked up the photographer’s instead. The other file remained untouched on the desk. Thee pursed his lips slightly as he flipped through the pages.
The photographer’s record was frustratingly clean. No scandals, no hidden secrets. Just a simple life. As the eldest in his family, his parents’ names weren’t even listed in the report. The mafia boss’s gaze lingered briefly on the section listing favorite foods. Then, as if making a decision, he grabbed his phone, searched for the number he had saved last night, and called without hesitation.
The line had barely rung before the other person picked up. The sleepy voice that answered made him glance at the clock. Nearly 10 a.m., wasn’t it? "I’ll be downstairs in an hour. I’m picking you up," he said, short and direct, purely out of habit. The person on the other end, however, clearly wasn’t used to such abrupt commands. [“Picking me up? Going where? Wait, who is this?”] "For breakfast," Thee clarified, though he only explained as much as he felt like. It annoyed him a little that the other person didn’t immediately remember who he was, but he let it slide. Given the groggy tone of the guy’s voice, his brain probably wasn’t fully functioning yet. Oddly enough, instead of irritation, he found the confusion and sleepiness in his voice… amusing.
The other person still sounded puzzled, but Thee didn’t give him a chance to ask more questions. He hung up and turned back to the documents on his desk. The paperwork, which had seemed irritating before, now felt a little less bothersome. In fact, he could actually focus on it. Perhaps the photographer’s suggestion to take it easy and “start with flirting” wasn’t such a bad idea after all. He would start with a little reconnaissance—gather some intel on the pretty-faced model.
The two seemed close enough that he would probably discover something useful. Thee was in noticeably better spirits, though he himself didn’t realize it. Meanwhile, his secretary and the nearby bodyguards exchanged silent, uneasy glances. Questions filled their minds, but no one dared voice a single one.
No one was stupid enough to risk provoking their boss and triggering one of his infamous outbursts. If that happened, there wouldn’t be anyone left standing to calm the storm.